The Half of It

Chapter Fourteen

Juniper

“I don’t see what the problem is, Juney.”

Obviously Ethan doesn’t see the problem—he’s not the one getting closer and closer to Cara and her family, and he’s not the one assigned to write an article about the experience.

And he’s definitely not the one cozying up to Aidan.

The thought brings warmth to my lower belly, so much that I chuck my jacket onto the bed. I’m glad Aidan drove to his parents’ place so I can have some space alone.

Introducing myself as his girlfriend came out of instinct. If it had been Lis floundering at a bar, I’d step in and boost her self-esteem no matter what. I’d be the wingwoman. But Aidan played along with the act in a way that turned my legs to goo. How he held me electrified me, body and soul. I’ve had my fair share of lust-filled, sloppy make-out sessions with guys who were fun for a night or two, but nothing could top just standing next to Aidan McCarthy.

And that little kiss—I shouldn’t have done it, but I couldn’t help pushing the flirtation to the brink.

The more people I become friends with here—Cara, her parents, and Aidan—the more I’ll inevitably have to sit down with later if this is all one big mistake. As I hang the maid of honor dress in the closet, I convince myself to consider the flipside. Perhaps that future scenario won’t transpire at all.

But no matter the outcome, my assignment is also at risk.

“Sometimes,” Ethan drones on through my phone, “stories go in a different direction than we plan. That’s okay.”

“But this isn’t a new direction. This would mean no story, and that I’m not her half sister at all. The end.” An uncertainty seizes me. Maybe we’re related, maybe not. Maybe I can write the original story I pitched for The Edge , maybe not.

And if not, is this catastrophe how I want to propel my journalism career forward?

“This encompasses more than a story,” I say. “It’s my life, and it involves real people—people I care about. I’ve gone hiking with them, gotten beers with them, gone on road trips with them.” I’ll treasure those moments, even if there’s a chance I didn’t belong in them in the first place.

“Juney.” My neck stiffens at his pet name for me, and the faint sounds of him tapping away at his keyboard hit me one by one, like a hammer to the head. “I’ve been looking through the notes you put in the folder. You have some workable stuff, and I really think this is salvageable. Plus, I want you to get this recurring column.”

A column. My own column. Of course Ethan would dangle that in front of me.

I sit cross-legged against the bedroom wall, rubbing one hand through the shag carpet while contemplating what that would mean for my career. I love the idea of finally getting to do some real journalism—no more articles with “You Won’t Believe What Happened Next” in the title and no more photo roundups of celebrities walking around SoHo.

Writing provided an escape for me as a kid—it was a place I found comfort when the rest of my life went to shit. When I got to New York, I didn’t care if The New York Times hired me or some underground website did—I enjoyed sharing stories.

But after years of working under Ethan, this assignment marks the closest I’ve come to genuine career advancement. I can’t let it vanish before my eyes.

“Aside from what you get out of this, Nancy doesn’t want to fill our editorial calendar with a different article. Not after the investment and hype of this one. What message would it send for one of my writers to abandon a high-profile story like this when the going gets tough, and not at least try to work out some other related angle? I’m over here figuring out how I can justify to upper management that we keep on a writer who turns around and kills a piece with no guidance from their editor.” Ethan releases a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “I really need to count on you for this, but—”

“You can count on me,” I shoot back, scrambling to salvage this situation and my own job, if I’m understanding him correctly. As one of the go-to sites for news, lifestyle, and New York culture, we receive hundreds of resumes every week. Ethan or anyone at The Edge could have me replaced by lunch break.

“Without me, you’ve got nothing,” I say, grasping for the confidence to stand up for myself as I play the one card I’ve got. “What other writer in the world has gone through what I’m going through right now? I’m the only person who can write this.”

“Yes, but it needs to be what we assigned to you.”

“Aren’t there ethics standards for sites like ours? Like, I should at least wait until I know more or—”

“What?” Ethan’s tone turns deadly serious. I knew throwing out the E-word—ethics—would catch his attention. The Edge doesn’t have the best reputation online. Every year or two a writer will depart for a better-paid, better-respected position elsewhere, and it’s only a matter of time before they post some scathing account of their time at The Edge . Readers either don’t care or can’t get enough of the drama, because we continue to dominate with shareable content on news and entertainment. And Ethan will stand by our publication until the bitter end.

“This is real-life investigative journalism,” he goes on, “and you can’t always guess where the work will take you. That’s all.”

“Please, Ethan. Don’t deny me an opportunity over something that might not be true. Could I move forward with an anonymous byline? There’s still a story, but all the names get changed and I’m not attached to it publicly.”

“Nance hates anonymous bylines and articles written by the generic ‘Staff.’”

In my years there, no one ever published anonymously on The Edge (“This isn’t Tumblr,” Nancy once announced at a staff meeting in her usual unenthusiastic delivery). The publication claims to hold writers accountable, a roundabout way of shirking responsibility for the site as a whole. They ensure every article has well-labeled bylines. With my situation, I can claim the desire to preserve some of my privacy, but I doubt anyone will care what my reasoning is—they’ll want my name at the top.

“I could turn it into a service piece on how genealogy works,” I suggest, “and how professionals do it.”

“That’s a yawn for me.”

“Then give me an extension. I’ll have an article for you and for Nancy, but not as soon as I intended.” Deadlines move around often, and if he’ll oblige, then I can figure something out. “This whole thing would actually make for some good storytelling, right? A road bump I can write in, or…well, if things turn out differently, I’ll still have a story to share. Just a different one, maybe on the efficacy of DNA tests. More research, less narrative, but with a slight personal element.”

That’s the last thing I’d want to write, considering how close I am to this—but I’m not asking Ethan to agree to anything. Just showing him that other options exist and encouraging him to push my deadline. He makes a familiar hm sound, and I can tell he’s open to a grace period.

“Let me finish up here,” I beg, “I’ll get back to New York, and then you and I will make an amazing piece out of this. One that Nancy will love.”

His exhale comes out long and irritated. “We’re launching a lot of narrative pieces that week. It would be real nice to have this one among them. But…” Ethan clicks his tongue a few times, considering my offer from afar. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do with the calendar.”

“Thank you. I promise—”

“I want to see your progress on this, though. Keep uploading your notes to the cloud so it doesn’t look like I signed off on you taking a two-week vacation.”

“Yes, of course.”

He’s giving me time. I would kiss the ground Ethan walks on if I could. With an extension, I’ll have to brainstorm an alternative yet equally eye-catching story to wow the pants off of Nancy. And although I’d rather not think about it, I need to sneak away for a new DNA test. But I’ve got this under control.

Right before I hang up, Ethan stops me. “Hey Juney—I need to trust you can do this.”

“I can. No matter what that DNA test says, I will have something for you.” I say this to reassure myself as much as my boss.

With that bullet dodged, I head into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. A woman with red hair peppered with silver sits with her hands clasped on the table, and I about jump out of my skin.

“Evelyn! Evvie, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

“Hi, love,” she says with a wan smile. “I was dropping off some wedding decorations that Aidan said he had room to store. Who were you on the phone with?”

My insides clench and my heart drops. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough to think we need to have a chat. Come on, grab your coat.”

“That’s Jamie,” Evvie says to me while we watch the ball dart around between players. “One of the sweet students I taught years back, that’s his lad. Tea?”

She’s acting chillingly normal. When I spat out the truth, Evvie hugged me and drove me straight to the DNA lab outside of Cork herself. Since that pit stop, she hasn’t spoken a word about it. This must be the calm before the hurricane. I keep waiting for her to yell at me, take me to the airport, or call up Cara, but she remains interested in the scrimmage.

We secure a spot on the side of the field at her godson’s Gaelic football practice, and we stand all bundled up in warm coats and scarves. Gangly kids who can’t be a day over fourteen race around the grass like commuters at rush hour, creating a chaotic jumble of young people. One of the boys spies Evvie in the crowd and instantly brightens when she waves at him.

Cara’s mom pulls out a thermos from the depths of her coat and gingerly pours me a cup, like this is what we do every afternoon. I burn my tongue and spend the next few minutes watching the kids follow a ball around and pretending my mouth isn’t numb. In between measured sips of her drink, Evvie cheers on her godson with sharp whistles that startle me back an inch or two.

“Okay, love. Tell me. What’re we to do?”

“No.” I cover my face with both hands. “Don’t do that. I don’t deserve that.”

“What?”

“ Love. Don’t be nice about this. I should have told Cara the second I found out. And I shouldn’t go to the wedding, and I shouldn’t be staying with Aidan who’s her best friend, and this is just…this is a disaster.”

“You’ve one thing right.” She chuckles, but her lighthearted response makes no sense because nothing about this seems funny. “This is a disaster. Maybe.”

If Evvie’s saying that, then I might have eked out a small slice of sympathy for my situation. I shouldn’t be surprised—the O’Sheas have only shown me generosity from the moment I arrived.

But the thinnest of threads connects me to them. It’s fragile and fresh. I could leave their lives as quickly as I entered, and they would hardly notice my absence. For me, things are different. I’ve just gotten a brief taste of what it’s like to be part of a family, and a tiny vial of my spit might take that all away.

“Life unfolds in ways we don’t always predict or plan for,” she goes on. “You did believe you and Cara were half sisters when you showed up here?”

“Yes. God, yes, 100 percent.”

“And you still might be?”

“Right. I can’t confirm until they call or email.” The gentleman at the lab said that they marked my test a priority, and they’ve expedited the results, cutting down the usual time to a week or less. The thought makes my stomach tense. “Telling Cara during all the wedding planning and work, and when I couldn’t give her a confident answer anyway…it felt premature, I guess. The not-knowing is killing me, but also…”

Evvie nods without a word, and I sense she understands what I mean. She offered me a ride to the lab, which relieves as much pressure as it creates for me.

“It’s harder to bring it up to her than before,” I continue. “Especially because, from the instant I got here, Cara has treated me like one of her favorite people.”

“Because you are. Would you guess, she begged me for a sister when she was younger? You’re a bit of a dream come true for her.” Evvie loops an arm through mine and pulls me closer. “Cara has a lot of energy, but her enthusiasm is genuine. It’s how she is. She doesn’t withhold her love. Never has.”

“Sounds like my best friend from back home.” Maybe that’s why, as much as I didn’t want to get close to Cara, I have. She reminds me of Lis. “Are you going to tell Cara what’s going on?” I hold my breath. If Evvie says yes, at least I won’t have to face my maybe-half sister’s disappointment myself.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think you’re right to wait.”

“Really?” I must not have heard her, but she gives a curt nod. “But you’re her mom.”

“And ’cause I’m her mam, and ’cause I love her, we shouldn’t bring this up yet. Cara thinks the world of you, so much that you’re her maid of honor. She’s had too many friends abandon her, and if she felt you might back out now, well, I’d hate to see her like that again.” Evvie reaches into her bag and pulls out a plastic-wrapped cinnamon bun that she probably grabbed at a gas station. After breaking the sugary delicacy in half, she offers one part to me. “By the way, if she caught me eating these, Cara’d let me have it. I adore her baking, but these buns are my guilty pleasure, and she can’t take that away from me.”

I don’t know what to say. Rather than giving me an ultimatum, Evvie wants me to carry on like normal.

“Cara’s ecstatic that you’re here and part of the family. She’s been consumed with the restaurant for a while, and I’m proud of her. But she’s been all work, work, work.” Evvie’s eyes shimmer as she pops the last bite of pastry into her mouth. “Since she found out about you, Cara’s making more of an effort to spend time with us. Inviting me and her granny along to the dress fitting? If you weren’t here, I doubt she’d have done that. She would’ve raced to the bridal store, tried on the dress, and left.”

Cara’s compassionate and thoughtful, but she’s also ambitious, and opening a restaurant is more than a full-time job. She has put in active effort over the last week to hang out with me, but what if I’d never shown up? It’s easy to picture her spending every waking minute at the cafe, and the rest planning her wedding in the most efficient manner possible.

“Oh, hey, fair play! Go on, Jamie!” Evvie claps along with a few other onlookers. As the scrimmage resumes, she turns to me with warmth. “You’re a shining influence in her life, whether or not you realize it. Roger and I adore you. Aidan adores you too.”

The mention of Aidan sets my ears aflame.

“Besides,” she goes on, “none of this is your fault, is it, dear?”

“But what if, when the results come back, they’re wrong and we’re not related?” Would they adore me still? “And how do I tell Cara?”

“As my granda would say, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” She nudges me, pulling me out of my stormy thoughts. “Even if you’re not her half sister, she’ll still like you, love.”

“I guess.” Since arriving, Cara’s only shown me kindness. I can’t discern how much of that is because of our shared DNA and how much is because she actually likes me . “She probably wouldn’t care to have me stand in her wedding if I went to her now with what’s going on.”

“Sometimes life isn’t as simple as what’s right and what’s wrong, love. You realize that too, otherwise you would’ve told her already. If you’re not up there, it’ll be a cruel reminder of all the friends who’ve walked out on her. My daughter has her heart dead set on sharing this day with you. She wants that, and we can give her that. She’ll be crushed by the news, and worried and sad, and I don’t want that for what’s supposed to be the most special day for her.”

“Cara’s going to be at least a little mad at me for lying to her, though. If, well…you know.” I consume my cinnamon bun support pastry. “And she’d be upset with you too. Oh god,” I say through a half-chewed baked good. “I’ve made you complicit.”

“We’re making the best decision we can right now, given what information we have. That’s all we can ever ask of ourselves.” Evvie massages one of her hands with the other in some form of self-comfort. “With all of this wedding planning, she’ll likely be grateful. If it comes to that in the end, which is a big if, you’ll find a time to say so. Sit her down and explain what happened. But no use fretting over what may not be.”

She has a point. I’m not purposefully hiding facts, but I’m sharing updates when I can be certain of them. This dilemma has caused me enough grief, so I can only guess how Cara would handle hearing about it, on top of all the things she has going on. By the time I get the results, Cara and I will know each other even better too. No matter what the outcome, the conversation will be easier.

And maybe, maybe by doing everything else right—being a stellar maid of honor slash half sister—Cara will understand. Just as Evvie said, Cara would still like me.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you? What about Aidan?” I don’t know why I care what he thinks, but I do.

“Our little secret.” Evvie gives me a peaceful smile. “Family’s not just blood. It’s who you choose. Cara knows that, what with Roger and all. They aren’t related, but he’s her da. You’ve got folks like that in your life, don’t you?”

“Mm. Yeah, I do.” Never in my life would I have guessed that the random Craigslist stranger I moved in with would become my best friend, but Lis is as close to family as I’ve ever had. She knows me better than anyone and has shown up for me in more ways than I can count. “You’re not upset that I’ve looped you into this craziness?” I ask, turning to her. “That I’m making you lie to your daughter?”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything. Sometimes you do things for the people you love that are for the best, even when they don’t have the entire story. It’s not cruel, though. You do it ’cause you care. Like this?” She gestures to the field of uncoordinated kids dashing to one side of the grass and leans into me, lowering her voice. “I come here to support someone I love and watch his son run around like a lost lamb. I clap whenever Jamie or anyone else scores a goal. And I don’t care to understand a thing about the bleedin’ game.”

My laugh makes some of the other people sitting on the bleachers shoot an annoyed look in our direction. “Have you told Jamie or his parents that?”

“’Course not! Taking that one to my grave, along with the cinnamon bun obsession.” She elbows me and giggles.

Someone knows my secret—what a relief. Evvie cares, not only about her daughter but me too. She has both of our best interests at heart.

“Thank you,” I say, my chest feeling lighter than an hour ago. She wraps an arm around me, and I smile to myself.

The test results will come eventually, but for now, all I have to do is be the best half sister Cara could ever imagine.