Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
I stare at the sidewalk and only the sidewalk as I walk back from the store, hoping my big sunglasses and Marcus’s hoodie will be enough of a disguise if, for some reason, Nick happens to drive through Stanford campus on his way out of San Francisco. It’s a stupid, irrational thought, but my senses have been in overdrive since we arrived. Guo Mama’s words are on repeat in my head. We’re too close to San Francisco.
The hazy sun’s doing its best to break through the clouds while I hug a paper bag of groceries and wish Marcus was with me instead of at practice; I’ve been avoiding leaving the apartment by myself since we moved in three days ago, too afraid of what could be lurking on the other side of the door. But we needed something in our tiny kitchen; Marcus eats more in one day than I can in a week, and crackers, cheese, and bananas won’t be enough to keep him alive another day. So, I talked myself through my irrational thoughts, grabbed $100 from our emergency envelope, and went to the store where I might have splurged on a few extras. Hopefully, having his favorite protein shakes magically appear in our pantry will keep Marcus from crashing after practice. He’s been so tired from late nights and early mornings, but my days have dragged without him. By the time he gets home, I’ve got enough energy for both of us, eager to do all the fun stuff we’ve discovered during the last week.
I trudge up the stairs and balance the bag of groceries on my knee as I pull out my keys, fumbling them into the lock. I step inside at the same time Marcus jumps out from behind the door, yelling “Surprise!” I scream, dropping to the floor with the bag of groceries and covering my face.
He drops beside me, apologizing through his laughter, and I punch his arm as hard as I can, releasing the surge of fear.
“Ow…” He rubs his arm as he straightens. “What was that for?”
His eyes are mischievous, which only make me angrier. I punch him again and stand. “I almost had a heart attack.”
He stands up, too. “Yeah, well…” He steps closer, backing me against the wall. “I’m calling campus police because I was minding my own business behind the door in my apartment when a crazy girl with dark intentions broke in. I can see them in her eyes…” He pins me against the wall with his hips, and I laugh into his chest, releasing the anger and fear swirling inside me. I melt into him, relief washing away my anger, and when I look up, his mouth crashes into mine, his lips guiding me to my tiptoes.
“Thing is, even though she’s crazy, I’m totally in love with her and can’t wait to spend all day with her,” he says against my lips.
I pull back. “What happened to practice?”
“I told Coach I had other things I wanted to practice.”
I pinch his stomach, and he flinches, then smiles. “Or…Coach called it early today. Which means we get to celebrate the holiday.”
“What holiday?”
Marcus squints at me, his best attempt at disgust. “I can’t believe you don’t know the significance of this day.” His fingertips trickle down my sides to my hips, and my breath hitches, but I manage a whisper.
“July sixth?” I wait. “Am I missing something?”
“Definitely.”
“Tell me.”
Marcus leans in, his lips on my ear, and his hands slip under my shirt. “Mei-day!”
I wind my arms around his neck, encouraging him. “You’re two months late.”
“Any day I have no practice is Mei-Day. Mei Li Miller Day, any time, any month. And it’s my favorite.”
I close my eyes as his hands and lips wander. “And how…do people celebrate…this special…made-up holiday?” My mind swims, his fingertips leaving sparking trails on my skin.
“I’ll show you, but first, the rules.”
“Rules?”
He nods. “Important ones, so listen up. Number one.” He holds up his finger. “You decide what we do, and two, you can’t stop me from doing whatever I want for you.”
The moon shines through the gaps in the blinds and pools over Marcus and me on our bed where we lay tangled in each other. His breathing is deep, and I smile and stretch, feeling very celebrated.
My feet are cold from the air conditioner, so I slip them under Marcus’s legs. He doesn’t budge, but no surprise—we did a lot of celebrating.
The afternoon slipped away while we were in our apartment, but we’d spent the evening walking through the campus gardens, then checked out some nearby boutiques where Marcus said I could get whatever I wanted, no matter the cost. There’s no way I was going to do that, even if we have extra money now that his scholarship is paying for things. I feel bad enough spending money on food for new recipes, even if Marcus will never complain. When we’d stopped in front of the Mediterranean restaurant I’d been dying to try, I looked at him and he’d just smiled and opened the door for me. He’d already made reservations under Mei Li Miller, and when I told him it was too expensive, he’d rolled his eyes.
“Nothing’s too expensive on Mei Day,” he’d said, his smile worth every dollar we shouldn’t have spent but did.
Starting tomorrow, we’ll be better with our money but today…was perfect. When we’d approached our apartment, I walked slower, reluctant to go inside, like I could drag the hours along behind us as we walked. But then he’d picked me up, spun me around, and given me a piggy-back ride up the four flights of stairs. Mei Day had officially ended a few hours ago, way too late but not long enough.
I snuggle into my pillow and stare into the purple haze, listening to Marcus’s deep breathing and the hum of the air conditioner. Memories from tonight circle above my head, but a nagging thought trails them, sneaking between the memory of Marcus’s smile that spread light over the whole day and his words whispered in the dark as he hovered over me. Thoughts of looking up my real dad don’t belong in the sequence of private moments, but they flash behind my eyes when I close them, tugging me away from the Marcus tangle and out of bed.
It’s not the first time these intrusive thoughts have pushed their way in, sending me off balance. But right now, they’re spinning and toppling me.
I shrug on Marcus’s t-shirt and tiptoe around the corner to the kitchen. Sliding into a chair at the table, I open Marcus’s laptop we bought last week. We’d done well without internet for six weeks in Seattle—even our phones were too basic to have it. We also didn’t want any news from home to creep into our life, but we have full access now in this new apartment. I’ve been fighting the temptation to look up Peter Mitchell, and tonight, I’m giving in.
The screen sings to life, and I type his name in the search bar. Nothing relevant pulls up, so I add Rhode Island and a Facebook link appears, along with a picture. It’s the same picture Mama gave me when she said I should know him.
I swallow and click on the link, closing my eyes while I wait, unsure I want to know anything more. But when I open them, he’s there, with his three blonde children that look nothing like me. They’re all standing on a rock, the ocean behind them in a completely different life from mine. There are no shadows of unknown or unwanted children in his smile. His profile isn’t private, so I click on more pictures, my hesitation stepping aside for curiosity.
There’s Peter Mitchell, alone in front of a forest, holding up a sign I can’t read. Him with his kids at a museum. On the beach. At Disney World.
He’s a dad but not to me—to those kids who can’t possibly be my half siblings. Everything about the pictures is too straight forward, collected, organized. There’s no room for an old girlfriend and their long-lost child who looks nothing like him or his real family. I wonder about the story of Mama and Peter. Were they ever in love like I’m in love with Marcus? What would my life be like had they stayed together?
I’d read all their emails, scoured and studied them during lunch breaks at the restaurant. I’d tried to make sense of them because the relationship seemed serious until Mama sent a final email, telling him she needed to see him again and there was no response.
Unwanted.
Hurt uncurls inside me, and I shut the laptop; I have no right or reason to be hurt. He doesn’t know about me. He doesn’t know he could be living a different life, raising a different kid with a different woman who’s trapped in a much uglier place.
None of it matters. Peter Mitchell doesn’t matter. I may share the same DNA, but he’s just a name. A profile on Facebook. I open the laptop again to clear the history, so Marcus won’t find my search, then close it and crawl back into bed beside him.
I lay my head on Marcus’s chest, and his fingers reflexively slide into my hair. I listen to his familiar heartbeat, its deep, steady rhythm reminding me that Marcus is my family. He knows everything about me. We have each other. We’ll make our own picture-perfect family someday, and when we have kids, they’ll never need to question where they belong.