by C. C. Hunter
“How?” I ask him, my voice too loud. “What do you want me to do? Go to my mom and ask, ‘Hey, did you kidnap me?’” I grip my hands into tight fists. “Haven’t you seen my mom? She doesn’t freaking eat, because she’s so damn depressed. It’d kill her!”
I go back to digging in my purse. “Where are my damn keys!” My heart’s racing so fast, it’s vibrating in my chest.
I move to the hood of my car and dump my purse contents on top. My wallet, my phone, a compact, a tampon, and some loose change all fall out, and half of it rolls off the hood. I stare at my things, here, there. I don’t see my keys. I must have left them in the library.
I grab my wallet, the only thing I can’t live without, and start back into the library.
He walks beside me. “Chloe, please. Come sit in my Jeep, and let’s just talk. We can figure this out.”
I face him. “Maybe I don’t want to figure it out.”
His green eyes stare at me. “You’re upset. You’re crying, and if you go in there, they’ll think something is wrong. Go sit in my Jeep. I’ll find your keys.”
The calm in his voice gets through. I brush my hand across my face.
“It’s right behind you.” He reaches in his pocket, and I hear a beep as the Jeep unlocks. “Go. I’ll find your keys. Okay?”
I do it. I don’t know why, but I turn around and crawl inside his Jeep. I lean my head back and close my eyes. But then I open my eyes thinking someone is standing outside my window. There’s isn’t anyone there.
I sit there and breathe. Just breathe. In a few minutes, I hear him getting back in the car.
I lift my head up. “Did you find them?”
“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t have them in his hand. “Can we talk? Please.”
I want to insist he hand over my keys, but logic intervenes. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then let me say I’m sorry again.” He sounds so sincere. “I don’t know how I could have handled it differently, but obviously I screwed up big-time.”
“No shit, Sherlock!”
He grins, then wipes it away and looks guilty.
The sound of cars passing and life happening echoes outside his Jeep, but inside, it’s silent. I take another breath and try to chase away the wad of panic growing inside me. “Seriously, how did you find me here?”
“When you weren’t at school, I asked Lindsey. She said you wanted to read about the kidnapping. I figured with your mom home, the only place to do that was in the library.”
I nod, then pull the visor down and look at myself in the mirror. He’s right. I look upset. I rub my fingers across my face and wipe at least some of the smeared makeup away. Then I stare at my features and remember the face on the video. Her face. My mind goes back to everything I just read. Tears fill my eyes.
I fall back against the seat. “My parents wouldn’t have kidnapped me.” I look at him.
I can see he has doubts. But how can I be upset with him when there’s this tiny part of me that …
“Then let’s look into the adoption. Do you know the name of the agency?”
“No,” I say.
“Do you know if they were local, from around here?”
“I think so.”
“Is there any way you could find the name of it? Does your mom have papers or anything?”
I vaguely recall Mom coming across them once when she was looking for some paperwork involving my grandmother’s insurance policy. But it was a long time ago.
“Yes, but I don’t know if she left them at my dad’s.”
He nods. More doubt. “Maybe you can look around the house?”
“Yeah.”
“What about your birth certificate?”
“She has that. She used it to get me registered for school. But I’ve seen it. It lists me as Chloe Holden and my adoptive parents as my parents. And I’m born on November eighteenth.”
“What county were you born in?”
“I don’t know.” Something occurs to me. “You haven’t told … them, the Fullers, have you?”
“No. I think we should know for sure before we tell anyone. If they thought you were Emily and then … you weren’t, that’d hurt them.”
I close my eyes a second. Curiosity bites. “What are they like?”
He looks at me, and I see pity in his eyes. “They’re … nice. Too nice. Strict. Too strict.” He exhales. “They’re better than most people. A lot better.”
I hear so much in his answer. Love, respect, and something else I can’t put my finger on, but I’m dealing with too much to ask. Truth is I have so many other questions of my own. One of the articles said they were both going through medical school when their kid was taken. I want to know what kind of doctors they are. If they’ve ever said anything to Cash about Emily. Do they still miss her? Do I have any of their mannerisms? But I’m afraid I’ll fall apart if I ask. So I don’t.
“Do you not remember anything before you were adopted?” he asks.
I almost tell him about the snapshot memory I have, but I’m too raw to talk about it. “Barely.”
“You were watching the video. Did Mrs. Fuller look familiar?”
“The voice…” A lump of emotion forms in my throat. “I can’t believe it. It has to be wrong.”
“Then let’s prove it’s wrong.”
“How?” I close my hand into a tight fist.
“There’s a file in Mr. Fuller’s desk where they keep copies of all the articles. I’ll try to get to it and take pictures so we can have copies of everything. It might help. You try to find the adoption papers.”
“And what if I can’t find them? I’m not going to ask—”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“You believe they kidnapped me, don’t you?” The pain inside me swells.
“I don’t know what I believe,” he says. “But together, we can find the truth.”
My fist clenches tighter. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a good idea.”
“Chloe, if you’re Emily and your parents kidnapped you, they deserve—”
“They did not kidnap me!”
“Then why is this not a good idea? You want answers, don’t you?”
I do. I think. “Maybe I don’t.”
“How could you not want to know the truth?”
“My life’s so freaking messed up already.” More tears form. “I have to go.” I get out of his Jeep, stare at my car parked next to him, then remember he has my keys. I just stand there.
I hear him as he gets out of the car. He walks in front of me. “When you want to talk, call me, okay?” He looks concerned, and part of me wants to fall against him and cry on his shoulder.
Instead, I nod.
“I work tonight at the garage, but I get off around eight. We could go grab a pizza.”
“No,” I say.
He hands me my keys.
They’re heavy. My heart feels heavy with the possibility that I’m Emily Fuller. That they never gave me away. That some monster, the monster under the bed, took me from them.
I get in my car and pull out of the parking lot. I don’t have a clue where I’m going, but I drive anyway.
14
Cash watched Chloe drive off. That went like shit. What was he doing wrong? How could she not want answers?
Then he remembered the DNA test at home that he’d never taken. The Fullers had gotten it for him last year, in case he wanted to look for his mother. His father had always told him his mother just up and left—abandoned him. Mrs. Fuller questioned that story: “You don’t know, your father could have taken you from her, like someone took Emily.”
Sure, Mrs. Fuller had a point, but Cash still didn’t send it in. He’d been afraid of the truth. Afraid how he’d feel about the truth. Was that what Chloe felt? Sometimes what you didn’t know was scarier than what you knew. Even if what you knew was already pretty damn scary.
He stayed in the parking lot a good thirty minutes, just stewing. Not knowing if
he should head back to school or just go home.
Driving home, he felt the hollow pit in his stomach that food normally filled. He’d skipped dinner last night and breakfast this morning, and he was starving. He pulled up to a convenience store with a McDonald’s. Walking by the candy aisle, he saw bright red bags of Skittles and remembered Chloe talking about the red Skittles. They are sweet, a tad sour, and rewarding.
He grabbed four packs.
* * *
I spend the rest of the day curled up in a Whataburger booth. The bright colors, the cheerful crowd, chases away the crazy fear from earlier. Struggling to stay awake, I start going through all my old friends’ Facebook pages, seeing how everyone in my old life is doing great while mine’s insane. I even go to Alex’s page. He’s added several pictures of him and Cassie.
Then I look up some of my favorite authors, and order another vampire book for when I can’t sleep. Next I read some online articles about how to know if a guy is just dating you for sex.
I wish there were an article about a guy just dating you because he thought you were possibly the child of his foster parents. Grr! Then while thinking about Cash, I go to the unread messages he sent me yesterday.
I have fourteen of them.
One Don’t shoot the messenger text.
Two I’m sorry texts, one for sending the Don’t shoot the messenger text.
Three You left your blanket texts. Two of them adding, Can I bring it to you?
Seven Call me texts in different variations.
And one very long, you-got-it-wrong text that read: You’re wrong about me not liking you. I thought you were beautiful from the time you slammed into me and spilled my slushie. And you did slam into me. Then I saw who you looked like and I tried not to think you were beautiful. But it didn’t work. Then I got to talking to you and you were funny, and smart, and still beautiful and I couldn’t help but like you. The only reason I didn’t kiss you first was because I was scared it could get messy with what I was about to tell you. And it did get messy. But I still like you. And I want to kiss you again. And again.
That text got to me. Damn it. I like him, too. And if my life weren’t such a train wreck, I’d be jumping up and down, I liked him so much.
My phone dings and comes with a picture of the word Hi written out in red Skittles. The next text says to call him when I feel like talking. And then: I know this is hard.
Emotion crowds my tonsils. I grab my cold fries, spell out the word Hi, take a picture, and text that I’ll call him tonight.
His response is another photo: a Skittles smiley face.
Yup. I really like him.
At the same time school would’ve ended, I drive home in a much better mood than when I’d left, but the moment I walk into the house and see Mom, tears in her eyes, sitting at the kitchen table with the flowers I’d hidden in my bedroom, my mood spirals downward.
“Why would you lie to me?”
“I didn’t,” I say.
“You didn’t tell me you got these.”
“That’s not lying.”
“Well, you made me lie! I called your dad and gave him hell for forgetting to send you anything. He swore he sent them. Then I found them. Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid it’d upset you. Like it’s doing.” My heart’s pounding, and I don’t need this right now. When can I raise my hands in the air and scream Enough!
“You can’t keep things from me!” she snaps.
“I wasn’t—”
“He’s mad you didn’t call him. He accused me of turning you against him. He’s coming up tomorrow to see you. But I don’t want to lay eyes on him ever again! He’s a piece of shit.” She storms off into her bedroom.
I drop my purse and backpack on the kitchen table and plop into a chair. I guess I’m going to assume that the counseling session didn’t go well.
My chest tightens, my throat knots, but I’m cried out. I just sit there and try not to follow my mom into a deep dark hole where only depression lives.
* * *
That night, I’ve been texting Lindsey. She wanted me to come over, but I begged off.
I’m about to call Cash when Mom knocks on my door.
She pokes her head in. I see the apology in her eyes. “Can I come in?”
I nod.
She moves in and sits on the edge of my bed. “I’m sorry. Again.”
I nod. What am I supposed to say? I don’t forgive you. I’m tired of this shit. Did you kidnap me? The last question whispering through my mind hits hard.
“Thanks for the macaroni and cheese,” she says.
I’d made it earlier and left a plate on the stove. “Did you drink one of the Boosts?”
“No, but I will.” She touches my hand. “I’m a terrible mother.”
Right now she is. But before Dad dumped her, before cancer, she was awesome. So I shake my head no. Of all my friends, I’ve always known I was the luckiest when it came to parents. Could I have felt so loved if they were the type who’d kidnap a child? I don’t think so.
I realize Mom’s staring. “How did counseling go?”
“Hard. I was told I harbor a lot of anger.”
“You do.”
“I’m going to start going once a week. I’ll get better.”
“What about medicines?” I ask.
“We’re going to try without them at first. I’m going to start walking every day.”
I try not to be pessimistic, but I want to scream, Walking isn’t going to cut it!
“He also thinks I’ll improve when I start work. You know, get out and have something besides cancer and your low-life father to think about.”
The low-life comment stings, but at least she’s seeing someone about it.
“And if you don’t want to see your dad, you don’t have to.”
My mind races. I don’t want to see him, but I don’t want Mom feeling she has the power, consciously or subconsciously, to dictate whether I see him or not. “I’ll be okay.”
Disappointment flashes in her eyes. But she nods. “I found a good movie. A comedy. The doctor suggests I start laughing more. You want to watch it with me?”
“Yeah. Let me make a call first.”
Her tone tightens. “Your dad?”
“No. Cash.” I’ll deal with Dad when he gets here, but just thinking about it fills me with dread.
“Do you like him, like him?”
“Yeah.” Admitting it is hard.
“Just be careful. Men can stab you in the back.” Mom walks out.
Such warm, welcoming motherly advice. I drop back on the bed. I think about Cash and remember how it hurt when my dad left. Remember how it hurt to walk away from Alex. I remember I’m supposed to go away to college next year. I remember the one memory of when I was young, of being yanked out of my life. I hate that feeling, and if I let myself get close to Cash, I’m going to feel that way again. I’m already going to feel that way with Lindsey.
There are a whole lot of reasons to protect my heart, to not let myself fall for Cash. Reasons that don’t even include what he believes about my being Emily Fuller.
I hear his question from earlier.
How could you not want to know the truth?
My phone rings. Thinking it’s Cash, my heart flips. It isn’t Cash.
I check to make sure Mom closed the door before I answer.
Then, “Hey, Dad.”
* * *
“Did you have a good night?” Mrs. Fuller asked when Cash arrived home from work and walked into the kitchen. His plan was to head upstairs to start on homework and to decide whether he was going to take the initiative and call Chloe, or wait and let her do it.
“Okay.” Cash remembered he and Mrs. Fuller had parted ways badly last night. “Can I fix a sandwich?”
She frowned, and he knew why.
“I meant to say, I’m going to fix a sandwich.” She hated that he asked, said it was a sign he didn’t see this as his home. She wa
s right. He didn’t belong here. Yeah, he appreciated the hell out of the Fullers, but he couldn’t help but wonder if they wouldn’t change their mind about him if they knew all the things he’d done alongside his father. Wouldn’t they realize he wasn’t worthy of their generosity?
“Better,” she said. “But if you’re interested, I saved you some pizza in the oven.”
“Very interested.” He pulled the box out of the oven and set it on the counter. “Thanks.” He picked up a slice and sank his teeth into the soft, semi-warm cheese and pepperoni pizza.
“You’re welcome.” She smiled. She liked pleasing him, so much so that it bothered him sometimes. “There’s salad in the fridge. I can get it out.”
“No. Just pizza, thanks.” He talked around the bite of ambrosia in his mouth.
She pulled a plate from the cabinet and waved him toward the table. “Sit down and eat. We’ll chat before you go and hide in your room.”
He wondered if that was a complaint about last night. Either way, he grabbed the box and moved to the table.
“Where’s Mr. Fuller?” he asked before going in for a second bite.
“He’s swimming laps.” She motioned to the backyard, where the pool lights lit up the patio. “He ate five pieces of pizza.”
She pulled over the bowl of Skittles he’d left on the table when he texted Chloe. “Did you get these or did Tony?”
“I did.”
She shook the bowl for a second. “Where are the red ones? They’re the best.”
He swallowed the bite of pizza. “I ate them.” It was a lie. They were in a baggie upstairs.
She set the bowl down. “You never told me how your college class went.”
“It was fine. The teacher’s boring, but I don’t see a problem.” He finished off his first slice and grabbed another one. She handed him a napkin. He set the pizza down and wiped his mouth. “How was your day?”
“Okay.”
“Did you save someone’s life?”
“Working on it.” She looked down in the Skittles bowl, pulled out an orange one, and put it in her mouth. “You know, Tony and I were talking that you may want to quit working to focus on school since you’re doing the college course and finishing high school.”