Page 35

Caleb

“ T hat had to be her, right?” she asks. All I can do is look at her and then back down at the phone in her hand, and then back up at her. My body locks up, and the rage creeps in. She takes one look at me and takes a step back. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head. “This is over”—the blood drains from her face—“fucking over, Sierra.”

“What are you talking about?” I know I should calm down. I know I should sit and maybe count to, I don’t know, a hundred, but it’s just all too fucking much.

“I’m talking about all of that.” I point at her office where the fucking whiteboard is. “I’m talking about you going around asking questions that maybe you shouldn’t.”

She looks as if I just slapped her in the face. “If you think I’m going to let a couple of phone calls and?—”

“And a rock through your fucking window.” My voice goes higher and higher.

“And then a fucking note in your mail. Honestly, Sierra, it has to fucking stop, and it stops now, right here. You promise me this is over. You gave your DNA, and you are in the system. If they want to find you, they will find you, but your search for them is over.”

“No, it’s not.” Her voice is low as she shakes her head. “It’s not over.”

“I’m not going to sit here and watch you get dragged down.” The words come out of my mouth before I can even process them.

“Then you should go.” She doesn’t even miss a beat.

“Sierra,” I say, my heart feeling like it’s literally being shattered in my chest, begging her to choose me, holding my breath.

“You should go,” she repeats. I take one more look at her before I walk to the front door, grab my keys from the table, and walk out. Better yet, storm out, slamming the door behind me.

I take five steps and stop, ready to turn around and storm back in there, but my feet have other plans.

I go to my truck and get in, driving away from her house.

The whole time wanting to turn back around and go to her.

Instead, I make my way over to my office, parking in the driveway.

The front door is locked since it’s the weekend.

I put the key in the door, opening it before the alarm starts beeping.

I put in the code, then walk toward my office, tossing my keys on my desk and sitting down.

Looking at the stack of papers I’ve been neglecting, I lean back in the chair and look up at the ceiling when my phone rings.

I reach around to my back pocket, taking it out, hoping it’s her telling me to come back so we can talk about this, but it’s not. It’s my father, and he’s FaceTiming me.

I exhale and press the green camera button and wait until it connects.

“Hey, buddy,” he greets with a smile on his face, and I see he’s sitting at home in the kitchen.

“Why are you at work on a Saturday? I thought you were taking the weekend off, finally,” he jokes with me.

I look at the side, trying to come up with an excuse to get him off my back, but I know he’ll probably see right through me.

I exhale deeply before looking back at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, and I look up, trying to get a hold of myself.

“Are you okay?” The worry in his voice makes my mother come into the screen.

“I’m fine,” I reply, and then I shake my head. “I don’t know, Dad.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” he urges softly, and I wish I was sitting in front of him instead of on the phone.

“I met someone,” I finally tell him and shock fills his face and my mother’s eyes go big.

“Since the last time you were here?” my mother asks me the question.

“No, I met her before I came home, but things have sort of progressed since.”

“Sort of progressed?” my father repeats my words.

“Okay, fine, they progressed but?—”

“But she doesn’t like you,” my mother interjects with pity in her voice. “She’s not worth it if she doesn’t know how amazing you are.” She looks at my father, who side-eyes her. “What? He’s perfect.”

“He’s not perfect”—my father puts his arm around her—“but he’s pretty close.”

“I’m not perfect,” I confirm to them, “and I think I might have fucked it up even more than I could explain.”

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” my father suggests. “Let us be the judge of that.”

“I don’t know if I can be an impartial judge in this.” My mother shakes her head. “In my eyes, she’s going to be wrong, and he’s going to be right.”

“Why don’t you try?” my father encourages her.

She shrugs. “I can try, but you hurt my kids, and you earn yourself an enemy for life. I will cut a bitch. Remember that little shit who tried to copy Mila’s social studies paper? I almost drove my car into their house.”

“She was seven, and we spoke about that already.”

“I’m just saying”—she holds up her hands—“I can only be me.”

“Noted,” my father responds, then looks at me. “What stupid thing did you do?”

“I guess I should start at the beginning,” I tell them.

“On her twenty-fifth birthday, she found out she was adopted.” The way my mother gasps out loud, I have to give her a minute.

“Yeah, not only was she adopted but she was abandoned. They left her in a cardboard box at the fire station, wrapped in a fucking blanket.”

“Oh my God,” my mother says, “you were wrong.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is, but she’s not wrong and I am sorry I said she was.”

“Go on,” my father urges, his glare at me.

“So she moved to town to find out who her parents are.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” my father states.

“I agree one hundred percent.” I swallow. “But ever since she started looking for them, she’s been threatened.”

“What do you mean she’s been threatened?

” My father’s voice comes out sharp, very much a dad voice, like “you better tell me this right now, or else.” So I fill them in on everything, and I mean everything.

I don’t keep anything from them. From the talks with Bruce to her fucking whiteboard and tracing her ancestry, I lay it all out for them, including just storming out on her.

“Oh, honey,” my mother whispers when I finally stop talking, “you were one hundred percent”—I wait for it—“wrong.”

“What?” I say, shocked.

“You are wrong, honey,” she repeats, then looks at my father. “He got that from you.”

“But she’s hell-bent on putting herself in danger,” I try to defend myself.

“She’s not trying to put herself in danger.” My mother quickly defends her. “She has no control on how others deal with things. The only thing she can control is how she is dealing with this.”

“But,” my father interrupts, “he’s just protecting her.”

“By storming out of the house and leaving her alone?” My mother rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Come on, Caleb, put yourself in her shoes.” I listen to her. “She has no idea who she is. You don’t know what it feels like waking up in the morning and wondering who you are.”

“She knows exactly who she is. She’s—” I think of a word to do her justice, but there’s only one word I can think of. “She’s everything.”

“You can’t ask her to choose between finding out the truth about herself and you.” My father sighs.

“I don’t want to make her choose.”

“But you do, you just told her that.” I close my eyes. “Telling her it’s over isn’t you being supportive.”

“I don’t want her to get hurt!” I roar out. “The thought of her being hurt is just too fucking much.”

“And there it lies,” my mother declares, “he’s in love with her, and this is how he acts.” I stare at her in shock.

“In his defense, I don’t think he knew he was in love with her.” My father argues my side as if I’m not sitting here.

“I just want her safe,” I whisper. “I want her to have everything she wants. I just want her to do it by not putting herself in danger.”

“So you don’t leave her.” My mother hits the counter in front of her.

“You stand beside her and brace for whatever comes her way, holding her up. You don’t leave her to be knocked down with no way to get up.

” She pushes away from the counter. “I thought I raised you better.” She shakes her head.

“You get off your stubborn ass and go see her?—”

“I think you need to decide,” my father cuts in by inching forward, “if you want to be the one helping hold her up. If you don’t, then walk away.” I grit my teeth. “But if you do, get ready to brace the fucking storm that is going to come to her.”

“What if I can’t protect her?” I ask the question that scares me the most. “What if I do all this, and I can’t protect her from this and then I lose her?”

“What if you don’t?” my father retorts. “What if you can protect her and you don’t lose her?

” He smiles sadly. “It’s up to you to decide what you want to do.

But be honest with both of you. Tell her how you feel and how scared you are.

” He trails off. “Now, I’ll let you go because you have some thinking to do. You call us tomorrow, yeah?”

“I will.” I nod. “Thank you, guys.”

“It’s what we are here for,” my father says. “Love you, son.”

“I mildly like you right now, I’ll know more tomorrow when you call us back,” Mom snaps and then hangs up on me.

I turn to the side, looking at the stack of papers, already knowing what my answer is. Also knowing I have to be sure before I go to her, because my father was right. I’m scared something is going to happen to her, and I’m also scared I won’t survive it.