Page 26 of The Other Side of Apart

“Rules?”

He nods. “Important ones, so listen up. Number one.” He holds up his finger. “You decide what we do, and two, you can’t stop me from doing whatever I want for you.”

The moon shines through the gaps in the blinds and pools over Marcus and me on our bed where we lay tangled in each other. His breathing is deep, and I smile and stretch, feeling very celebrated.

My feet are cold from the air conditioner, so I slip them under Marcus’s legs. He doesn’t budge, but no surprise—we did a lot of celebrating.

The afternoon slipped away while we were in our apartment, but we’d spent the evening walking through the campus gardens, then checked out some nearby boutiques where Marcus said Icould get whatever I wanted, no matter the cost. There’s no way I was going to do that, even if we have extra money now that his scholarship is paying for things. I feel bad enough spending money on food for new recipes, even if Marcus will never complain. When we’d stopped in front of the Mediterranean restaurant I’d been dying to try, I looked at him and he’d just smiled and opened the door for me. He’d already made reservations under Mei Li Miller, and when I told him it was too expensive, he’d rolled his eyes.

“Nothing’s too expensive on Mei Day,” he’d said, his smile worth every dollar we shouldn’t have spent but did.

Starting tomorrow, we’ll be better with our money but today…was perfect. When we’d approached our apartment, I walked slower, reluctant to go inside, like I could drag the hours along behind us as we walked. But then he’d picked me up, spun me around, and given me a piggy-back ride up the four flights of stairs. Mei Day had officially ended a few hours ago, way too late but not long enough.

I snuggle into my pillow and stare into the purple haze, listening to Marcus’s deep breathing and the hum of the air conditioner. Memories from tonight circle above my head, but a nagging thought trails them, sneaking between the memory of Marcus’s smile that spread light over the whole day and his words whispered in the dark as he hovered over me. Thoughts of looking up my real dad don’t belong in the sequence of private moments, but they flash behind my eyes when I close them, tugging me away from the Marcus tangle and out of bed.

It’s not the first time these intrusive thoughts have pushed their way in, sending me off balance. But right now, they’re spinning and toppling me.

I shrug on Marcus’s t-shirt and tiptoe around the corner to the kitchen. Sliding into a chair at the table, I open Marcus’s laptop we bought last week. We’d done well without internet forsix weeks in Seattle—even our phones were too basic to have it. We also didn’t want any news from home to creep into our life, but we have full access now in this new apartment. I’ve been fighting the temptation to look up Peter Mitchell, and tonight, I’m giving in.

The screen sings to life, and I type his name in the search bar. Nothing relevant pulls up, so I add Rhode Island and a Facebook link appears, along with a picture. It’s the same picture Mama gave me when she said I should know him.

I swallow and click on the link, closing my eyes while I wait, unsure I want to know anything more. But when I open them, he’s there, with his three blonde children that look nothing like me. They’re all standing on a rock, the ocean behind them in a completely different life from mine. There are no shadows of unknown or unwanted children in his smile. His profile isn’t private, so I click on more pictures, my hesitation stepping aside for curiosity.

There’s Peter Mitchell, alone in front of a forest, holding up a sign I can’t read. Him with his kids at a museum. On the beach. At Disney World.

He’s a dad but not to me—to those kids who can’t possibly be my half siblings. Everything about the pictures is too straight forward, collected, organized. There’s no room for an old girlfriend and their long-lost child who looks nothing like him or his real family. I wonder about the story of Mama and Peter. Were they ever in love like I’m in love with Marcus? What would my life be like had they stayed together?

I’d read all their emails, scoured and studied them during lunch breaks at the restaurant. I’d tried to make sense of them because the relationship seemed serious until Mama sent a final email, telling him she needed to see him again and there was no response.

Unwanted.

Hurt uncurls inside me, and I shut the laptop; I have no right or reason to be hurt. He doesn’t know about me. He doesn’t know he could be living a different life, raising a different kid with a different woman who’s trapped in a much uglier place.

None of it matters. Peter Mitchell doesn’t matter. I may share the same DNA, but he’s just a name. A profile on Facebook. I open the laptop again to clear the history, so Marcus won’t find my search, then close it and crawl back into bed beside him.

I lay my head on Marcus’s chest, and his fingers reflexively slide into my hair. I listen to his familiar heartbeat, its deep, steady rhythm reminding me that Marcus is my family. He knows everything about me. We have each other. We’ll make our own picture-perfect family someday, and when we have kids, they’ll never need to question where they belong.

CHAPTER 13

Marcus,

I asked Magic 8 if your very drafty, scandalous idea for Sunday afternoons is a good idea…

Want to know what it said?

Guess you’ll find out on Sunday.

Mei

Isit on the soccer field, surrounded by my new teammates, lacing my cleats and working to keep my thoughts on soccer plays instead of letting them run back toward the very sparse apartment with Mei inside it. Alone.

Our three days on San Juan Island may as well have been on another planet; we’d forgotten about Nick or Dad or Mei’s family and all things past or future. It was just us, cruising around the island on our motorcycle, Mei’s arms wrapped around me from behind. And then it was just us in a beach house where no one would’ve thought to look for us. If they’d tried, they would have seen nothing but silhouettes through walls of windows and shadows in tangled sheets.

My body buzzes with memories, then tenses, remembering we’re not there—we’re here, a whole lot more visible than our backyard cottage in Seattle or a beach house on a cliff surrounded by trees and a security gate. We’re a little too close to San Francisco now. As much as I love Stanford and the team, I don’t love that our old life and fears are just down the coast. Still not sure coming here was the greatest idea.

The whistle blows, and I finish lacing my cleats, setting aside thoughts and memories. I jump to my feet and run with my team toward the group of waiting coaches.

For hours, I run faster and kick harder to prove I’m worth a second shot. The whistle blows, and I rocket down the field for a huddle. I’m halfway there when a bright red streak outside the stadium catches my attention. A car shoots through the parking lot and veers to the curb by the gate, and I jolt to a stop. Aunt Audrey.

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