Page 47 of Forever Then

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I DON’T THINK I brOUGHT ENOUGH TEQUILA

Gretchen

Drew

Happy Birthday! Sorry I’m not there to celebrate with you.

Me

Thank you! Love you.

Drew

Love you more.

I tuck my phone in the cup holder as we pull into my family’s neighborhood. As soon as my hand is free, Connor wastes no time taking it in his again.

The words almost slipped this morning and when they got stuck in my throat, he saved me. I’m relieved I didn’t say it. Not because I don’t feel it, but because the fear of what he might not say back is paralyzing.

It’s easy for things to feel perfect, for us to say and do all the right things, when we’re a thousand miles from home in a picturesque vacation setting, far from meddling big brothers and everyday lives.

Returning to Illinois could peel back the shiny outer layer of our relationship.

Who knows what cracks we may come to find underneath.

Maybe that’s my pessimistic, analytical side talking or maybe it’s the truth. For now, though, things do feel perfect. It feels like I love him and he loves me and the possibility of us not working out in the end is something I try to push to the back of my mind.

As we make the last turn, nearly a dozen cars lining either side of the street come into view. Connor sees it, too. He squeezes my hand as he comes to a stop and puts the car in park.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Nervous.”

Miguel told me yesterday about his parents, three brothers, one sister, and their families.

He told me about how they were all born and raised here in Flagstaff and nobody’s ever left.

Cheyenne mentioned that her sister, brother-in-law and their family would be coming in from Phoenix as well.

I shouldn’t be shocked by the number of vehicles parked out front.

The Fisher family is small. Drew and I only have one set of grandparents who are still alive.

My dad is an only child and my mom has two siblings, but only one of them has children of their own and they live in Florida.

I’m not accustomed to large family gatherings and I’ve never been comfortable being the center of attention.

All of these people, this fuss, feels like a spotlight I’m ill-equipped to handle. They may be my blood, but what if I’m nothing like them?

Connor jostles my hand. “Remember, we can leave whenever you’re ready. We can turn around and head back to the hotel right now if you want. But I think you’ll regret it if you don’t at least try.”

He’s right.

I came all this way with expectations of meeting my birth mother at best. Despite how overwhelmed I am, I’ve found something even better: an entire family. A family that could never replace the one I have, but a family that’s mine in a different way .

Cheyenne and Miguel confessed yesterday that they’d considered the DNA kit testing many times over the years.

The fear that they’d pop up in my matches and interfere with whatever life-narrative my adoptive parents had built for me kept them wary of pulling the trigger.

In the end, they simply hoped that, wherever I was, I was happy and healthy and that one day, maybe, I would find them.

“No, I’m ready. I want to meet them.”

Mariachi music booms from the backyard as we near the side gate where Cheyenne told us to enter. I cling to Connor’s hand like a lifeline, his free hand wrapped around a bottle of tequila Miguel asked us to pick up on the way.

“Sounds like the party’s already started.” Connor gives me a teasing grin that I try so hard to return.

We move down the side of the house and turn the corner. We both freeze, my feet dead weights beneath me, anchoring me to the spot.

I survey the sea of at least thirty strangers scattered across the yard, none of whom have noticed me yet. They do this every year? All of them?

Connor leans into my ear. “I don’t think I brought enough tequila.”

I bury my head in his chest and laugh, immensely grateful for the distraction.

“Sissy!” Kai’s squeaky voice calls out as he breaks through a group of adults and barrels toward me, arms open wide, Bluey stuffed animal clutched in his fist. I crouch down in time for my little brother to throw his arms around my neck.

All the conversation stops, but the music remains.

An upbeat rhythm of guitar strums and blasting trumpets fills the air as dozens of strangers turn to look at me.

Necks swivel, bodies shift this way and that to see over the crowd, all eyes on me.

With Kai in my arms, I stand back to my full height, Connor’s steady hand on my back.

Anxiety rushes in but settles just as quickly when everyone erupts in excitement a moment later.

Cheyenne emerges to the front, wrapping me in a hug as soon as my arms are free. “Happy birthday,” she says as a crowd closes in around us. Like she said she would, she waits for me to let go first.

My biological mother leads me through the crowd and I try to absorb every introduction.

Some young, some old, some with tear-streaked cheeks, some with faces plastered in permanent smiles.

I know I’m missing names and relations with how quickly I’m meeting everyone.

A familiar faced brother or sister occasionally breaks through the crowd to greet me.

Necks are hugged. Tears are shed. Pictures are taken.

I look back once to find Connor has been suckered into tossing a football around with Kai and MJ. His eyes find mine, a question in his gaze asking if I need him. My smile comes easy when I let him know that I’m okay.

I’m more than okay. My heart is full.

“Winona had a patient go into labor early this morning,” Cheyenne snaps my attention back. “But she, Arthur and the boys are on their way.”

“Hola, mija,” Miguel calls from my left. He wraps me in a hug before quietly adding, “My family is a lot and I apologize in advance.”

We share a laugh as Cheyenne waves over two new faces I haven’t met yet. Their faces light up in vivid wonder as I step closer.

“Oh Dios, mio,” the woman says, hands over her mouth. Accent thicker than Miguel’s, her hair is cut short and runs black with thick streaks of gray scattered throughout.

“Mom. Dad. This is our daughter, Gretchen.” Pride swells in Miguel’s eyes.

The dark brown-skinned gentleman sweeps the pads of his fingers over his cheeks, then brushes them on his shorts when they come away damp with tears.

His hair is mostly gray, but his thick mustache still remains black as night.

Deep brown eyes flank a nose dotted with freckles, like his son and eldest granddaughter.

“Gretchen. This is Antonio and Rosa Ortega. Your grandparents.”

Rosa shakes her head in disbelief at the same time she pulls me in for a hug. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say .

She takes my face in her hands. “Oh, mija. I’m so glad you found us. Happy birthday, sweet girl.”

“Simplemente no puedo creerlo,” Antonio says. “Cheyenne, you weren’t kidding.” We all chuckle knowing Cheyenne’s decades long claim has finally been vindicated; I look just like my dad.

My grandfather hugs me next, whispering a “Happy Birthday” into my ear.

Soon, everyone swarms the buffet of homemade tamales, rice, and beans that Miguel’s mother, sister, and sisters-in-law have made a tradition of preparing every year.

Miguel’s brothers are the self-appointed bartenders, serving up an assortment of different flavored margaritas and, not to be overlooked, a tequila shot for the birthday girl.

That gets Connor’s attention.

Breaking away from the full-fledged football game now underway with MJ and a bunch of boy cousins whose names I don’t recall, Connor rushes to my side amidst the birthday chants. I toss back my shot glass, his smile beaming wide when my face sours and I cough into my wrist.

“Does the gringo want a shot?” One of my uncles—Gustavo, maybe—looks to Connor with a conspiratorial grin.

Connor’s eyes leap between the three men. With a playful challenge in his smirk, he answers, “Just one.”

“Eh! Gringo !” my three uncles singsong in unison. A shot glass twice the size of mine appears on the table and they fill it to the brim.

Connor throws it back with little fanfare other than a shake of his head as he plops the empty glass back down. “Should I be offended that you call me ‘ gringo ’?”

Amusement shines in my uncles’ expressions.

“Don’t let them fool you,” a female voice comes from behind us. One of my uncles’ wives, I recall. “Half the Ortega brothers married a gringa. ” She smiles, moving around the table to pull Gustavo’s face down for a kiss.

She wraps her arms around her husband’s waist and turns to Connor. “You’re a gringo , I’m a gringa . ”

Another uncle—Diego, I think—points to a fair-skinned woman sitting at a table behind us. “That one’s my gringa .”

The third uncle—Carlos, with the full sleeve tattoo—finally chimes in. “If Gretchen says you’re her gringo then you’re a part of the family .”

Connor tugs me into his side. “Gretch, can I be your gringo ?” He accentuates the word with a terrible attempt at a Mexican accent that makes us both laugh. I lift on my tiptoes to kiss him.

“Connor! Stop making out with your girlfriend and get back out here,” MJ hollers from the yard where all the boys wait impatiently for his return.

“Duty calls.” He runs off and then flips to a backward jog and says, “No more tequila, Fish. We both know what a lightweight you are.” He tosses me a wink before turning back to the boys.

I’m smiling after him when a little hand tugs on the hem of my shirt. My youngest sister, Tally, looks up at me, as my other sister, Rosie, stands at her side.

“I like your braid,” Tally says shyly, twirling one of her curls around her finger.

I run a hand down the length of the single fishtail braid that hangs over my left shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Ask her, Tally,” Rosie prods.

“You ask her.”

“Ask me what?”

Rosie sighs. “We were wondering if you could braid our hair like yours.”