Page 190 of One Wild Wish

I matched her wide stance. “Look at you, being all bossy.”

“I’m going for no-nonsense.”

“Try harder next time.”

Her attention dragged to the house next door. She studied it as though it might instantaneously combust. Exactly how I felt. I wasn’t sure if Rachel’s bad cop routine was hurting or helping. “Come on in, Sherlock.”

She followed me into the living room and surveyed the organized mess. “Wow. Looks like you’re almost done.”

“Just my mother’s room left.” Which I wasn’t about to show her. “I’d offer you a seat, but it might get dicey.” We eyed the boxes barricading the couch and dining chairs.

She dropped her purse, plopped herself on the hardwood floor, and patted the space in front of her. “This will do fine.”

I remained standing. “What if I’m not ready to open the vault?”

She straightened her posture. “Then I’ll chain myself to the sofa and stage a sit-in until you crack.”

“You’ll miss Jimmy.”

“He’ll visit.”

“I won’t provide wine.”

“I’m due for a detox.”

I glared at her, and she smiled back. The woman was battle ready.

Normally I hated to lose, even in a battle of wills. With no siblings growing up, a “no electronics in your room” rule, an early curfew, and a mother who had vacillated between depressed and antagonistic, I’d kept busy by competing against myself.

I’d play solitaire on my bedroom floor, over and over, refusing to sleep until I’d win a round. When August would smoke me in backgammon, I’d throw a temper tantrum and force him into another game. I’d run sprints at ungodly morning hours, determined to make my high school track team and win our meets. Blisters had been my badge of honor.

These days I was relentless in CrossFit, bettering my endurance, my strength, my speed, all to beat myself.

I could shore up my defenses now, win this battle of stubbornness against Rachel, and keep the details of my WTF in my secured vault, but the shock of seeing August this morning had weakened my stronghold. Maybe caving to Rachel would help me rebuild it.

“Thing is,” I said, settling in cross-legged, facing her, “I kind of fucked up in college.”

She gathered my hands in hers. “Tell Auntie Rachel everything.”

Her already large eyes widened as I admitted my shame: pushing August away our last year of high school, the birthday texts, telling him I’d been jealous of him and his girlfriend, the “promise ring” misunderstanding, sleeping with his brother. Him walking in afterward.

“You should have seen his face,” I went on, my voice thinning under the weight of that awful memory. “He looked at me like I’d murdered his family. I mean, disgust doesn’t even begin to cover it. Then August and Finch got into it, shoving and yelling. Saying crazy stuff about me, like August and Finch had had an agreement about me or something. I don’t know. It all happened so fast and I was in shock. But the part where August broke Finch’s nose with a right hook and told me I was dead to him is crystal clear.”

The confession tasted as sour as it sounded, and that burning returned to my eyes. I bit my tongue to steady my emotions.

Rachel didn’t release my trembling hands. She squeezed them tighter. “Did you talk with him after that night? Apologize and explain things?”

I shook my head. More shame swamped me.

“No wonder you’re upset. First your mother, then seeing him—any rational person would run for cover.”

“This has nothing to do with my mother,” I said quickly. “I told you, I’m not sad about her.” This worsening emptiness couldn’t be because of Mary Hamilton. You couldn’t mourn someone you didn’t love, or even like.

Rachel pursed her lips as though she didn’t believe me. An understandable reaction. When she’d lost her father years back, the tragedy had gutted her. It still did. But he had never treated her like she was a mosquito he couldn’t shake. An irritation. A problem to squash.

My mother couldn’t glance at me without curling her lip. She’d refused to tell me who my father was. She’d hated the man, that much had been clear, and I’d obviously been a reminder of him. She’d been estranged from her parents, too, robbing me of grandparents—although those two subscribed to a special brand of wacky. She hadn’t even spoken to her sister in over a decade. Mary Hamilton wasn’t built to foster relationships.

No. I hadn’t mourned my mother’s passing. Right or wrong, good or bad, relief had come with that eventuality. Except it meant I’d never discover my father’s identity.