Chapter Three #2
I barely sleep. Each time I close my eyes, I’m back at Derek’s house, replaying the moment he brushed my hair behind my ear, the way he said my name like it meant something important.
But mostly I think about Emma’s face in that family photo, about the fact that somewhere in Michigan, there’s a girl who shares my DNA and has everything I’ve always wanted to know about myself.
At three a.m., I give up on sleeping and grab my laptop, pulling up the Kline Electric website again.
I study every pixel of the family photo until I could recreate it from memory.
Emma has Jeremy’s eyes, but everything else about her screams Lilly.
The blond hair, the delicate features, the way she holds her head slightly tilted like she’s posing for a magazine.
She’s beautiful. Confident. Loved. Everything I’ve pretended to be but never quite felt like I was.
By the time my alarm goes off at six-thirty, I’ve memorized every word on Jeremy’s website. My eyes feel gritty and swollen, and there’s a headache building behind my temples.
Downstairs, Mom’s dressed for work, her portfolio bag slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing the blue blouse that brings out her eyes, and her hair is perfectly styled.
“Morning, sweetheart,” she says, not glancing up from her phone. “I’m running late, but there’s cereal in the cabinet and orange juice in the fridge.”
“Thanks.” I pour myself a bowl of generic cornflakes and add milk. The cereal tastes like cardboard, but my stomach needs something.
“Oh, and I dropped off your permission slip for the Catalina trip yesterday,” she says, finally glancing up. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks,”
She gives me a quick kiss on the forehead, the same way she has every morning since I was little, and heads for the garage. “Have a good day at school. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
My mind churns through everything that happened yesterday.
At exactly seven-thirty, Derek’s car pulls into our driveway. I grab my backpack and head outside, grateful to have something normal to focus on.
“Morning,” he says as I slide into the passenger seat. “How’d you sleep?”
“Terribly. You?”
“Same. I kept thinking about everything we talked about yesterday.” He glances over at me as we pull out of the driveway. “Any decisions about what you want to do?”
“Not yet. But thank you for yesterday. For listening and not trying to fix everything.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
Friends. The word should make me happy, but instead it sits oddly in my stomach. Is that what we are? Just friends?
We’re quiet for most of the drive to school, but it’s comfortable. Derek has the radio on low, playing some indie song I don’t recognize, and the morning sun filters through the windows in a way that makes everything feel golden and possible.
“Derek?” I say as we pull into the school parking lot.
“Yeah?”
“When you said last night that you wanted to ask someone to winter formal but haven’t worked up the courage yet…” I pause, my heart pounding. “Who were you talking about?”
He turns off the engine and looks at me, and for a moment I think he’s going to deflect or make a joke. But then his expression gets serious.
“You,” he says quietly. “I was talking about you.”
The words hang in the air between us, and I feel my cheeks flush. “Oh.”
“I know you’ve got a lot going on right now with the family stuff and the heart thing. I didn’t want to make things more complicated.”
“You wouldn’t be making things complicated,” I say quickly. “I mean, yes, my life is a mess right now, but that doesn’t mean…”
I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence. Not sure what I’m even feeling.
“We should probably get to class,” Derek says, but he doesn’t move to get out of the car.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
“Liv?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you want to go to winter formal with me? Even if everything else is crazy right now?”
I look at him. Derek Lance, who’s been my friend for years, who made me grilled cheese when I was falling apart, who’s offering to be there for whatever comes next.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d really like that.”
His smile is like sunshine breaking through clouds.
The day passes in a blur of classes and assignments, but I feel lighter somehow. Having something to look forward to, someone who wants to be there for me, makes even the difficult stuff feel more manageable.
During fourth period study hall, Mr. Henderson calls me up to his desk.
“Ms. Kline, I don’t seem to have your permission slip for the Catalina Island trip. The deadline was yesterday.”
My stomach drops. “My mom said she dropped it off yesterday.”
He shuffles through a stack of papers on his desk, frowning. “Nope, I have everyone but yours.”
“Maybe it got mixed up with someone else’s papers?”
“I’ll check with the main office, but if we don’t find it by the end of the day, you won’t be able to go on the trip. School policy.”
I nod and slink back to my seat, pulling out my phone to text Mom.
ME
Mr. Henderson says he doesn’t have my permission slip. Can you check if you actually turned it in?
Mom
Of course I turned it in! Check lost and found or something. Can’t talk now, in a meeting.
Can’t talk now. The story of my life.
Maya slides into the seat next to me. “Everything okay? You look like you’re about to murder someone.”
“My mom forgot to turn in my permission slip. Now I might not be able to go to Catalina.”
“That sucks. Want me to text my mom? She could probably call the school and vouch for you or something.”
The offer is sweet, but it highlights how messed up this whole situation is. Maya’s mom would drop everything to help fix this problem. My mom can’t even be bothered to double-check she did what she said she did.
“Thanks, but it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
But I won’t figure it out, because there’s nothing to figure out.
Mom either forgot to turn it in, or turned it in somewhere else, or got distracted and left it in her car.
Either way, I’m going to miss out on something I was looking forward to because the one adult in my life I’m supposed to be able to count on, let me down.
Again.
By the time the final bell rings, Mr. Henderson confirms that my permission slip hasn’t made it to the main office, the lost and found, or anywhere else in the building. I’m officially off the Catalina trip roster.
I text my mom.
Me
Permission slip wasn’t turned in. I can’t go on the trip.
Her response takes a while.
Mom
Impossible. I definitely dropped it off. Must be the school’s mistake.
Must be the school’s mistake. Because it couldn’t possibly be her fault. Because admitting she screwed up would require her to acknowledge she’s not perfect.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, glancing up to see Derek. I force my books into my locker and slam it shut.
“Rough afternoon?” he asks.
“My mom ‘definitely’ turned in my permission slip, but somehow the school managed to lose it.” I slam my locker shut. “So I get to stay home while everyone else goes to Catalina.”
“That’s frustrating.”
“It’s fine,” I lie. “I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the trip anyway.”
“Since when do you not enjoy boat rides and snorkeling?”
Since never. I enjoy being on the water, love the way everything feels peaceful and clear when I’m floating in the ocean.
“Want a ride home?” Derek asks. “You look like you could use some company.”
I almost say no, insist I’m fine and don’t need anyone to take care of me. But then I remember yesterday afternoon at his house, the way he made me grilled cheese and didn’t try to fix everything.
“Yeah,” I say. “That would be nice.”
As we drive through town, he lets me vent about the permission slip situation, about her inability to admit when she’s wrong, and about how tired I am of being disappointed by the adults in my life.
“Scale of one to ten, how mad are you at your mom right now?” he asks as we pull up to a red light.
“Fifteen,” I say without hesitation. “Maybe twenty.”
He nods seriously. “Justified anger or displaced anger?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you mad about the permission slip, or are you mad about all the other stuff too? Your father, the secrets, feeling like you can’t count on the adults in your life to tell you the truth?”
Sometimes he sees me too clearly for my own comfort.
“Both,” I admit. “Definitely both.”
“That’s fair.” He glances over at me. “You know, it’s okay to be angry. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine all the time.”
“I’m not pretending,”
“Liv.” The way he says my name makes me stop mid-sentence. “You’ve been carrying this stuff around by yourself for weeks. You’re allowed to be pissed off that the people who are supposed to take care of you keep letting you down.”
The words land hard somewhere beneath my ribs, and for a second, I struggle to breathe.
He’s right. My chest tightens at the thought of my mom’s half-truths, the forgotten forms, the mess she leaves for me to clean up.
I’m upset that Jeremy gets to have a perfect family while I’m left here trying to piece together who I am.
It’s like trying to hold too many sharp things at once, I don’t dare loosen my grip, because if I do, I’m not sure what will happen when they all fall.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to know right now. You just have to get through today.”
His fingers are warm against mine.
When we pull up to my house, I don’t immediately get out of the car. Derek turns off the engine and we sit in comfortable silence for a moment.
“Thanks,” I say finally. “For picking me up this morning. For listening. For not making me feel crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” he says, turning to face me. “You’re dealing with something really hard, and you’re handling it better than most people would.”
“I don’t feel like I’m handling it well.”
“Trust me, you are.” He reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear again, and this time the gesture feels intentional.
I should go inside. Should face whatever’s waiting for me at home. But he’s looking at me like I’m something precious, and I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me that way.
“Derek?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do, though. Because nobody else…” I trail off, not sure how to explain that he’s the only person who’s made me feel less alone in all of this.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens with your family stuff, whatever you decide to do about your father, I’m here.”
The promise settles something in my chest that I didn’t realize was unsettled.
Inside, the house is quiet. Mom’s portfolio bag is gone; she must be working late at the studio again rather than come home to face more questions. Robert’s in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like tomato sauce and garlic.
“Hey kiddo,” he says without turning around. “How was school?”
“Fine. Mom working late?”
“She texted around lunchtime. Said she needed to finish up a project.” He glances over his shoulder. “Everything okay between you two? She seemed stressed this morning.”
“The usual family drama,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Nothing major.”
Robert nods, but I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me. He’s always been good at reading between the lines.
“Well, if you want to talk about whatever ‘usual family drama’ means, I’m here,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“I know.”
I head upstairs and sit at my desk and open up my email account. Emma’s smile flashes in my mind. She’s a daughter who’s never had to wonder where she came from or why her father wasn’t there. A daughter who’s never had to feel like half of her DNA is a mystery.
I pull out my laptop and open a new email draft.
Subject: Medical Information Needed
Dear Mr. Kline,
My name is Olivia, and you’re my father.
I delete it and start again.
Mr. Kline,
I’m writing because I need medical information for a heart condition I was recently diagnosed with. My mother is Alexis Kline, and according to my birth certificate, you’re listed as my father.
Delete again.
Hi Jeremy,
You don’t know me, but,
Delete. Delete. Delete.
How do you write an email to the father who’s never been a father? How do you explain eighteen years of absence in a few carefully crafted sentences?
My phone buzzes with a text from Derek.
DEREK
How’s the homework going? Need a study buddy?
Me
All good, thank you.
I lie, technically. I mean I am studying how to email my father. It’s not just school related.
This time, instead of trying to write the perfect email, I start typing.
Hi,
My name is Olivia Kline. I’m eighteen years old and I live in California.
I found your business website online, and you’re my father.
I know this is probably a shock. It’s been a shock for me too.
I only recently learned your name, and I’m not sure what my mom has or hasn’t told you about me over the years.
I’m writing because I was recently referred to a cardiologist for some heart issues, and they need a complete family medical history. My mom doesn’t have information about your side of the family, so I’m hoping you might be able to help.
If you’re not comfortable with that, I understand. But if you are willing to share any information about heart conditions, high blood pressure, or other medical issues that run in your family, it would really help.
You can reach me at this email address if you want to respond.
Olivia
I read it over three times, then send. My phone immediately buzzes with a text from Derek.
Derek
Changed your mind about that study buddy?
Instead of texting back, I call him.
“Hey,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “What’s up?”
“I did something either really brave or really stupid.”
“What did you do?”
“I emailed Jeremy.”
There’s a pause. “Wow. How do you feel?”
“Terrified. Relieved. Like I might throw up.”
“All normal responses to doing something brave.”
“You think it was brave?”
“I think you’re the bravest person I know.”
I curl up on my bed, phone pressed to my ear, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like maybe everything’s going to be okay.
“Derek?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for being here for all this.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
As I fall asleep that night, I think maybe that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.