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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She has a strange effect on me, but instead of making me want to pull back, it increases my desire to unravel her.

There are so many red flags when it comes to Alexis that I could write an encyclopedia of all the reasons why I should say goodnight and head back to Morrison’s house.

After all, I only have two more days in Cape Cod.

Soon, I’ll have to return to the real world—and in my real world, the women I’m interested in are not sixteen years younger than me, don’t skip makeup, and definitely don’t consider getting an ice cream cone the height of adventure.

“Tell me about your rescue from the orphanage,” I say as we head toward the ice cream shop.

The streets are still packed with tourists who seem to smile and laugh for no reason, which irritates me slightly.

“I don’t usually talk about the past.”

“And from what I gather, you also don’t usually invite strangers to share an ice cream with you, yet here we are.”

“Hey, I never said anything about sharing. I’m getting a double—just for me.”

“Fair enough. I can understand and even appreciate selfishness. Now, don’t stall. If I’m going to be part of a celebration, I should at least know what we’re celebrating.”

She goes quiet for about two minutes, and I don’t push her to talk. I wait—something new for me, since patience isn’t exactly my strong suit.

“My mom put me up for adoption as soon as I was born.”

“What?”

“My parents had been together since they were kids. They’d known each other their whole lives and always knew they were meant to be together.”

“What happened?”

“Are you really interested in knowing?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t.”

“They were in an accident. My mom was pregnant, and it’s a miracle I survived. But everyone else died.”

“Everyone?”

“My whole family was in the car. My dad died on the spot,” she says, her voice faltering.

If I were a better man, I’d tell her she doesn’t have to keep going, that it’s obvious she’s in pain. But empathy is a feeling I don’t know, so I go on. “So why did she give you up for adoption?”

“Because the pain of losing them was so overwhelming that she couldn’t even take care of herself, let alone a baby. She had postpartum depression, and at the time, she was afraid she might hurt me. Not on purpose, of course, but without realizing it.”

“So she decided to place you in an orphanage. That was a courageous decision.”

She was looking straight ahead, focused on the sidewalk, but after what I said, she stops and turns to me.

“What?” I ask.

“I think you’re the only person who’s ever said that to me.”

“It’s the logical conclusion.”

“No, it’s not. Most people would judge her for not being strong enough.”

“I’m not most people. I’m a pragmatic man. I believe your mother did what she thought was best for your wellbeing.”

She starts walking again in silence. Eventually, she says, “So that’s what tonight’s celebration is about.”

“She regretted it and came back for you?”

“Yes, but first she stayed at a mental health clinic for almost a year. Only when she was sure she could start putting her heart back together did she come for me.”

“I didn’t understand the rescue part. I don’t know much about trauma, but if you were around one year old, it doesn’t seem like long enough to notice you’d been given up for adoption.”

“She didn’t get me back until eight years later.”

“What?”

“The orphanage where she left me caught fire. I was transferred to another one, near the Canadian border in New York, but in the process, my documents got lost. It took her years to finally get me back.”

It takes me a few seconds to process the information, and—rare for me—I find myself imagining what it must feel like to be left behind. I completely understand her mother’s decision not to keep the baby close until it was safe, but I can’t help but wonder if Alexis felt rejected.

“Weren’t you adopted by another family during that time?”

“Many times. But nothing permanent. I’m not exactly the kind of child people want.”

“Actually, you fit the profile most American families look for—blonde, blue-eyed, placed for adoption as a baby.”

“Yeah, I know that. I’ve done my research. What I meant is, I was always weird.”

We reach the ice cream shop, and it takes about ten minutes to place our orders. I don’t press her to keep talking while we wait because I can tell she doesn’t want others to overhear. I also try not to react when she picks bubblegum ice cream, while I go for a classic dark chocolate.

“You can say what you’re thinking,” she says, smiling.

“The flavor you picked is . . .”

“Disgusting?” She laughs.

“I was trying to be polite, but yes.”

“It’s delicious,” she says and takes a huge lick of her brightly colored ice cream.

We’re back on the sidewalk, and for several seconds, I forget all about our earlier agreement and the fact that I’m supposed to keep my distance. I want to pull her in by the back of the neck and taste her mouth, which now glistens with the weird dessert.

As if sensing the shift in atmosphere, Alexis steps back. That should be a warning sign for me. She’s not trying to seduce me. She’s just a girl. But instead of cooling me off, her action only sharpens my hunger for the chase.

“What did you mean by saying you were weird?” I ask, forcing myself to return to the conversation. The more I learn about her, the more I realize I underestimated her—and the effect she has on me.

Alexis is a delicious little puzzle.

Young, innocent in many ways, but anything but simple or ordinary. She seems to trust me, and since I never seek relationships with women beyond the physical, this unexpected closeness should make me walk away. But it doesn’t.

“I’m not exactly the life of the party, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Even without knowing my story, I’ve always been a quiet child.

When I was about seven—just before my mom got me back—a social worker told me what she knew about my past. That my mother had given me up because she wasn’t doing well mentally or physically after the accident.

I was too young to understand the full meaning of it, but I still got it into my head that once she was healed, she’d come back. And one day . . . it finally happened.”