Page 15 of Broken Secrets
“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to know right now. You just have to get through today.”
His fingers are warm against mine.
When we pull up to my house, I don’t immediately get out of the car. Derek turns off the engine and we sit in comfortable silence for a moment.
“Thanks,” I say finally. “For picking me up this morning. For listening. For not making me feel crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” he says, turning to face me. “You’re dealing with something really hard, and you’re handling it better than most people would.”
“I don’t feel like I’m handling it well.”
“Trust me, you are.” He reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear again, and this time the gesture feels intentional.
I should go inside. Should face whatever’s waiting for me at home. But he’s looking at me like I’m something precious, and I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me that way.
“Derek?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do, though. Because nobody else…” I trail off, not sure how to explain that he’s the only person who’s made me feel less alone in all of this.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly. “Whatever happens with your family stuff, whatever you decide to do about your father, I’m here.”
The promise settles something in my chest that I didn’t realize was unsettled.
Inside, the house is quiet. Mom’s portfolio bag is gone; she must be working late at the studio again rather than come home to face more questions. Robert’s in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like tomato sauce and garlic.
“Hey kiddo,” he says without turning around. “How was school?”
“Fine. Mom working late?”
“She texted around lunchtime. Said she needed to finish up a project.” He glances over his shoulder. “Everything okay between you two? She seemed stressed this morning.”
“The usual family drama,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Nothing major.”
Robert nods, but I can tell he doesn’t quite believe me. He’s always been good at reading between the lines.
“Well, if you want to talk about whatever ‘usual family drama’ means, I’m here,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“I know.”
I head upstairs and sit at my desk and open up my email account. Emma’s smile flashes in my mind. She’s a daughter who’s never had to wonder where she came from or why her father wasn’t there. A daughter who’s never had to feel like half of her DNA is a mystery.
I pull out my laptop and open a new email draft.
Subject: Medical Information Needed
Dear Mr. Kline,
My name is Olivia, and you’re my father.
I delete it and start again.
