Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
THE BOOK
Connor
twelve years ago, summer
“Did a garbage truck hit you on your way over?” I arch an eyebrow at my friend’s disheveled hair and gnarly t-shirt that I’m pretty sure is the same one he was wearing when we went out last night. Willing to bet he slept in it, too.
“Something like that.” He tosses his gym bag into one of the storage cubbies, stifling a yawn. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s cool, man. I’m almost finished.”
Drew lowers on to the weight bench next to me, sticks in his earbuds as I replace my own and we settle into our respective workout circuits.
Ten minutes later, I finish all my reps and plop down on the empty bench beside Drew with my post-workout drink. I give the shaker cup a quick jostle and gesture for him to remove his earbuds.
“What did your parents say?” My family has rented a cabin up in Door County, Wisconsin for next weekend. Both my older brothers will meet us there and, to my surprise, Mom and Dad said I could invite a friend.
“Dude, I can’t. I forgot it’s Gretchen’s birthday next weekend. My parents won’t let me skip her party.” Drew drops his weights to the ground between sets.
I take a swig of my drink, snickering to myself. “Where do they have you locked down? Trampoline park? Petting zoo?”
Drew shakes his head and picks up the weights again. “Nah, it’s nothing like that. Gretch doesn’t really do friend parties. It’s just a family thing at the house.”
“Bro, my tenth birthday was killer. Me and like fifteen friends played paintball. I took a close range hit to my thigh, had a nasty bruise for two weeks. It was epic.” I grin fondly at the memory. “Fish is missing out.”
“I don’t know, man.” He pauses between bicep curls, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “My parents ask her every year if she wants to invite friends from school and she always says no.”
When I met the guys at football camp last summer, we clicked right away. But it was Drew who quickly became my best friend. Whether it’s the two of us hanging out or a bunch of the guys taking over their pool, the Fisher house has become my second home.
And you can’t make a stop at the Fisher house without a run-in with Fish. The sweet, shy girl—who hates being called little, by the way—who almost always has her nose in a book. If it’s not a book, it’s an art project.
“You think it’s a curse of having a summer birthday?” I ask.
“Could be. She’s a total introvert, though.” He returns the weights to the rack and turns to face me. “Whatever it is doesn’t seem to bother her much.”
The conversation ends there, but my heart stalls on the issue.
I know Gretchen is quiet and reserved, but introverts have friends too.
She’s a gentle-hearted soul and the thought of her not having friends to invite to her birthday party doesn’t sit right with me.
If I wasn’t going to be out of town, I’d show up to the party with bells and a party hat .
A week later, I arrive at Drew’s house fifteen minutes earlier than we had planned for. He and I are going to run some drills before the rest of the team comes over later for a pick-up game in the front yard.
I also come bearing gifts.
My family and I leave tomorrow and Gretchen’s party isn’t for another two days, but her actual birthday is today so it worked out perfectly.
When I enter through the side door into the empty kitchen, I’m greeted by the remnants of a birthday pancake breakfast. Balloons hang from the pendant lights above the kitchen island and a handmade Happy Birthday, Gretchen banner is held secure by scotch tape on the breakfast nook wall.
Upstairs, I drop my football bag in Drew’s room.
One ear tuned to the hall bathroom tells me he’s in the shower, so I grab Gretchen’s gift from my bag, head across the hall and knock on her door.
When she doesn’t answer, I head around the corner and find her in the open loft area at the top of the stairs.
Gretchen sits at her art desk, headphones on to block out the world around her. The late morning sunlight illuminates the tabletop where she has an array of colored pencils and sketch paper at the ready.
Quietly, I move in closer and peek over her to see what she’s coloring. Another day, another princess and her ballgown.
I tuck the gift behind my back and tap her on the shoulder.
She removes her headphones and swivels her head, her toothy smile beaming across her face when she sees me. Who wouldn’t adore this girl? Kids are assholes.
“Happy birthday, Fish.”
She blinks a confused look as she spots the wrapped gift I set in front of her. “That’s for me?”
“Of course it is. You know anybody else who has a birthday around here today?” When she doesn’t move to open it right away, I ask, “Is it okay if I watch you open it?” She bobs her head, and I add, “Read the card first.”
It’s silly, really. The small three by five card doesn’t have a printed message, but the goldfish on the front made me smile. Inside, she finds my handwritten note.
To my favorite 10-year-old,
I feel like you already have all the books, but I really hope you don’t have this one.
When I get back from my trip, I want to hear all about it.
Happy Birthday, Fish!
Love, Connor
The spoiler of what’s inside has her rushing to rip the package open, wrapping paper tossed aside in shreds.
Book in hand, she runs her fingers across the curvy scripted title on the cover: Little Women . She turns the book over in her hands, excitedly inspecting every inch of the vintage hardback.
“We have a family friend who’s a book collector in the city and he said this was a good classic for your age. He had this 1950s edition at his shop that I thought was pretty cool. Do you have this one already?”
She shakes her head as she gently tucks the card inside the front cover. “Thank you, Connor.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, ruffling her hair. “What are you working on?”
She sets the book aside while she smooths out her hair. “Just coloring.”
I toss a backward glance around the corner to confirm Drew’s still in the shower as I grab a colored pencil and settle into the seat beside Gretchen.
“Are you excited about your party?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I guess.”
I pull at my bottom lip, gaze locked on her profile, but she stays focused on her task.
I could ask about her friends at school, but Gretchen’s sharp—she’ll see right through that.
Maybe some reverse psychology is in order.
Turning back to the coloring sheet, I say, “Yeah, I don’t really like parties all that much either. ”
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
A minute later, her soft voice, barely a whisper above the sound of the pointed tips of our pencils dragging across the paper, finally says, “Do you think my parents think about me on my birthday?”
Stunned by the question, I halt my pencil. Shoulders hung low, she stares blankly out the window in front of us.
“Of course they do, Gretch. I saw the balloons and the banner in the kitchen. I know they’re so excited to celebrate you.”
She shakes her head and something knots inside my chest. “No. Not them,” she says. “I mean my real parents. The ones who gave me away.”
Gretchen being adopted isn’t a secret, but it’s not something I hear her family talk about, at least not while I’m around.
Honestly, most days, I forget altogether that she’s adopted.
That’s when it hits me: if it’s this easy for me to forget this major detail about somebody who is a frequent presence in my life, how much easier could it be for her own family to forget?
You could argue that’s a good thing because it means they’ve fully embraced her as their own, but it must be so different from Gretchen’s perspective.
Perhaps her birthday is the hardest of all days to forget. Maybe, of all days out of the year, today is the day she wants— needs —this part of her to be remembered.
The details of her adoption aren’t something I’ve ever thought to inquire about. I’m the last person to wax poetic about her situation, much less know the right thing to say here.
As best I can, I muster a response that, I hope, can settle her vulnerable heart without speaking out of turn. “I think you were given to some pretty amazing people. I know your parents love you. And Drew?” I click my tongue. “That dude is freaking obsessed with you.”
Finally, she smiles in a fit of giggles.
I take in her dark hair that’s nothing like the light brown hair donned by her dad and brother, or the blond hair her mom has.
Her deep, tanned skin that’s a stark contrast to the fair complexion of the rest of her family.
Then there’s the dark chocolate eyes and light freckles over her nose; the two standout features on her face that hold zero resemblance to the saints who’ve raised her and the brother who adores her.
“If I knew your birth parents, I’d tell them how amazing and creative and smart you are. I’d also tell them about what a badass family you ended up with.”
“You’re not supposed to say ass. ” She says the last word on a whisper behind a cupped hand. I lift two guilty hands in surrender.
“You’ve got a family here that loves you, Gretch. I know I’m just Drew’s friend, but I hope you know that I love you, too.”
I think she might cry, but she launches forward and wraps me in a hug instead. The awkward angle of our chairs butted up next to each other has her cheek buried in my chest with one arm thrown over my shoulder. I reach around her neck as best as I can, resting a hand on her head.
“You can be my friend too, Connor.”
“I’d love that, Fish.”
With one final “Happy Birthday” on my way out, I begin down the stairs. Pausing to look back, I watch as Gretchen sets her pencils aside, pulls her headphones back over her ears, grabs her new book and clutches it tight to her chest.
A second later, she opens to the first page and I smile.