Chapter 18 Mabel #2
The orchid looks healthier than it did last time I looked at it. A darker, more vibrant green. Firm, shiny, plump leaves. And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but the bud, tiny as it may be, appears to be growing. No bud blast yet, as Aurora called it.
“Are you coming out of recovery mode, Arthur?”
Carefully, I trail my fingertips along the leaves, then inhale, filling my lungs with the fresh air.
It’s so peaceful here. I think it could bring anyone back to life.
I close my eyes and listen to the breeze.
The bird songs. I try my best to clear my head of everything that’s been causing me stress, and I just breathe.
“What are you doing out here?”
I whip around and find Aurora standing in the doorway. Her hair is wet and hanging down her shoulders, and she’s wrapped in a large, fluffy white towel.
“Were you in the shower?”
She shakes her head. “No. I just came back from one of the hot pools.”
“Oh.”
I stand quickly and run my eyes over her face, searching for any hint of regret or shame, and my throat tightens.
I didn’t realize how much I missed her presence.
Her voice. It’s been a matter of days, but I missed her so much that my eyes nearly devour her, searching every feature as if I’ve not seen her for years.
The longer I stare at her without speaking, the pinker her cheeks tint, so I break the silence.
“How was it? The hot pool, I mean.”
“Good. Nice and, um, hot.”
“Cool. Good. I should try one before we leave.”
“You should.”
I nod, and another uncomfortable pause stretches. She glances back into the room, probably searching for an escape route, so I gesture to her orchid, grasping for any topic that will keep her here. I’m not ready for her to leave again.
“He looks good,” I say, and her eyes drift to the flower.
“Yeah. I feel bad, though. I haven’t really been tending to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.”
“Maybe he just needed space.”
“Maybe.” She flicks her eyes back to mine. “How was sound check?”
“Good. It was good. All sounds were checked. How was shopping?”
“Good.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah.”
“I saw your bags.” I nod toward the bed. “You did some damage.”
She winces and lets out a forced laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”
Another painfully awkward pause follows.
I try to think of anything else to talk about—anything safe and easy—but I come up short.
Aurora and I don’t really do small talk.
We haven’t stuck to safe, easy topics, and this stilted conversation actually hurts.
I hate it. There’s no sign of the warmth or playfulness that’s colored all our other interactions.
There’s no familiarity. That strong connection I feel with her, it’s flickering—fading in and out—and I feel anxious.
Panicky. As if I don’t do something soon, it will disappear, and I’ll question if it was ever real at all.
I grab my ring and spin it around on my finger. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The tension mounts until I can’t take it anymore, and then I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“I found my birth mom.”
When her eyes widen, and her lips curl into a surprised smile, I’m immediately relieved.
I’ve been itching to talk about this with someone, but I realize now that it wasn’t just anyone I wanted to share it with.
It was her. With just a few words, just one intimate secret, we’re us again, and I feel like I can finally breathe.
“Really? How? Where? How do you feel?”
“Really. I hired a law firm and had them hire a private investigator. She’s in Georgia. And to be honest, I don’t know how I feel yet.”
She nods, her smile softening. “I understand that. It’s a lot to process. Do you think you’ll meet her?”
“I haven’t decided. What if she doesn’t want to know me?”
“Then she’s a fool.”
The conviction in her voice makes my heart ache, and I huff a small laugh.
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t make it hurt less,” I confess. “She gave me up and made no attempt to find me. It’s not unreasonable to think she wouldn’t want me just showing up on her doorstep.”
“Are you sure?”
Aurora’s head is tilted to the side, her question posed so plainly that it takes me a minute to understand it.
“Am I sure what?”
“That your birth mom didn’t try to find you. Are you sure?”
I think about it for a moment, blinking at the open, interested, completely unjudgmental expression on her beautiful face. And then I shake my head.
“No, I guess not. I just, I don’t know, I assumed since no one came knocking on my door in the last thirty years that they haven’t looked.”
She smiles again, this one more playful. More her, and it makes my throat tight.
“You’ve tried on a lot of lives, Susan Ainsley Mabel Rossi. I don’t know that it would be easy to find you if someone didn’t know where to look.”
“You said you could find me in any crowd.”
I hadn’t realized how strongly I’d been clinging to those words, to her meaning behind them, until they escape my lips and float between us.
In the seconds following, I hold my breath.
I wait for her to flee. To apologize. I watch as shock and embarrassment pass over her face, and then it’s awash in something like sadness.
“I could”—her voice is a whisper, and I lean closer—“but that’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I don’t do it on purpose. I just know.”
It’s like she’s reached right into my chest, grabbed onto my heart, and squeezed.
It brings tears to my eyes, but I don’t look away from her.
I can’t. I see everything I’m feeling in her expression.
Every ounce of longing and confusion. The frustration of being so inexplicably drawn to someone you can’t have.
The pain.
God, she looks like she’s in physical pain, and I reach for her. I take her hand in mine, and I hold on tight.
“Are you okay, Roar?”
The question comes out innocent enough, but I can tell she knows I’m asking about more than just the kiss.
The apologizing. The crying. The dressing room outburst. Even the cotton dresses, the shopping sprees, and the new bank account.
It’s all pieces of a larger puzzle, and I need to figure out how they fit together.
I know in my bones that something isn’t right.
I know it. I just need her to confirm it.
When she speaks, her voice shakes, but not in a frightened or uncertain way. It’s like she’s been keeping this bottled up for so long that she has to release it slowly or risk erupting.
“A truth for a truth?”