Leah nods. “Something about Pandora’s box? She thinks you should skip the reunion and go down a beauty vlog rabbit hole—improve your mermaid eyes. Or take up Roller Derby.”
I force a smile. Half disappointed, but also relieved. I mean, if mermaid eyes were going to be her contribution, I’ll pass. Leah skitters to the front of Bluebell, this rainbow-toned and relatively new café in town with a fun, pride vibe and about a thousand varieties of tea—hence my new chai obsession—and plops back down at our corner table with a mocha and an almond croissant.
“So.” She leans forward on her elbows. “What’s the plan?”
I rub my eyes, exhaling till my chest caves in, wondering if insomnia is my new thing, or if last night was a one-off. From midnight to five a.m., all I could do was read and reread and re-reread Robert’s letter. I memorized the entire thing. Paragraph two, line three: It’s a lot to take in, I know. But I miss you.
“Oh, sweetie.” Leah’s whole face twists into a frown. “I can feel the confusion, like, pulsing off you.”
“It’s just—I’ve always been curious about him, but am I supposed to come a-runnin’ because it’s suddenly convenient for him? Know what I mean?”
“Totally.”
“But I don’t want to ignore it either. This could be my only chance.”
“What about your grandparents?” Leah asks tentatively. “Do they have an opinion?”
“Are you kidding?” I scoff. “They hate him.”
“They said that?”
“No, but I know they do. I’m not telling them.”
Leah sighs, chewing her lip. “Try not to let their drama become your drama. He wants to visit you, right?”
“I mean, that’s what he said.”
We sit quietly for a minute, sipping our drinks, listening to Lana Del Rey on the stereo system. Leah won’t take her eyes off me, like I’m going to morph into a cell phone and start dialing the guy’s number. She lives for this crap—destiny and happy endings. A father-daughter reunion would be better than a double rainbow for her. Maybe make her pity me a little less for being this abandoned sad sack while her life is basically perfect.
She taps my foot under the table. “Think you’re gonna call him?”
“I want to,” I say, and the lack of hesitation in my voice feels good. “I mean, I really want to. But I don’t know.”
What-ifs curl my toes tight inside my boots. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he sees me and remembers why he bailed in the first place? What if I don’t like him?
Leah offers a sympathetic sigh. “I get that you have doubts—your grandparents and everything to consider—but be true to yourself. Don’t let them call the shots.”
Even if she’s right, I can’t help musing. In my mind, there’s Gabby, flanked by her cosmopolitan, West Indian parents, visiting MoMA or strolling along the Seine; Leah on these epic hikes, actually enjoying family meditation hour. Their parents give them the moon. And then there’s me. My “moon” consists of dipping into my grandparents’ retirement fund in order to pay for private school. Which almost feels bigger than the moon. Would it crush them if I went through with this?
Shame rattles inside me. “My brain hurts.”
“Try focusing on the positives,” Leah says. “As my psychic, Dharma, would say—”
“Your psychic?” I groan. “Again?”
“As my psychic, Dharma, would say, everything happens for a reason. So it’s been a long time—so what? And despite what Gran may or may not think, the guy is making an effort. He must have his reasons for staying away. Besides, we all know that if he tries to dick you over, Gabby will hide under his bed with a Freddy Krueger mask and switchblade fingers.”
A warm laugh tickles my throat. “I’d pay huge amounts of money to see that.”
It feels good to laugh. Hydrating, almost. A reminder that this is not the end of the world. Maybe it’s even the beginning. Not of the world, but of something. Our giggles fade away, and I’m left sipping lukewarm chai, twisting rings around my fingers. Thinking about DNA and the two strangers that made me. Wondering if I got my love of spicy food from my father, if he could carry a tune better than me, do math better than me. I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t even know if my parents were married—was I a Newton before the adoption made me a Carlson?
And if I met him, would Robert tell me about my mother? Would I learn that she was wise, brave, daring? Did she love sewing? Despise sports? Could she make a cloverleaf tongue as good as mine? I’m ignorant, but not by choice. My grandparents buried her stories along with her body.
An imaginary balance scale teeters within me, weighing down toward my father—or at least the idea of him. Of what he might be able to give me.
With a muddy kind of sigh, I take my chemistry textbook out of my bag and drop it on the table. That’s half why we’re here—homework waits for no man. Not even Robert Newton.
Robert
Newton
His name bubbles up inside me, a kettle ready to whistle from steam. It hums in time with the coffee grinder, writes itself in cursive along the knotted throw rug beneath our feet.
Too much time has gone by. I’m sorry for that.
It has to count for something.
“Oh my God,” Leah whispers. “Don’t. Look.”
I look. Obviously. Bluebell is empty enough that my eyes go straight to him—Milo Schmidt, standing in the doorway. Gorgeous and freezing and blowing warm air into cupped palms.
Leah and I glue our foreheads together over the center of the table and become telepathic. Is he here with someone else? my eyes ask. Leah scopes the room and shakes her head. Do you think he has a girlfriend? She shakes her head more emphatically, despite having no actual clue. By the door, Milo pulls a gray cap off his head. Some of his brown hair shoots up, zapped with static electricity. My stomach flips.
“Go talk to him,” Leah whispers.
“You go talk to him!” I whisper back.
She gives him a fleeting glance. “His boobs aren’t big enough.”
“So vulgar,” I scold. “And I thought you were bi.”
“Do you want me to charm the pants off him? Because I will.”
I giggle and shake my head.
“Then go, already! He’s brand-new and doesn’t know anybody. Look at him, standing in line looking all lonely. Go ask him if he’s as cold as he looks. Because dude looks like an ice pop.”
He does look freezing. Adorably glacial. Not that I’m agreeing to anything, but I reapply my burgundy lipstick, the one that makes my skin look angelically fair and brings out the sea green in my eyes. Because, I mean, maybe I’m here on a Serious Introspective Quest, but Milo is barely ten feet away, shivering as he reads the café menu. It’s fairly impossible to avoid.
“Casually walk up and get another latte,” Leah says. “Yours has food in it.”
“No, it—”
But I stop short when she dumps buttery crumbs into my mug. Apparently, yes, my chai has been tainted. I flip her off, feeling my stomach clench as I rise from the table, wishing I’d worn something cuter than a boxy black sweater. It hardly seems to matter, though. Even when I walk right up next to him, Milo’s too entranced by the chalkboard menu to notice me.