Page 17 of Broken Secrets
“All normal responses to doing something brave.”
“You think it was brave?”
“I think you’re the bravest person I know.”
I curl up on my bed, phone pressed to my ear, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like maybe everything’s going to be okay.
“Derek?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for being here for all this.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
As I fall asleep that night, I think maybe that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.
CHAPTER FOUR
The soundof Mom’s key in the front door wakes me from a fitful doze at my desk. I glance at the clock, she’s been gone for over twelve hours, which either means she actually had legitimate work to do, or she’s been hiding out at the studio to avoid more questions about my father.
Knowing her, it’s probably both.
I close my laptop, where I’ve spent the last hour alternating between staring at Jeremy’s website and researching heart conditions that run in families. Turns out there are dozens of genetic cardiac issues that could be passed from father to child. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy. Long QT syndrome. All these scary-sounding conditions that might be swimming around in my DNA, waiting to cause problems.
All things I could know about if I had access to my father’s medical history.
All things my mom continues to keep me in the dark about.
I also spent time checking and rechecking my email. The message I sent to Jeremy last night is still sitting in my sent folder, but there’s no response. Nothing. Part of me is relieved; what would I even say if he wrote back? But mostly I’mdisappointed. I’d built up this fantasy he’d respond immediately, and he’d been waiting eighteen years for me to reach out.
Clearly, that was naive.
I hear footsteps on the stairs, followed by a soft knock on my door.
“Liv? Can I come in?”
I consider pretending to be asleep, but my light is on and she probably saw it from the driveway. “Yeah.”
Mom pushes open the door, still wearing her work clothes but looking rumpled in a way that suggests she’s been running her hands through her hair. She’s holding a manila envelope in one hand and has the same expression she gets when she’s about to deliver bad news.
“I talked to Mr. Henderson today,” she says, settling on the edge of my bed. “About the permission slip.”
“And?”
“And apparently there was some confusion with the office staff. Your form got mixed in with the substitute teacher applications somehow.” She holds up the envelope. “But it’s sorted out now. You’re back on the trip roster.”
Relief washes over me, followed immediately by suspicion. “Mixed in with substitute teacher applications? How does that even happen?”
“Clerical error. These things happen.” Mom shrugs, but she won’t quite meet my eyes. “The important thing is it’s fixed.”
I study her face, noting the way she’s picking at the envelope’s edge, the way her shoulders are tensed like she’s bracing for impact. Something doesn’t add up.
“Mom, did you actually turn in my permission slip yesterday?”
The question hangs between us. Outside, I can hear the neighbor’s dog barking and the distant hum of traffic on PCH.Normal sounds from a normal evening that feels anything but normal.
“Of course I did,” she says, but there’s something in her voice that makes my stomach clench. “Why would you ask that?”
