Page 43 of Forever Then

Chapter Thirty-Five

ONE HAPPY THING

Gretchen

The drive back to Flagstaff is a stark contrast to yesterday—I only had to ask Connor to make one bathroom stop. I’m still awash with nerves, but not those of anxiety and uncertainty. It’s eagerness, excitement and anticipation that thump a steady rhythm in my veins.

Connor parks on the far side of Cheyenne’s driveway, the house blocking the front door from view. With his hand firmly in my death grip, he unbuckles, turns off the car and shifts to face me. “Ready?”

The air rushes out of my lungs as silence falls. I don’t move.

“We’re a few minutes early.” He turns the car back on. “Maybe we just sit here for a bit.”

His thumb continuously strokes my hand atop my leg that nervously bounces beneath it. He sits with me, never pushing me to move faster, never showing a morsel of impatience. Many nervous minutes later, I’m finally ready. “I think I should go by myself at first.”

“Okay. ”

“I don’t want to blindside her. We didn’t tell her anybody else was coming.”

He squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, Fish. I’m here however you need me to be.”

I breathe through the pins and needles in my chest and pull the visor down to use the mirror. “How do I look?” I use my pinky finger to wipe away a dot of rogue mascara in the corner of my eye and turn to face him.

He smiles softly. “Beautiful.”

I get one leg out of the car before I turn back, kissing him hard and quick. “Thank you for being here.”

With a fast, featherlight kiss to the tip of my nose, he answers, “Thank you for being mine,” before I climb out of the car.

When I finally reach the front door, a fresh dose of nerves shudder through me, but I vow to rip the band-aid despite them. With one deep breath, I steel my resolve and ring the bell.

I hear activity behind the door almost immediately and the door swings open a few seconds later.

An adopted kid imagines this moment a million times in their lifetime in probably a million different scenarios.

I’ve tried to envision what it would be like to see her for the first time and I never doubted that I would cry—because, well…

hello, it’s me—but I thought we’d at least exchange some words first.

How do I explain why the tears well the moment she looks at me?

Although the resemblance is definitely there, I’m not the spitting image of her. Her hair, dark like mine, is streaked with silver and sits several inches shorter than my own. Her eyes are almond-shaped like mine, but they’re not brown. They’re a deep, hazel-green.

At first glance, I’d guess she’s three or four inches shorter than me, a detail made even more severe by the wedge heel of my sandals.

“Gretchen?” Her whispered voice slices through the emotion written across both our expressions.

Words course through my head a mile a minute but I find no voice. I manage a nod at the same time the first tear falls and I quickly swat it away.

Her gaze roams over my face, cataloguing every feature. “Oh my goodn—” Her voice catches. “Can I hug you?”

I nod again, because it’s still all I’m capable of, as I step into her embrace. It’s warm and steadfast the way a mother’s hug should be.

Through a shaky breath, constricted by her own tears, she says, “I don’t want to scare you, but I have a rule with my kids that I’m never the first one to let go. You can decide when this ends. Okay?”

I dip my chin against her shoulder, whispering, “Okay.”

She keeps her promise. And when I release and step back, both of us paw at our wet cheeks.

“Do you want to come inside?”

“Yeah.” I look between her and the driveway. “If it’s okay with you, I brought my boyfriend with me. Can I grab him real quick?”

“Of course, of course.”

I jog around the corner and gesture for Connor to join me. As he approaches, I reach for his hand. My tear-streaked cheeks are obvious, but, “Come on,” is all I offer as I pull him behind me.

“Connor, this is Cheyenne. Cheyenne, this is my boyfriend, Connor.” Handshakes are exchanged before she leads us inside.

Trailing a few steps behind Cheyenne, Connor wraps an arm over my shoulder and kisses my temple. I lean into him as we pass through the small entryway and enter the main living area. Cheyenne invites us to sit before disappearing to the kitchen for drinks.

We take a seat on a well-loved gray couch alongside a wood coffee table that is worn at the corners, bearing several scratches in the finish from many years of use.

The bookshelves on either side of the fireplace boast dozens of framed pictures scattered amongst books and decorative items. I want to inspect each picture, take in every face, ask who they are.

Patience, I remind myself. There’s plenty of time for that.

“Miguel had a work meeting this morning that he couldn’t reschedule, but he’s on his way.

He’s so excited to meet you.” She passes us each a glass of water and swiftly runs her trembling hands down the front of her dress, every emotion still right there at the surface.

As she settles into the chair to my left, she glances at her watch.

“I expect him back any minute.” Her eyes land back on me and a soft smile graces her face.

“Is he y?—”

I’m interrupted by the sound of a door opening down the hall followed by a loud voice, breathless like the person ran here, “I’m here! Sorry I’m late.” The foreign lilt to his voice is noticeable, but his words are clear.

“We’re in the living room,” Cheyenne calls over her shoulder.

A few seconds later, the source of the male voice steps into view and my heart stops in my chest.

All this time, I’ve been wondering if I’d look like Cheyenne, when in reality the man across the room looks more like me than I do. Even Connor, mouth slack jawed beside me, mumbles a quiet, “ Oh my God .”

The tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, middle-aged man with freckles dotting his nose and a bottom-lip that’s fuller than the top, stares back at me. It all clicks into place—the accent, the last name, my Mexican ancestry—a fraction of a second before he says, “Oh, mija.”

Daughter.

Is this…real? I shake my head slightly, jostling my jumbled thoughts, but that only makes it worse. “Are you…um…” Nothing else comes out as my eyes slingshot from Miguel to Cheyenne and back.

Connor squeezes my hand and asks, “I think Gretchen is trying to ask if you’re her biological father?”

My vision blurs as Cheyenne and Miguel look questioningly at each other. She leans in and rests her hand on my arm. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” I choke out. “Only your name was on my birth certificate.”

Cheyenne sighs, looking to Miguel with a sympathetic smile.

My mind spirals out of control along with my tears. My biological parents are both here and they’re…together .

“So, you’re my…” I sputter, unable to finish the sentence as emotion claws at the back of my throat.

“I am, mija.”

I rise on wobbly legs and close the distance between us. He folds me into his arms, shoulders shaking as his own tears fall. A few beats later, the gentle graze of a feminine hand runs over my shoulders, a warm body hovering close to her husband and the daughter they gave up.

The weight of this moment—a child reunited with her parents after twenty-two years apart—fills the air around us and I tell myself to log every detail. The words, the faces, the room. I couldn’t possibly process it all in real time.

When the three of us step back, our faces streaked in tears and disbelieving smiles, I turn to Connor. He stands a few steps away, his phone held up in video mode to capture the interaction. I don’t know when he started recording, but I already know I’ll treasure that video for the rest of my life.

I give Connor a grateful smile. When he winks in answer, a tear falls down his cheek.

Turning back to Cheyenne and Miguel, I notice a large portrait on the wall just beyond where we’re standing—something I didn’t catch before.

My eyes locked on the family posed in a group hug, I recall all the evidence from our visit yesterday. “Are those your kids?”

They follow my gaze. Cheyenne takes my hand a moment later and leads the way until the three of us stand in front of the oversized print.

“Yes. These are your brothers and sisters,” she says.

My hands come to my face, cheeks soaked with tears. The only thought my brain can muster is this is impossible.

“This is Miguel Junior. We call him MJ. He’s twelve.” Miguel points at the tween boy with thick, wavy black hair that already stands taller than his mom. Brown eyes like mine.

“This is Rosa. Sometimes we call her Rosie. She’s ten.” Long dark hair. Full, plump cheeks and a dusting of freckles on her nose. Brown eyes .

“This here is Tally, short for Tallulah, and she’s seven.” Green eyes, like her mom, but more freckles like her dad. Her gap-toothed smile lights up her whole face. The head of curly dark hair sets her apart from the rest of her siblings.

“And this is our four-year-old, Kai,” Cheyenne says of the last little figure propped on his dad’s shoulders, smiling down at his big brother. The only one not fully turned to the camera, it’s hard to make out his features, but the obvious notes are there: dark skin, dark hair.

These tiny faces—the faces of my two brothers and two sisters. My full-blood siblings. I never want to look away.

Cheyenne and Miguel each rest a considerate hand on my shoulders, but all I can do is swat at the tears dropping faster than I can catch them. Every time I think I’ve got my emotions under control, it starts back up again.

I pinch my eyes shut and force out the question that’s paralyzed me since I saw the sidewalk chalk on the driveway yesterday. “Do they know about me?”

“Yes, Gretchen, they do.” Miguel’s answer is immediate—calm and reassuring. I sag in relief as the breath I’d held hostage rushes out. My face squeezes in on itself again when new tears begin to fall. I’m seconds away from full body sobbing right here in this hallway.