Chapter Two
Three days earlier …
“What did you want to talk to me about, Daddy?”
My father has called me into his office. As dean of the economics school at Princeton University, it’s an impressive space, lined with mahogany shelves crammed full of thick books containing all the most important economic theories and practices, some of which were written by my father himself. A quaint window looks out onto the campus’s stone buildings and the fresh snowfall.
“I’ve spoken to Theo,” my father tells me. He’s wearing his dark blue cardigan over a shirt and tie, his round glasses slightly askew from all the deep thinking he does. “He’s going to make you his teaching assistant next semester. It’s a role that can carry on into next year as you continue with your Master’s degree.”
Theo and I have been dating on and off for around six months—if “dating” is even the right word for it. We usually go out on Saturday nights to a movie or to one of the restaurants in town. The rest of the week we’re both too busy to spend time together. Which actually works for me just fine.
Our relationship is casual, more of a friend-zone kind of thing than a dreamy, sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet romance.
Theo’s nice, in a gentle, academic cute-nerd kind of way. He’s the same height as me and sort of lanky. He’s the kind of boyfriend whose jeans would fit you—not that I’ve tried them on, and as it turns out, not exactly what I’m looking for in a man. His look is absent-minded meets preppy. You get the feeling he puts on clothes without really thinking about what he’s doing. He’s four years older than me and is an associate professor of English, a job he started a few months ago. I know my father played a role in getting him hired after we started sort-of seeing each other, putting in a good word for him with all the right people.
Theo is my father’s idea of “a good catch.” Theo’s dream is to work his way up the English department ladder and eventually get tenure. He teaches a class on the Russian literary greats and he wrote his thesis on the works of Dostoyevsky and their relevance in modern society.
Yawn.
Not that I don’t think Dostoyevsky is one of the greats. He probably is. I just have a hard time getting past page two without falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Like Theo, I’m also an English major. My father almost had a conniption when I announced that little gem, but I stood my ground. As much as he wanted me to major in economics, the truth is I don’t have an economic bone in my body. I’m made entirely of prose and fantasy. Anything related to cost-benefit analyses or bullish markets makes me want to run for the hills. Preferably the kind of hills where you might find buff, possessive alpha heroes to fall in lust with at first sight.
I wasn’t even entirely sure I wanted to go to college in the first place. I had dreams of traveling the world and spending long, lazy days with a random, beautiful stranger on a beach in Tahiti or somewhere equally as fabulous, learning to surf while writing escapist novels and generally enjoying my life, free from confining expectations that revolve around topics like professional aspirations and post-graduate diplomas. But my parents were adamant that I at least get my Bachelor’s degree.
I finally relented, and so did my father, once we reached an agreement. My grades were good enough to get me into Princeton (along with my name and my father’s connections, obviously). I would attend Princeton— if I could be an English major. That was the deal.
My favorites are the Bront?s, Shakespeare, the romantic poets and, of course, Jane Austen.
But the classics are a long way from where my heart really lies.
My true obsession is contemporary romance. The steamy kind. The kind where the characters’ lust is entwined with their love, burning up the pages with their fiery—and fantastically descriptive—passion. The books I’m addicted to are the ones where the bedroom door is left open. Because it makes sense: hot sex should be woven into heart-felt love stories. To me, the best love stories are just as much about the physical relationship as they are about the emotional one. Whenever I read romantic scenes that leave the intimacy out, I feel like I’m missing half the story. True love includes sex. Exceptionally good sex. Mind-blowing sex, even. The kind that will change your life with its white-hot chemistry and orgasms galore.
Not that I would know about any of that first-hand.
I’m twenty-one years old and almost a college graduate. And I’m still a virgin.
Even worse, I’ve never even had an orgasm.
Not once.
It’s embarrassing.
I’m a die-hard romantic addicted to love stories, yet I’ve never experienced anything beyond the occasional friendship-zone kiss.
I’ve had boyfriends and opportunities, but I could never quite bring myself to go there. Because each time it’s been so very far from perfect.
Which is a problem.
Perfect doesn’t exist.
Theo wants to take things to the next level. He brought it up one night after pizza and a movie and I said I’d think about it. I even went on the pill to prepare myself for what might be coming.
Crunch time hasn’t happened yet.
I’ve been avoiding it. I’m not entirely sure why.
Okay, I do know why.
I want to have sex, more than anything.
But I want it to be romantic. I also want it to be ... hot. More than hot. I want it to be amazing and beautiful and life-changing.
Of course I do. Who doesn’t? I’m assuming I’m not alone in this since forty percent of the fiction market revolves around hunky (fictional) beefcakes and the lucky heroines who are on the receiving end of the kind of scorching pleasure that makes them fall so hard they’re ruined for anyone else.
My problem is, I have no idea if that kind of romance actually exists in real life.
I haven’t experienced anything even remotely close to that neighborhood yet. It’s the reason I haven’t jumped into bed with Theo or anyone else. I’ve never once felt “the spark” you read about, the one with such crazy off-the-charts chemistry that it changes everything about you because he’s perfect for you and so drop-dead gorgeous all you want to do is get as close to him as it’s possible to do.
The few times Theo kissed me softly ... nothing happened.
No fireworks.
No white-hot chemistry.
No undying love.
You don’t grow up reading Romeo and Juliet a thousand times without fixating on what all that insta-love would feel like. How two people could just know , so much that you’re willing to do anything—even die —because being together in the afterlife would be far better than living without the one you were meant for.
Some days I’d even settle for a horny AF one night stand, just to experience that I-don’t-care-about-anything-but-this-moment craving for once in my lifetime.
I want to get swept away by the man of my dreams.
Where is he? I keep wondering.
Maybe reality just isn’t as orgasmic or intense or all-consuming as fictional love stories are.
Maybe I’m setting my bar too high.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m not in love with Theodore Cartwright IV. And I’m definitely not in lust with him either.
Maybe he is dream-man material. For someone else. For a sweet, brainy scholar whose Kindle is loaded with Russian masterpieces.
Either way, Theo and I just aren’t well-matched and it’s the reason I’ve been planning to break it off with him for a while now. The only reason I haven’t done it sooner is because—and this is a terrible reason to date someone—I know it will devastate my father. Theo is exactly the kind of man my father wants me to end up with. Theo’s father went to Yale. His parents are stable, still married and live in a rambling old inherited-from-banker-grandparents house on the water in Connecticut.
But I just can’t continue to be with someone who doesn’t provide any glimmer of a sign that what we have might grow into something more exciting and heartfelt and … orgasmic .
Yes. The elusive orgasm.
I’ve secretly thought about buying myself a vibrator, just so I can find out what all the fuss is about. But I haven’t yet been able to bring myself to do it. Call me a dreamer, but what I’m really hoping is that a red-blooded man might do me the honors. For my very first one, I’d really like to be on the receiving end of a human . An extremely hot one, who’s big and hard and so intense I fall in love with whoever he is because he’s so freaking good at it.
And here I go again with my fantasies.
“Your grades are good enough to get you into the PhD-track program early,” my father is saying. “I’ve spoken to Professor Hayworth about it. You can start working on your thesis in January, since you’re ahead of schedule. Have you started thinking about a topic for your thesis yet?”
At some point—like now, maybe—I’m going to have to tell my parents what I actually want out of life instead of hiding it behind closed doors because my parents would never approve.
I’m starting to realize, though, that approval isn’t everything. In fact, it feels less and less important every day.
“Daddy, I’m thinking about taking some time off from school.”
He’s too immersed in his own agenda, he doesn’t even hear me. Even though I still have a semester to go before I officially graduate, I have enough credits to finish now if I choose to. All those high school extension classes and summer school research projects helped me earn my degree in only three and a half years. Because I always do what my parents tell me to do. I take the extra classes and do the extra work.
My father wants me to start working toward my PhD in the spring semester, but I’m still deciding.
Actually, I’ve already decided.
“Isn’t that wonderful news, Stella?”
“Daddy, did you hear what I said? I’m thinking of taking some time off.”
My father contemplates me with a stern, serious look on his face. It happens to be his default setting and his only way of doing things: sternly and seriously. “What are you talking about?”
Arthur Hamilton Bell III, following in his father’s and grandfather’s steps before him. All Princeton men, all esteemed economists and professors of economics, all important scholars and some of the greatest minds of their generations.
I feel bad for my father sometimes. Like now. I’m sure he wished for a son of his own, to carry on the family tradition.
Instead he got me.
And then my sister, Summer. At least Summer is an economics major, much to my father’s relief.
My parents had trouble conceiving a baby in the early years of their marriage. After many years of trying for a baby with no luck, my parents decided to adopt one.
Me.
It’s safe to say I’m nothing like my parents, even though I’ve tried my best to be a good and dutiful daughter. They’re amazing parents and I have no complaints. Except that I’ve spent much of my life feeling like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. Most of the time I just go with it because my family is my family and I love them. But some days my own eccentricities feel a lot closer to the surface. Some nights I stare into the mirror and ask the same questions I’ve been wondering about my whole life.
Who am I?
Where did I come from?
Where are they?
Everyone else in my family has straight dark hair and dark eyes. My hair is chestnut-brown with natural red and blond highlights. The ends, where it curls, turn white-blond in the summer. I have olive skin that tans easily, and green eyes. It’s not a huge deal to look nothing like anyone else in your family, but there are moments when the feelings of being other rise up, mainly because I have no clue about who my biological parents were or where I came from. All I know is that I was adopted from an agency located in Charlotte, North Carolina.
Once my parents were no longer so stressed about babies and pregnancies and whatnot, they conceived, out of the blue. Summer is two and a half years younger than I am. Their miracle baby. She’s feisty but sweet, and very much my parents’ daughter in the true sense of the word. I love her to pieces. She’s been doted on all her life and is sheltered but also driven. She’s an economics student—not at Princeton, though, which caused a major uproar in our household at the time. She insisted that she wanted to go to California. She’s always hated winter and she wanted to follow the sun. My father finally relented when she got into Stanford. He would take that as a close second. She started last semester.
So this is my family.
And the plan that’s been rolling around in my head for a long time is starting to take shape. All the pieces have, just recently, begun to fall into place.
“Daddy, thank you for organizing that, but I’m not sure I’m going to do a PhD. At least not right away. That was never my plan.”
The disapproving glower is one I’m used to. “Of course you should continue. You want to teach, don’t you? What else would you do?”
“I thought I might travel, like I’ve always wanted to. And work. And, as I just mentioned, I’d like to write.”
“Write? What are you going to write?”
“A novel.” A steamy one.
He observes me for a few seconds, as though I’ve just reminded him once again that I’m an English major. English majors do things like write novels. “Plenty of people write as they study and teach, Stella. Theo is. He’s editing a scholarly journal on Tolstoy that’s already had an offer of publication.”
I feel my eyes practically glaze over just at the thought. “Daddy, I’m going away for a week. Maybe even a few weeks, since the semester is finishing. I’m leaving the day after Christmas.”
“What are you talking about? Alone? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Summer is staying in California for the holidays this year. And something else has happened lately that’s not only given me the courage to follow my own path, but has lit a fire in me that’s completely new. And hungry, like a craving has taken hold.
After my sister left for college, I decided to do a search. For my birth mother.
Even a few years ago, I would never even have considered it, out of respect for my parents. I didn’t want them to think they weren’t enough. They are. But I also know that, deep down, I need to know.
I don’t have delusions about a loving reunion. I don’t even know if I want a loving reunion, or even if I want to meet the people who created me, at all. More than anything else, I want to know the story.
I want to know why they gave me away.
It might not be a happy story. It might be awful and sad. I’m prepared for all that. Either way, I want answers to the questions that have always burned bright. How could anyone give away their own baby? To total strangers they know nothing about? How?
The only information I have is the name of the adoption agency. Children’s Home Society, Charlotte, North Carolina.
I’ve never even been to North Carolina.
Once my sister left for Stanford, where she’ll no doubt excel and become exactly—or as close as he’s going to get—what my father always wanted in a child, I felt myself starting to rebel, just a little. More and more. Like a chrysalis who has obediently remained wrapped in its shell for a long time, I’m finally feeling the need to spread my wings. Even if those wings happen to be a completely different color to the rest of my family’s.
It was around that time that I googled the adoption agency’s number. Without overthinking it, I made the call.
I received the reply this morning. A mailed envelope, sent to my mailbox on campus. I haven’t opened it yet. I’m waiting until I’m alone.
“Stella, be reasonable. A PhD from Princeton will set you up for life. Why would you even consider throwing all that away on a whim?”
“A Bachelor’s from Princeton will set me up for life, Daddy, which I already almost have. Besides, it’s not a whim. It’s a plan.”
“A plan? What plan?”
His tone is disparaging but I’ve already made up my mind. The decision has forged itself into something real and sure. Into something that won’t budge. “Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
My father stares at me. We don’t usually throw those words around casually. In our family, those words belong to special occasions or a heartfelt family moment. Not standing here in his office.
He’s stunned and wary, like he can tell this is leading up to something. I keep going. “I love you and I appreciate you. You’re the best father anyone could ever ask for. But this isn’t about you. It’s about me. It’s something I want to do and it’s something I’m going to do. I’m taking a few weeks off, or maybe a few months. I’m going to spend some time thinking about what I want to do next and what I want out of life. And you’re going to be happy that I’ve achieved what I’ve achieved so far. You’re going to allow me some space to figure out my own path because I’m twenty-one years old and it’s time for me to do that. Okay?”
My father leans back in his creaky chair. He folds his hands in a sort of prayer position. He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “All right, Stella.”
All right?
“You’re right. You’ve worked hard and you deserve a break.” It’s possibly the nicest thing my father has ever said to me. But I sense that he doesn’t fully understand what I mean by “a break.” “And when you return you can step into the role of Theo’s teaching assistant.”
It’s a start, at least. It gives me some time. “Daddy, I have to go now. I’m meeting Theo and I’m already late.”
He relents, possibly because Theo is his favorite topic. “Fine. But don’t make any decisions until you’ve discussed them with us.”
The new me is gaining momentum. “I’ve already made the decision, Daddy.”
My father contemplates me, like he can see the change in me and doesn’t like it. “Why don’t you and Theo come for dinner tonight. We can talk about it then.”
“He was planning on taking me out to dinner.” That part is true. And over a casual pizza—that’s as extravagant as Theo gets—I’m going to break up with him. “I’ll come by tomorrow, though, okay? I’ll spend Christmas Eve and Christmas with you. We’ll have a nice time together before I go.”
“We need to talk more about this,” he says again.
I walk over and kiss him on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Daddy. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
I get back to the tiny apartment in town that I share with my roommate Piper. She’s a business major and spends most of her time either at the library or with her boyfriend Dillon. He’s a hockey player and a sweetheart with several missing teeth. The two of them have gotten serious over the last semester and, between that and the fact that she’s applying to graduate schools, I haven’t seen much of her lately.
I sit down on my bed and hold the envelope in my hands.
This is it. After all these years of wondering.
I’m finally about to get some answers.
Carefully, I open it. I unfold the letter.
It’s from the woman at the adoption agency I spoke to on the phone.
Dear Stella,
This is everything we have on file for you. All of this information was given to us at the time of your adoption and we have received no further correspondence since then. It’s not unusual for the information to be brief.
Your birth mother’s first name is Madeline. She was seventeen years old when you were born. She has one sister who is two years older. Her parents’ occupations were restaurant owner and administrative assistant. She has brown hair and green eyes. She enjoys writing and reading. At the time of your birth she was considering applying to college to study English.
Your birth father’s name was not stated. He was eighteen years old when you were born. He has three younger brothers and one younger sister. He has dark brown hair and blue-green eyes. He enjoys swimming and football. His parents’ occupations were factory foreman and bank teller. At the time of your birth he was planning to go to college and hoped to eventually apply to law school.
Your birth parents dated in high school, in Nashville, Tennessee, where both of them lived their entire lives to that point, and so did their parents. Your birth mother made a point of stating that you were a child born of love. They felt they were doing the right thing by giving you up for adoption, to give you the best chance for a stable upbringing, which they did not feel they had the means to give you at that time.
This is the extent of the information on file. We do not have surnames or contact details on file, I’m sorry to say. Again, this is not unusual and was a choice made by your birth family at the time of your adoption.
Please don’t hesitate to contact me if I can be of further assistance, or if you’d like to discuss anything included in this letter. And please remember what I told you over the phone: it’s a good idea to have support as you process this information. Getting answers to long-held questions can dredge up emotions you may not be expecting. Please consider me a part of your support system.
Warm regards,
Linda Clegg
Holy shit.
There are tears streaming down my face that I’m only vaguely aware of.
Madeline.
Green eyes.
Writing and reading.
English.
There’s so much to think about. It’s impossible to take it all in.
I sit there on my bed and I cry. Not just silent tears but deep, soul-wrenching sobs. I curl up on my bed, taking care not to wrinkle or smudge the letter. You don’t grow up as an adopted person without wondering—every single day of your life—about who they were and why they made the decisions they did. My life is fantastic. I have no complaints. But it’s a heavy thing, to feel like you’ve been abandoned by the people who were supposed to love you the most. Even if it’s in the background, sitting there most of the time like a quiet, out-of-the-way shadow, it’s still there . Every time you look in the mirror.
I feel myself let go, until my pillow is wet and the hitches of my breathing start to slow.
Wow. Linda was right. It does feel like dredging. Some deep well of my psyche, where all those questions have lived my entire life, has just been dug up with a big-ass shovel.
After so much wondering, I know something about them.
Nashville.
And I know where I’m going.
“Hey, Stella. How was your day?”
“It was fine, Theo. How was yours?”
“Better now.” He stands up and awkwardly gives me a kiss on the cheek. He’s typically disheveled in the way that means he’s spent all afternoon mentally in a Russian gulag. His scent is of vintage, slightly moldy books. After all that’s happened today, it feels harder to force the light-hearted blandness of my connection to Theo.
I slide into the red leather booth. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.”
After my total meltdown, I did my best to make myself presentable. I’m more sure now than I’ve ever been about what I’m about to do. And I don’t want to put it off any longer.
“What have you been up to today?” Theo asks me, sliding in next to me.
Discovering a piece of myself , I almost say. But it’s too close to home. Too new. I need to savor it and let it settle before I can talk about it.
The waitress arrives to take our order.
“We’ll have a large cheese pizza and two Cokes,” says Theo. Our usual order.
What I’ve realized is that I’ve been on autopilot in my own life. My parents make all the major decisions about everything I do. My boyfriend orders dinner. Now I’m wondering if I’ve allowed this because I felt like I was less of a person than everyone around me. Like I wasn’t worthy of taking the bull of my life by its horns because I don’t actually know who I am. Which is overdramatizing things, but a little piece of that is true. Or it was.
You were a child born of love.
It’s absolutely crazy how powerful those words are.
“Actually,” I tell the waitress, “could you please put pepperoni and mushrooms on half the pizza? And I’ll have a glass of wine.”
Theo glances at me, like he doesn’t recognize me. But then he says, “You’re right. It’s a special night. Make that two glasses of wine. Let’s live a little.”
The waitress brings our glasses of Pinot Grigio and Theo clinks his glass against mine. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he says as the waitress moves on to the next table.
“What’s that?”
And right here in the booth at Roy’s Pizza, Theo reaches into the pocket of his khaki pants. “I know you’ve been holding out on me and I think I know why.”
He pulls out a velvet box.
He opens it.
Inside, there’s a small white-gold diamond ring.
Wait, what?
“Stella,” Theo begins, like he’s been practicing what he’s about to say. “Since the first day I met you I’ve felt like we’re a perfect match. We’re alike in so many ways and we both want the same things out of life. Now that we’ll be working side by side, it makes sense for us to seal the deal. Stella, will you marry me?”
I’m so stunned I can’t even answer him.
“I know it’s sort of sudden but it feels like the right time,” Theo says.
“Theo …”
“You’re the one for me, Stella.”
“Theo. No.”
His smile fades. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I mean I can’t marry you, Theo.” I don’t want to hurt him, but the thought of marrying Theo Cartwright is just totally wrong. I should never have let this get so out of hand. “Theo. I like you. A lot. You’re a nice person and a friend. But I ... I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
“Because. I don’t love you, Theo. I’m sorry. I don’t feel like we’re well-matched at all. I actually came here tonight to tell you that I think we should stop seeing each other.”
“Stop seeing each other?”
“Yes.”
“But, Stella, your father has given us his blessing.”
“You asked … my father?”
“I stopped in at his office on my way here. He said you’d just left. He was so thrilled for us.”
It takes me a few seconds to speak. “My father would be thrilled, yes. You’re his idea of a perfect husband. But, Theo ... unfortunately, you’re not mine. It’s sweet of you. Thank you. But I can’t marry you. And I’m leaving for a while. I’m so sorry. It’s over, Theo. I have to go.” Heavy, insanely deep-rooted discoveries happened to me today and my emotions are on overdrive. And now this. I slide out of the booth. I need to get out of here. My whole life suddenly feels overwhelming and claustrophobic.
“Stella, wait—”
I turn. I’m annoyed that I’m crying again and I swipe the tears away.
“Are you all right? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You haven’t upset me. I just need some time to myself.”
He’s holding out the small velvet box. “Take it with you. In case you change your mind.”
“Theo—”
“Please. Just think about it for a while. Give it back later if you still feel the same way in a week or a month or however long it takes you to think about what you want.”
I take the box, because it’s nice of him. It’s hopeful. And even though it’s not going to happen, I allow him his hope.
Then I rush out of the restaurant and make my way down the dark street and through the snow flurries. My tears freeze and burn, but underneath them, something else is happening to me.
A feeling that my life is—and already has—about to change.
Christmas morning arrives. Without Summer there to diffuse my pronouncements with her bubbly energy, the atmosphere feels more tense than usual. I’m relieved when Summer calls just after we’ve opened the presents and I sit and talk to her for a long time in a patch of sun on the window seat in the den. I don’t tell her everything. I just confess to her that I’m taking some time to think about what I want to do next. She tells me what I want to hear. Do it, Stella. Go for it. You’ve done everything everyone has asked of you and you always have. You’ve carried the weight of all their expectations for far too long. It’s time for you to stop worrying so much about what other people want. It’s time for you to live your own life.
It is, after all, why Summer went to California in the first place. So she can do exactly that. She’s been stronger than me about making her own decisions. “I’m applying for an internship with Enzo King,” she says.
“I’ve heard of him.” Some hot investment guru who owns half of Hawaii.
“It’s so competitive but I’m going for it anyway.”
“Good for you, sweetie. You’ll get it.”
She laughs. “I blame you completely for my overdeveloped sense of self-confidence, Stella. It’s because of you that I never feel like I’ll fail at anything. Now you need to apply that same outlook to yourself.” She’s right, of course. “And I know there’s more to this trip than you’re telling me. But I’ll let you fill me in on all that once you get there.”
I promise her I will.
“Love you, Stel. I miss you.”
“Love you too, Mooch.” I’ve called her Mooch since she was tiny because she always wanted to do, eat, have and wear everything of mine. She loved me so much it sometimes felt like she was my little twin soul, even though we looked nothing alike. Because of Summer, I’ve always felt incredibly necessary , and I was grateful to her for that. Even if I felt out of place sometimes, like I was never a perfect fit in my own family, Summer needed me. I was her role model, her therapist and her rock. Now that she’s fully launched and living on the opposite coast, it hits me again that I don’t need to be all those things anymore.
It’s time for you to live your own life.
Something I’ve never, ever done.
I survive the day. My mother is one of those throwbacks to a different time. She’s a housewife, with no aspirations aside from making her home into a shrine of perfection for the sole purpose of entertaining the economics department of Princeton. It’s her career and her lifestyle. Not that I fault her for that. She loves her life. She loves order and domesticity and familiarity. Everything’s in its place, picture-perfect and lifestyle magazine photo-worthy. Straight and narrow. Organized and pristine.
Which is all fantastic, if that’s the way you like things to be.
I remind myself to feel grateful for my parents and for everything they are. How lucky I am that the tree is perfect, the house a Martha Stewart fantasy come to life, the Christmas music gently wafting from the surround sound and the snow perfectly falling outside the polished bay windows, like my mother somehow choreographed the weather along with everything else.
What I realize is that I’m looking forward to some messiness in my life. Some spontaneity and a whole bunch of unpredictability. Some wildness , where things aren’t organized at all but instead they’re organic and fun and scary and new and completely … mine .
I can’t wait to get started.
The day after Christmas, before my parents are awake, as quietly as I can, I take my packed carry-on, with my laptop tucked inside, and load it into my car. I made a point of saying goodbye to them last night, after some heavy discussions that included tears (my mother’s), bribes (my father’s) and staunch refusals (mine) that surprised even me with their resoluteness. It’s time for a journey of self-discovery that has nothing to do with over-analyzing all the mistakes I’m about to make.
I told my family I was heading to Nashville, but not why.
Most likely there will be nothing to find there. It’s easy enough to predict what will happen. I’ll spend a few days checking the place out, because if two generations of my biological family are from Nashville, I at least want to see what the city looks like. I’ll feel lost and lonely and I’ll wonder what the hell I’m doing. I’ll look in the phone books and I’ll reach a dead end because all I actually know is her first name and the date of my own birthday. It’s not like I’m going to run into my long lost birth mother randomly on the street in a city of a million and a half people and strike up a deep and meaningful relationship. I’m not even sure I’d want that to happen.
I’ll take a look around and I’ll lay those old ghosts to rest. I’ll probably end up driving somewhere else before the week is done. Maybe some beach where I can sit under an umbrella, sipping Mai Tais while I write the first chapter of my novel, which will most likely be terrible and confirm all my worst suspicions, that I should stick to what I know instead of pretending I’ve got a steamy and wildly successful romantic bestseller inside me waiting to break free.
I crank up the music and sing along to my favorite songs.
By the time I pass Philadelphia I’ve entered that traveling state of mind, where you wonder why it was so hard to leave because now that you have, everything seems wide open.
I drive all day. When it starts to get dark I stop at a roadside diner with one of those old motels next to it that looks like something out of a B movie where shady drug deals go wrong. I check in anyway because I need to sleep and it feels good to be outside my comfort zone.
I take a long shower, then get into bed to answer some of my messages.
From Piper, who’s spending Christmas with Dillon’s hockey-mad family of five sons in Minneapolis. Help me. I’ve learned more North Stars stats than I ever wanted to know. His mother keeps all their knocked-out teeth in a jar.
From Summer, who’s on a beach in San Diego with her new roommate. Christmas in a bikini ROCKS! Love you xo
From Theo. I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Yeah.
So do I.