Page 199 of One Wild Wish

The dates inscribed in the top right corner edged the grin from my face: 1989-1990. I reached out to touch the writing, but yanked my hand back.

This wasn’t a coincidence. These dates matched the magazine and clothing styles. These contents must have been from that time. It didn’t explain why the bag had gone missing in 2001, but not much about this suitcase arriving at my mother’s door made sense.

What was startlingly clear was that I held a diary. One written by mother, encompassing the times during which I’d been conceived and born.

This could lead me to my father.

No matter how often I’d asked her who he was growing up, she’d clam up. No hints given, only bitter sneers or blank stares. Now I had a hidden journal from the year I was conceived. Be careful what you wish for. The cautious saying looped through my mind as I steadied my breath and shook out my hands, like I was readying to touch hot coals.

I may have spent my entire teenage and adult life desperate for this knowledge, but it suddenly seemed daunting. This journal had the power to rewrite my past and shape my future, and not all shapes were pretty. Still, I opened it.

I flipped the pages. Each was filled with writing, some with taped receipts or mementos, a Dead Calm movie stub. She printed her sentences, instead of writing in cursive, making her entries seem more youthful than the handwriting I recalled. More proof of the journal’s dating.

August’s strumming got louder, and I clutched my treasure to my chest. My birthday was tomorrow. That left thirty-three hours before the clock struck midnight. It meant I might not lose my resolution to find my father. Not that resolutions could be lost, and I was no Cinderella whose life would revert to pumpkin status, but Rachel and Ainsley had been so happy since fulfilling their wishes. I’d figured I’d lost my chance.

Now I had pages full of possible clues to find my father. Picking through them on my timeline was sketchy, but I never backed down from a challenge. I surfed on them, jumped off them, scaled them. This was no different.

And I might not have to do it alone.

I made my way to the kitchen, to August, my original partner in crime, and stopped outside the doorway. He had shoved boxes aside and sat on one of the two wooden chairs that had once circled the small breakfast table. The only talking that had occurred while I’d hunched on that seat had been when my mother would berate me for not cleaning the bathroom properly, or leaving my shoes askew by the door, or tracking mud into the house.

Listen for once in your life , she’d scold. Always calling me a disappointment.

The silent meals had been preferable, another reason August would invite me for dinner, where I’d barely eat. Overwhelmed with the laughing and teasing between him and Finch, their parents, and their little sister, Melody, I’d often forget about the food.

Shaking off the memories, I tiptoed closer to August. His eyes were closed, his fingers gliding over the fretboard like wind strumming leaves. I’d felt those callused fingers on my face once. His lips on mine. I still remembered the heat of his tongue and soft-wet press of his mouth. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe I’d relived it so often, I’d fabricated every glorious detail.

But the guitar in his hands was real. He’d bought it for me, his attempt to fill my stark life with vibrancy. When I’d get tired of learning, he’d go off on tangents, practicing riffs and licks while I’d imagine licking him. He wouldn’t leave until I’d smile. He’d always done stuff like that, little-big things that changed my world, but the efforts had often been too overt, pity-filled attempts to fix me, like I was broken, a project, a challenge. They’d inflame my insecurity, leading me to pushing him away.

I wanted nothing more than for him to stay in my life now, any way I could have him. As a friend. As a partner in crime. As more.

My pathetic heart hiccupped at the impossibility.

That didn’t stop me from testing my limits with him. “August.” My voice was so thin and scratchy, he didn’t open his eyes. I swallowed hard and said his name louder, with confidence.

His fingers kept playing, but he focused on me, eyelids hooded, intensity darkening his gaze. He moved as he strummed, a slight rocking of his shoulders. His sneaker tapped the floor softly. Normally, at concerts, August would wear threadbare jeans and slim T-shirts, not that I’d watched all his YouTube videos.

Even in workout shorts, a yellow jersey, and sneakers, he looked delicious. He also kept staring at me. He licked his lips. I couldn’t feel mine. His mouth softened imperceptibly, tilting up in one corner, as though I had inspired every love ballad he’d ever written.

Unable to contemplate that unlikelihood, and my constant need to read into everything August—because I was more cuckoo than a store of clocks—I blurted the one thing I had no right to say. “Will you help me find my father?”

5

3:30 p.m., 32 ½ Hours…

August

My fingers slipped on the guitar strings, a ridiculous fumble on the world’s easiest song. I hadn’t strummed “Horse with No Name” in an eternity. The simple tune came with too many memories. Here, in this house, I couldn’t fight the pull.

I could practically feel Gwen wiggling between my legs as she’d struggle through the basic chords, no clue to the torture she doled out. I’d have to harness my fantasies back then, focus on my hippie aunt’s unshaven legs or run soccer plays in mind to keep the action behind my zipper in check.

Hearing my name from her lips now zoomed me back to that time, those days, and my fascination with her. How Finch would wind me up or a lost soccer match would get me down, and Gwen would nag me until I was nestled beside her on the couch, watching Gilmore Girls , a show I’d never admit to liking. I’d toss popcorn at her face. She’d stick her stinky socks in my face.

And the world had been right.

Even now, all this chaos between us, somehow I was more right. I wasn’t staring out a train window as foreign towns slipped past, melancholy lyrics teasing my fingertips. I wasn’t dating a woman for a month or two only to lose interest, lose the connection, the attraction. Around Gwen, I felt grounded, yet alive. Still slightly resentful when it came to her, but I liked it—that fiery spark.

Until she said, “Will you help me find my father?”