When Tomorrow Starts Without me

by Stacy Claflin

  "You sure you don't want to go to sleep?"

  She shakes her head. "I won't be able to sleep, trust me."

  "Whatever you want."

  We make our way to the family room and I tuck blankets around her. I can't guarantee I'll stay awake, and I don't want to risk upsetting her again.

  She tugs at the blankets and chuckles. "I feel like a human burrito."

  "Is that a problem?"

  "I guess not."

  Once I gather all the remotes, I sit next to her and pull a different blanket over my lap. The air feels especially chilly. Someone must've cranked the AC earlier.

  "You want popcorn?"

  She leans her head against me. "No, this is nice just like this."

  I can't disagree. "Anything you feel like watching?"

  "I'm not really sure. Just something to get my mind off everything. Nothing violent, though."

  "Sounds good." I flip on the TV and a commercial plays. "How about a romantic comedy? Those are pretty light and fun—just don't tell the guys I said that."

  Kenna doesn't laugh like I'd hoped. In fact, she's staring at the screen, her eyes wide and her face pale.

  "Are you okay?"

  She doesn't respond.

  On the screen, a dark-haired lady about my mom's age is talking about the purse she's holding. Nothing seems unusual about the ad. The commercial ends and one comes on selling high-end dog food.

  Kenna turns to me, looking dazed still.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I've seen that lady before."

  "She's on a lot of ads for designer clothes. I think she represents one of the companies or something. I've never really paid much attention."

  Kenna shakes her head slowly. "No. When I was home—I mean at my dad's house—that lady came on the screen, and he freaked out."

  "Freaked out?"

  She took a deep breath. "He turned off the TV and got mad at me for asking questions. He never turns it off unless he's going to bed."

  "Maybe he wanted you to leave?"

  "No. I think it has something to do with that lady."

  "What would she have to do with him? They're worlds apart."

  "I know. It's just weird."

  I pulled her close as best I could with all the blankets wrapped around her. "I wouldn't worry about it. I'm sure it had more to do with him than the commercial. Maybe his wife has been bugging him to buy that brand, and the ad just irritated him."

  "Maybe."

  "If it'll help you feel better, I'll go over there with you and you can demand answers."

  She shakes her head. "I don't ever want to see them again. You're right, it's probably nothing. Just the ramblings of a drunk. I'll see what I can find out about my parents online, or maybe the courthouse. Let's watch a romantic comedy."

  I find one, and she's asleep before the opening scene ends.

  Kenna

  I wake in my bed—well, the guest room bed. My bed? My bedroom? Rogan keeps telling me it's my room, but I just can't seem to think that way.

  At any rate, I can't remember falling asleep in here. The last thing I remember was watching the movie with Rogan. Actually, I can't recall a single detail about it.

  Then I remember something else. That woman from the commercial. I know that logically, it's probably nothing, but I can't ignore the feeling that there's something more.

  I wanted to find out what after Dad turned off the television, but then Theo happened and I forgot about everything else.

  There had to be a reason my dad didn't want me seeing that woman. If Rogan's theory was right—that Liz had been bugging him to buy designer clothes—then Dad wouldn't have bothered turning it off when she wasn't even home.

  He could've easily have just changed the station, but he went as far as turning off his beloved machine.

  But why?

  I have to find out answers. It has something to do with me. It just has to. Nothing else makes sense.

  Hands shaking, I grab my cell phone and find the online browser app. There's plenty of information on the clothing line, but for some reason, I can't find anything on the face of the company.

  If there is anything on the model, I'm not putting in the right search terms.

  Or maybe Rogan's right. It's nothing, and I'm focused on the wrong thing. The woman probably just reminds Dad of someone else, or more likely, her success rubs him the wrong way since he's just an unemployed alcoholic.

  What I need to focus on is finding out who my parents are. If I want answers about my life, that's where I need to look. I don't know a thing about them.

  It's hard to know where to start looking, so I begin with my own name. It brings up information on other people, but nothing on me. I give up after the fiftieth page on the search engine.

  Wait. What if Dad changed my last name after he adopted me? He's a distant relative, so Mitchell probably isn't even my real last name.

  I want to march over there and throw Dad's remote through the TV. Maybe burn the whole house down.

  Why didn't he tell me any of this while I was still living there? I could've asked all my questions over the years!

  How on earth could he have thought that I'd remember him telling me about the adoption when I was just three years old? There's only one answer I can think of—he's crazy. But I already knew that much.

  Now I'm left with two options. I can either go to the courthouse or try and reason with my dad. Okay, realistically I have one option. I need to go to the courthouse.

  I should be able to find out what I need easily enough. My parents died, so it isn't like the adoption would have been closed. Actually, all I might need is a birth certificate. I might be able to get that without knowing my real last name since there would be records of Dad changing my last name. There will be records of Merle and Caroline Mitchell adopting a daughter.

  Relief washes through me. This won't be nearly as hard as I'm making it out to be. I'm an adult, so there's no reason for them to keep all that information from me.

  I close my eyes and relax. I'll have my answers soon enough. Maybe I'll even be able to visit my parents' graves if they're buried locally. Sure, they died overseas, but they lived here. Hadn't they?

  My mind wanders back to the only memory I have from when they were still alive—the pageant. My beautiful dress. Knowing that someone who loved me was just offstage. The sea of people watching me.

  I try to take in other details, but everything else is fuzzy. I can't see anything backstage, and I can't pull the memories from before or after being there.

  Something catches my attention. A camera. Not a hand-held one, but a large camera. It's black. A bunch of people are behind it. One man is waving, and saying something I can't hear.

  A hand touches my shoulder. I spin around. Three people are on stage with me. A woman and two kids older than me. The stage is set up like a living room.

  One of the kids says something about school. The audience behind me laughs.

  My eyes fly open, pulling me from the memory. I wasn't at a pageant. Had I been in a play?

  It's so hard to tell, pulling memories from the perspective of a three-year-old. If that's even an actual memory. What if it's just something from my imagination? Maybe I made it all up to convince myself I was actually loved once.

  I close my eyes again.

  Nothing.

  I picture the stage and bright lights. It's nothing more than a portrait. I need to go back there.

  Answers are there. I only have to find them.

  I know more about my life before being adopted than Dad does. All I have to do is unlock the memories. At three, I knew my name. I had to have known my parents' names. I might've known where I lived. Normal parents make their kids memorize a home address and phone number, don't they?

  It's all in my mind. I just have to find it.

  Come on.

  I close my eyes as tightly as I can, and when that doesn't work, I pull the blankets over my head. If I can just get through th
at memory, my buried memories will take me to see my parents. They'll give me more information.

  But nothing happens. Have I reached my daily capacity for drawing out my past?

  My phone buzzes. I have some notifications on the social media apps.

  Maybe it's time to focus on my new life rather than my old one. It isn't like I can change anything. My parents are dead. They can't answer my questions. They can't do anything for me.

  I have friends now. A chance for happiness.

  Kenna

  I lean back and close my eyes, taking in Rogan's newest song. The tune reverberates all around me, and his voice… those words. It's like he's not only singing it to me, but for me. About me.

  It's hard to let myself believe it, but I can't deny the way he looks at me. The feel of his protective arms around me when I'm upset—loving, caring arms. Not that arms can have emotions, but he sure does. And the one thing that doesn't make sense is why he would care about me.

  If any of his friends found out where I came from…

  The music stops, and I open my eyes. Rogan's watching me.

  My heart skips a beat. His expression is intense and renders me speechless.

  "What do you think? Is the song any good?"

  I manage to find my voice. "It's perfect."

  He sets his guitar down and scoots closer. "What about the lyrics?"

  I want to ask if they're about me, but I can't. If they're not, I'd be mortified. "Beautiful. I could feel them."

  Rogan smiles and scoots closer. "Good. I wrote it for you."

  My breath hitches.

  He holds my gaze. "It's true. You captivate me, Kenna Mitchell. Just being near you makes me feel more alive than I ever felt before. You aren't just beautiful and smart, you're also fun and sweet, not to mention a deep well of mysteries."

  I open my mouth to say something. Anything. But nothing comes. As much as I want to tell him how much I adore him, my voice refuses to cooperate. His words engulf me, taking the air from my body.

  He scoots even closer and holds my gaze.

  My heart threatens to explode out of my chest. I try to catch my breath. Words continue to escape me.

  Rogan reaches for me and grazes my cheek with his fingertips. "I know you have wounds that need healing, and I don't want to push you away with all these songs about you, but at the same time, I can't keep these feelings to myself. I want to shout from the rooftops how amazing you are."

  I have to say something. He needs me to. I need me to. He's already taken my breath away, and the intensity in his eyes isn't helping. I move my gaze from his eyes to his mouth.

  Big mistake. His lips are practically begging me to kiss them. I want to. No, I don't. Yes, I do.

  I'm hopeless. A mess. One massive shipwreck.

  He moves his fingers to just beneath my chin and guides me to looking back into his eyes.

  I swallow. My throat is a parched desert.

  Rogan takes my hand and traces his fingertip along my palm, sending a shiver down my spine. He scoots even closer. "You don't have to say anything—I completely understand that you need space and time. I just want to make sure there isn't any room for doubt. The songs are for you, and I'm willing to wait as long as it takes. You don't need pressuring, and people always say the best relationships come from friendship. I'm here to be whatever you need. If you need a friend, a listening ear, or whatever, I'm here. I want to be."

  If I'm a shipwreck, then Rogan's words are like waves crashing over me.

  I'm a mess, and he's okay with that. I need to say something, but I don't have a way with words like he does.

  My heart beats against my chest. My hands are cold. I'm losing myself in his eyes.

  Since my mouth won't cooperate with words, I do the unthinkable. I lean closer and press my lips on his. As scared as I am—tears are actually threatening—I want this. He's safe. I can trust him. He's unlike anyone else I've ever met. I don't know why he cares, but he does.

  Rogan kisses me back. He's gentle and sweet, not pressing hard or forcing my mouth open.

  He pulls back after a few beats. "Are you sure this is okay?"

  "I kissed you, didn't I?"

  "Yes, but—"

  I press my mouth on his. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer and again kissing gently and without opening his mouth. He's either waiting for me to take it further or he's the most patient guy I've ever met.

  Part of me wants to take charge and move forward, but I can't. What if he takes that as giving him permission to let loose?

  My pulse races through me. I can't. I just can't risk it. This—being in his arms with his closed mouth on mine—is perfect. He isn't asking, or pushing, for more.

  He pulls away. "Kenna? Are you okay?"

  "Yeah. Why?"

  "You're crying."

  I reach for my face. It's wet from tears.

  The corners of his mouth curve down. "I didn't mean to upset you."

  I shake my head. "You didn't."

  Rogan sits taller. "I don't want to make you cry. Ever."

  "These are happy tears." I wipe them away. "I swear."

  His expression darkens. "I'm pressuring you."

  "No!" More tears threaten. I ignore them. "You're not. I want to kiss you."

  He pulls some hair behind my ear. "But you're not ready."

  I rest my head against his chest and let the tears fall unseen. I hate this side of myself. No, I hate Theo.

  Rogan rubs my back, and we just sit here in silence. He must think I'm such a freak. I cry all the time over nothing. A movie. A simple kiss.

  I'm not just a mess. I'm broken beyond repair. A lost cause.

  But being in his arms makes me feel stronger. Like I could do anything. Accomplish whatever I want.

  As long as it's anything other than kissing his perfect lips.

  I sigh.

  "Kenna?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Are you really?"

  I sit up tall and meet his gaze. "I am. I want this more than you know, but I think I have to face some demons first."

  He gives a quick nod. "Totally understandable. I'm here if you want help."

  I swallow. "I do."

  "What do you want to do? Find your birth parents?"

  "Yeah, but I don't think it's going to be that simple. I've done some searching online, and they're not going to hand over adoption information to just anyone. I have to prove that I'm the adopted child."

  "That should be easy enough. Show them your ID."

  "I don't know my real last name, Rogan. I only have his."

  "I'll go over there and demand answers."

  "No. I don't want to go back there."

  He kisses my palm. "I know. That's why I said I'll do it."

  I shake my head. "Please don't. You don't know what he's like."

  Rogan snorts. "I have a pretty good idea."

  "No, I mean now he's going to be more pissed than ever. Theo's in jail." I take a deep breath. "Because of me. He hid the adoption from me all these years, you think he's going to open up now? I'm on my own."

  "You don't have any other options?"

  "There is one, but I doubt it's any better than trying to pry anything out of him."

  Rogan tilts his head. "What?"

  "My mom."

  "She's dead."

  "No, I mean my adoptive mom. Caroline left when I was about five. Just drove away without looking back." I close my eyes and fight the tears. "At least now I know why. She isn't really my mom."

  Rogan takes my hand and squeezes. "She's as stupid as the rest of them."

  I shrug. "I can't blame her for wanting to get away from my dad."

  "You can blame her for leaving you with him. She can't be worse than him, can she?"

  I shake my head. "She was nice to me, but not maternal. It's hard to explain, and I don't have a lot of memories of her."

  "Don't worry about it. Do you want to look for her?"

  "I don't know. What if it
takes a long time to find her, and then I end up with just another dead end?"

  "It's definitely a risk. Are you willing to take it? Is there even a tiny chance she'll tell you something that your dad won't?"

  "I don't know. She might just be angry at me for disrupting her life. She probably has a new family, and doesn't want me showing up and messing it up."

  Rogan squeezes my hand again. "But what about what you want? She has the answers you need."

  I bite my lower lip and try to imagine seeing her again. Despite her not being my real mom, I do want answers. I need to know why she was able to walk away so easily. Adoption is supposed to be forever. It's supposed to be as real as blood relations.

  Was I really so awful that she didn't want to take me with her away from my dad?

  What is it about me that nobody really wants me? Well, except for Rogan.

  And how long until he changes his mind?

  Rogan

  I want to punch a hole in the wall behind Kenna. No, I want to put a hole in the face of every single person who has ever hurt her.

  How could so many people be so cruel to her? Anyone would be destroyed after putting up with so much abuse and betrayal. Yet here she is, inches from me with a staunch determination in her eyes.

  Kenna wants to move on from her past. She's resolved to get the answers she needs.

  Pride swells up in my chest. Not that I'm delusional enough to think I have anything to do with her strength. That's all her. I'm just so proud of her for her will to keep on fighting. To be honest, I'm not sure I would want to keep facing my past.

  I'd probably just want to look the other way and never turn back. Yet she wants answers, and she'll face anything to get them.

  This girl—young woman—just inches from me is the strongest person I know. She's fierce. If anyone can get the answers she needs, it's her.

  My heart races. I'm not only proud of her, but I find I'm tapping into a storehouse of strength deep within me that I never knew I had. The strength to hold back my own desires and wishes to do what's best for her.

  Kenna makes me want to be a better person. I'm honored that of all the people in the world, she trusts me. Sure, she has the demons of her past to fight, but despite them, she trusts me as best as she can trust anyone.