Chapter 3
My stomach lurches violently as the bus pulls off the highway, which is either from a) the three-hour-long charter bus ride, b) the body odor coming off the man in front of me, or c) dread over having to look my aunt in the face in about five minutes for the first time, knowing she isn’t the person I thought she was.
Or rather … that I’m not who she thinks I am.
That, and I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to break the news.
I almost wish the smelliest bus ride of my life was an hour longer so I could have more time to figure it out.
Maybe I should have planned this out more before leaving home, but after that sit-down with my parents yesterday, I need some space and time to figure out …
everything. I don’t even know how to feel about this.
My dad is not my real father. That in itself was enough for me to try and wrap my spinning mind around, all while my parents kept insisting: This doesn’t change anything.
Maybe it doesn’t. It’s not like there’s any big scandal behind it. They used a sperm donor when they couldn’t get pregnant and decided not to tell anyone to keep things simple. I might not know who my biological father is, but I’ve always had a dad in my life who loves me and who I love.
It does, however, mean that I’m not biologically related to Tabitha, my favorite person on this planet.
All the traits I’ve always thought we shared—our green eyes, sense of humor, creativity, love of snack foods, and less-than-critically-acclaimed movies—have been nothing more than my imagination playing tricks on me.
Which only makes me wonder … what else about our relationship have I deluded myself into believing?
Are we really as close as I think? And if we are, what if that changes once I tell her the truth?
As it turns out, I’m not the only one my parents kept in the dark.
They didn’t tell anyone. I have to give them credit because once Mom and Dad knew the secret was out, they answered all my questions and offered even more details, not holding anything back.
They told me all about how difficult it was for them both, dealing with the infertility.
It was easier to keep what was really happening to themselves.
By the time they finally managed to get pregnant with a donor, they decided to keep it that way.
Dad was there for me growing up in every way a father should be.
They didn’t want to give anyone a reason to doubt his love for his child—least of all me.
I’m not angry. Being angry with them doesn’t feel fair.
In fact, I can’t help thinking how lonely it must have been for them to go through all that without any support from their family and friends.
But I am confused. It feels like I’ve been lied to, but the betrayal that’s settling in my chest only spawns guilt for holding any resentment towards the two people who brought me into the world at all, the ones who have given me everything I’ve ever needed, including a loving and supportive environment.
Honestly, I don’t have a clue what to feel.
I haven’t lost anyone, exactly, but I can’t help feeling like I have lost a kind of connection with the most important people in my life.
I’m shaken and nervous about seeing Tabitha for the first time.
Will she look at me differently? Will things change between us?
I hope not, but the doubt sits heavy in my chest. The closer I get, the bus grows more confined with every mile.
My parents agreed to let me tell her. It’s not that I want to be the one to share the news with her.
What I really want is to see her again before she finds out … just in case.
If I hadn’t done the stupid DNA test, I would have remained blissfully ignorant for the rest of my life.
Why had I cared so much about finding out if I was related to some stupid serial killer?
Of course, it would be just my luck to do something like that on a whim for a laugh and end up rocking the foundation of my family and my sense of identity.
I wish I could go back in time and undo the whole thing because learning this was like pulling the first thread that unravels the sweater.
Except instead of a sweater, it’s my life.
Before I know it, the bus pulls to a stop in a small plaza on the outskirts of the tiny town nearest Tabitha’s farm.
The uneven, cracked parking lot is home to a four-pump gas station, a general store, and an empty, boarded-up storefront.
My heart leaps into my throat as restless passengers clamber to their feet to use a restroom that isn’t on wheels, with only a few others getting off at their destination.
I shove my phone into my bag, ignoring the ridiculous number of notifications from Lyla checking in yet again.
I’d answer, but what is there to say? This information changes nothing about my life except how I feel.
Meanwhile, she’s wondering how she will make her mortgage payments in a few months.
How can I complain about this to her, or anyone?
Despite my nerves, the telltale excitement I always get when I’m about to see my favorite person bubbles in my chest like champagne.
It’s the September long weekend, and I haven’t seen her since Christmas—eight, almost nine months ago.
I’ve had an entire relationship start, crash and burn since then.
Squinting, I step out from behind the tinted windows into the sunlit parking lot, craning my neck to scan for Tabitha, willing myself not to burst into tears at the sight of her.
I’ve been holding it—mostly—together until now, but the minute she wraps her arms around me in one of her classic bear hugs, I’d bet money that’s the key that will unlock the floodgates.
I don’t see her, though. There’s nothing but the quaint downtown strip of shops we’re at the edge of and grassy fields in every other direction.
The autumn air is crisp, so I pull the zipper up on the ugly-as-sin Juicy Couture tracksuit I’m wearing, imagining it’s a reassuring hug from Lyla, who gave it to me as a practical joke in college.
The pink velour material is not my style at all.
I’ll be damned if it’s not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever worn—perfect for hangover days and traveling, and comfy enough that I can almost forgive the word juicy being stamped across my rear-end in public.
I crane my neck, peering around the parking lot for Tabitha. A few people are waiting to pick up other passengers: a middle-aged couple waiting with hands clasped, an older woman waving excitedly as she bounces on her toes, and—
My eyes snag on a guy leaning against a beat-up green Jeep slightly farther back.
It must be a popular choice of vehicle around here, since Tabitha has one that looks just like it.
But I’m more focused on him than the car.
The entire man is in shadows. Dark eyes stare straight ahead, buried beneath rigid eyebrows and a dark head of short, slightly messy hair.
His jaw is lined in dark scruff, and I can’t deny he’s cute in that rough-around-the-edges way, but I’d hate to be the one he’s picking up.
Whoever they are, he does not look happy about it.
Since Tabitha must be running late, I can focus on collecting my luggage.
The driver, a woman with short, graying hair, lifts the bus's hatch for undercarriage storage.
I point, and she hauls out the first of my rolling suitcases.
A few other passengers cue up behind me, chatting happily with their greeters.
The only one still there is the broody-messy-hair-green-Jeep guy, who is now watching me, staring at me, somewhat expectantly.
His arms are crossed, his knee bent with a muddy work boot resting against the door.
“Are you finished?” someone asks behind me.
“Sorry!” I say, jumping back even though I’ve only collected one of my three bags. I’ll grab the rest when they’re finished.
While I wait, I feel a weight on my neck and turn around to check. Yup. He’s still watching me, now with an impatient frown etching his scruffy face. I turn away, scanning the parking lot again for Tabitha.
“I think I’m your ride.”
My head jerks up at the deep voice calling from across the parking lot, the guy who was watching me before, though he still hasn’t moved. Like he can’t be bothered. His dark eyes, however, are zeroed in on me. I check behind me before I answer, sure he must be talking to someone else.
“Uh … thanks, but I’m good.” I turn back to the bus, intent on ignoring Mr. Wannabe Uber.
“Are you Sloan?”
Slowly, I lift my face again, trying not to be too concerned that this perfect stranger somehow knows my name. This is a small town, not the city I’m used to. Who knows, Tabitha probably told one person and word spread like wildfire from there. “Yes …”
“Then I’m your ride.”
I frown. “I already have a ride.”
His eyes drag up to the clear blue sky above. “I know, I’m your ride. Tibby sent me.”
For the first time, I realize the green Jeep looks like Tabitha’s because it is Tabitha’s.
Oh my god. This must be the Parker she’s been texting me about.
Her newest stable hand isn’t quite so rough around the edges as the usual deadbeats she hires, and he’s younger.
Much younger; I’m guessing early thirties.
Whatever interest had sparked during my earlier appreciation for his appearance is doused by a bucket of freezing cold water.
“She sent you?”