Page 57 of One Killer Night

“So? Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Since I’ve known Goldie, writing’s always been something that’s private to her. She never talks about it, and I don’t pry. But I’ve watched her throw away countless ideas in the trash, write daydreams down in her journal, and stare at her computer screen before slamming it shut, mumbling to herself that goals are overrated.

I’ve watched her process for six months, and if she’s finally broken through whatever wall she’s been on the other side of, I’d like to be there to celebrate with her too.

Goldie blinks up at me, and there’s a rawness in her expression as she blows out a heavy breath.

“If you hate it—lie.”

“Done,” I rush out, letting her go as she uses my body to get off the couch.

My chin lifts as I watch her walk before I rub my hands together, making her laugh.

Goldie rummages through her giant bag before pulling out some folded papers. She looks over her shoulder at me before she walks back, holding them out while chewing the inside of her cheek. We’re smiling at each other as I stand, take them, and unfold them before looking down at the title:

History’s Overrated, Unless You Live in the World or You’re an Adopted Kid at a Routine Doctor’s Visit: How the Absence of My Past Mapped Out My Future

I lift my head, my eyes connecting with hers. “You wrote about being adopted?”

She nods cautiously like she’s still debating whether or not to let me read it. “The thing is, one night, I started thinking about the first night we met. And how you asked if I’d ever looked into my history. Like, tried to find my birth parents—”

Without thinking, I reach for her hand, remembering how we walked around.

“—and honestly, I started thinking about how so many times in my life, I’ve run in the opposite direction from my past or prebirth.”

She chuckles quietly, and I do, too, before I cut in: “It makes sense, though. Your family’s pretty incredible.”

“Exactly,” she rushes out, squeezing my hand. “I was so lucky that it felt greedy to harbor ideas of some loving reunion with the people who couldn’t keep me. Plus, how would that actually feel if that’s what happened—I reunited with people who could tell me things about myself ... stuff my parents never knew. Would it ruin what I have? Leave that little asterisk next to their name despite how open they are to it? It always seemed like a risk too big to take.”

Her eyes start to glisten as I search them. She’ll never know how deeply I understand the last part of what she’s said. Or that she’s become the thing I’m not willing to risk.

Goldie lets go of my hand, running hers over her hair.

“Sorry, I’m dumping all over you. You should just read it, and I’ll shut up.”

She doesn’t need to tell me that there’s so much more she wants to say. It’s in the way her eyes search the space in front of her without really looking at anything and how she’s already picking at her nail polish.

“Hey.” I shake my head. “No. Talk to me. You don’t tell your sister this stuff, and I know you don’t talk to your parents about it. I’m your person, Goldie. It’s Noah plus Goldie forever, right?”

She frowns, glancing up at me, and then it all spills out.

“Fuck. I think what I didn’t realize is that once Pandora’s box is open, there’s no closing it. Once I started questioning things about myself, I couldn’t unquestion them. Where I get the color of my eyes ... whether freckles run in my family ... who gave me the longer second toe ... who else is allergic to pineapple. All those questions were just hanging out in the back of my mind, eventually joining forces to remind me I didn’t truly know who I was.”

I reach for her, my hand finding her waist.

“But you do know who you are,” I push back. “You’re the most self-aware person I’ve ever known. What came before you doesn’t make or change who you are now.”

Even as I say it, I have to wonder if it’s more for me or for her.

Goldie’s eyes lock to mine before she steps in closer, letting me hug her. Because I need what I just said to be what we both believe.

“No, Noah, that’s not totally true.” Her chin drags upward, bringing her eyes to mine as I look down. “Sure, I know how I like my coffee or how my love of flowers definitely comes from my mother. But I’ve been writing and writing all these years, trying to be the next great whatever, and I always get the same critique: ‘Your writing doesn’t connect with the voice.’ And what all those rejections really mean is that I have impeccable technical abilities but nothing to say—”

I start to interrupt, but she puts her hand on my chest. “—and that’s because I pretend I don’t have history. That pot of a thousand ingredients who all cooked to make me who I am. Only having an origin with my family isn’t enough. Noah, we’re a collection of stories and history passed onbetweennurture and nature—”

I feel numb.

“—and I only have the ‘nurture’ part because I’ve always run away from the reality. So, I wrote about feeling disconnected. And how that void is also a piece of who I am. Which I think is rare but relatable. But I guess you’ll tell me,” she chuckles. “Because no one’s ever really seen me until you.”