Page 16

I clap the cover shut and set the laptop aside, snuggling into the sofa cushions with a sigh.

I don’t know why I’m bothering with this before the season has even started.

Whether I type five words or five thousand before things kick off in Bahrain, I’ll be stuck with that maddening, haunted, gorgeous man for months .

Reminded, practically every time I look at him or catch his tempting scent, of how close we came to making it work…

Auntie Min comes into the den and sets a tray on the coffee table—cocoa and spritz cookies—before flopping onto the sofa with a soft groan. “It’s so good to have you here.” She combs her braid end. “Nothing feels quite as nice as… coming home, does it?”

Driving past the blue barn at the Marshall farm was as wonderful this week as it always is—that relief, the simple joy of homecoming.

Part of me longs to stay, I have to admit.

Everything is moving so fast now in my life.

I’m supposed to love the ARJ job, the travel, the prestige.

And mostly I do. But… a slower pace—a quiet home office with a bird feeder outside the window, maybe working on one of the many book ideas I outline as they come to me—it sounds pretty damned good some days.

Minnie’s expression does a sudden U-turn, as if she’s afraid she’s said too much. She gives a soft laugh. “But enough of that corny claptrap. Let’s do our gifts.”

I jump up and beeline for the tree like I’m thirty-five going on seven, playing it up and shaking presents. “Hmm, this feels like… a sweater? Ooh! And this is rattly.”

“Mind you don’t break it,” she scolds good-naturedly.

I grab the gift I want her to open first—a new ornament—and hand it over before returning to the tree and digging around toward the back.

“What’s this one?” I hold up a small, flat box that’s wrapped in red paper with HO HO HO printed in white, not the Disney paper Minnie has used for all her gifts. “No tag.”

Minnie frowns. “Bring that here.”

I pass it to her. “Who’s it for?”

“It’s for you. But choose something else tonight.” She sets the little box aside and unwraps her own gift, a felted Highland cow with a Santa hat. “Could that be any more adorable?” she breathes, getting up to put it on the tree. “I absolutely love it.”

I stretch to grab the mystery box. “I wanna know what this is,” I tell her. “And who sent it.” Could it be Klaus? Is that possible?

She turns to face me, and the smile wilts from her face. She perches on the edge of the sofa, hands tangled in her lap. “I wanted to have a talk before giving that to you, but…” She shrugs, eyes troubled. “Maybe this is better.”

I remove the paper the same way Minnie does—gingerly, so it can be reused—and lift the lid. Beneath a layer of white tissue, a photograph stares up at me.

I’m seven years old, sitting on the hood of a dented and rusted Honda Accord, wearing lavender OshKosh overalls with a flowery thermal shirt, hair in two braids. My parents are on each side, leaning on the car.

Dad looks smirky, his arms folded. Hair rockstar long, grunge-era flannel, ripped jeans.

He’s like Kurt Cobain’s more handsome brother.

My mom is so similar to me it’s spooky. She’s biting her lower lip, flirting with the camera.

They both look like they’re in a fashion shoot and a random kid happened to show up—there’s no sense they’re aware of my presence.

Unsurprising.

“I remember that car,” I say evenly, betraying nothing of my storm of emotions. “But not the people.” I put the top on the box. “I’ve never seen that one. Did they send it? They’re… alive ?”

“Natty!” Auntie Min bursts out. “Good gracious, of course they’re alive. Why would you say such a morbid thing?”

I shrug as if I couldn’t care less, then attempt to hand the box to Minnie.

“There should be another picture in there.” She gently pushes my hand back.

My heart hammers. The news is flying at me like branches smacking me in the face during an out-of-control horseback ride with no reins.

They’re finally contacting me. Oh God…

I tip the lid off the box again, whipping the top photo aside to view the one beneath.

Whoa.

They’re in their fifties now, but unmistakable.

Mom’s hair is in a bob and has a little silver, her makeup is subtle rather than kohl-eyed nineties drama, but…

it’s her. Dad has some middle-aged spread and his hair is grayer than Mom’s, but he hasn’t changed it—still long, in a messy ponytail—and his face is the same.

His smile shows a peek of his teeth, and with a shock, I remember something I’d absolutely forgotten: He has a diagonal chip in the top left incisor.

I don’t know why this affects me so much, but it’s more jolting than anything else—like a song you haven’t heard for decades, which ushers in the exact feeling of being a certain age.

My hands shake as I replace the lid and hand it back. Minnie sets it on the table.

“They’re, uh… still together, huh?” I ask.

“Yes. But that’s a long story—the circumstances.”

What the heck is that supposed to mean?

I reach for my cocoa, then set it back down. My stomach tumbles like a runaway barrel down a hill as I fight to integrate all this new information. “Did they have…” Oh God, I can barely get the words out. “Um, other kids?”

“Lord no , child,” Minnie says, a little shocked.

I keep my face impassive. “Well, the ‘Ho Ho Ho’ paper is fitting, because I’m waiting for the punchline. Why did they send this?” I swallow hard. “I mean, now?”

Auntie Min scoots closer. “That’s why I got the new bed. Your daddy and mama are coming home. They’ll be living with me for a while to get on their feet.”

The barrel rolling inside me hits a wall and explodes into splinters.

“They’re in town, staying with friends,” she goes on. “Coming over here tomorrow.”

I jump up, my knee hitting the coffee table and sloshing cocoa onto the tray. “ No. I’m not doing this.”

“Sit down, honey. Stop. Let’s talk.”

“I’ll go right to the airport and back to London,” I threaten. “You can’t make me do this!”

“Please. Sit. Down ,” she orders, more sternly than I’m used to.

I lower to the sofa, eyes burning with suppressed tears.

“I’m going to let them explain to you where they’ve been, and why,” Minnie says soberly.

“It’s not my story to tell—they always made me promise not to talk about it.

And believe me, Natty… it wasn’t easy on me .

When you stopped asking, a few years after they left, well…

I didn’t know if that was a relief or just plain tragic.

I didn’t agree with their reasoning for hiding what happened, but I kept my word.

It was a joy to raise you, so…” She stares into her lap for a moment.

“Maybe my selfishness was part of it.” Her eyes are intense when she looks up.

“Their foolishness was my gain. I got you .”

The emotion I see on her face is intimidating, so I can’t help making a dismissive joke about my parents, holding on to my resentment like a point of reference in a dark room.

“Yeah, okay, what was it?” I ask with a sneer.

“Is this some cheesy movie where ‘mommy and daddy went on the run to escape the mob’?”

“They made big mistakes, and they know it. There isn’t going to be a heroic plot twist. But you have some changes coming—”

“Forget it,” I interrupt. “No thanks. They can’t pop up twenty-eight years later and expect to be a family.” I lean in, emphasizing. “ They… are… strangers. I don’t know them, and I don’t want to.”

Minnie’s icy-blue gaze sears into mine. “You know I rarely insist on things, but I’m insisting . Hear them out. I raised you with manners. If I can be strong, so can you.”

I sag back with both hands over my face, suffocating under a combination of guilt and fear and fury.

Minnie pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Natty,” she sighs, rocking me. “Do you think I want to give up my status after all these years and say, ‘There ya go—I raised your little girl. Now you can have her back’? I’m scared shitless. And I know you’re angry. It’s justified.”

“I hate them so much right now,” I mutter savagely, “and I don’t think I’ve ever actually hated them. I was sad and confused for years; then I just didn’t feel anything, but… this is the first time I’ve hated them, and it’s so much . I don’t know where to put it.”

“It’s time you stopped putting your anger someplace and started letting yourself look at it.

You’ve got some unresolved stuff, kiddo.

It’s not an accident that you always lose your heart to unavailable older men.

You gravitate toward people who are bound to disappoint you, and men are just…

well, the handiest candidates in that department. ”

I can see that my aunt is really upset. She’s desperate for me to be okay with all this.

I have to look like I’m swimming, smiling and waving to her as she watches from the shore while I’m actually drowning.

Making people feel okay, putting their needs before my own, it’s what I do. But inside, I’m furious.

I was such an easy child, because I started my life with Minnie as a respectful guest, and even when it became apparent that the arrangement was permanent, I worked hard to be no trouble: clean room, good grades, no high school summer keggers by the river, no messing with boys in back seats.

I was the only witness to my quiet heartache, which leaked privately out of the well-hidden cracks in my sense of control.

I could exert the discipline never to talk with Minnie about my grief over my parents’ absence—it would have felt ungrateful, so I was careful to prove at all times that I was a responsible and sunshiny Good Girl—but I couldn’t choose what I dreamt… and I did dream of my parents often.

What do you do when you find out that the characters who inhabit your dream world are about to “come to life”?