Page 15 of Mirror Image

“Are you out of your mind, Jenn? What if you run into that pendejo—what was his name? Brainwhite?”

“Braithwaite,” I correct, trying not to chuckle. “And he’s the one who asked me to come, actually.”

I get a skeptical chicken neck from my cousin. “And why would he do that?”

“Why not?” I clap back. “I’m good at what I do.”

Stef scowls at me. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it, Jennifer.”

I roll my eyes. “Wow, my full name. Pulling out the big guns now, eh?”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” I ask petulantly as I cross my arms.

There’s just something about her that takes me right back to my inner fourteen-year-old.

“¡Oye, chica!” she fires back, poking my shoulder with her index finger. “Have you forgotten we used to play My Little Pony together? I know you better than just about anyone, including that blond-haired, green-eyed Irishman of yours. So cut the defensive bullshit already and tell me what you’re really doing here.”

I hunch forward so that my forearms are on my thighs and glance back up at her over my shoulder. “Okay, first of all, Gabe’s French Alsatian. And I told you, I’m being brought in to consult on a case. It’s big, Stef. And there’s a good reason for me to be involved. But that’s about all I can tell you about it—it’s a privacy thing, you know?”

She doesn’t look convinced, but I can see her softening—just a little.

“Hmmm,” she murmurs to herself skeptically. “Okay, well, I’m going to take your word for it, but you remember I’m here if you need me. I got your back.”

I sit up, grinning, and knock her shoulder with mine. “Hey, so I’m starving. Any chance you can scare up one of your amazing sammies for me?” I bat my eyelashes coquettishly.

She sighs with feigned irritation and rolls her eyes. “I suppose I could do that. You want regular fries or yuca?”

“What do you think?” I counter.

“Yuca it is!” she declares, grabbing my hand once more and helping me to my feet. When we’re standing, she surveys me for a long, thoughtful moment. “Remind me to send you back to your hotel with mojito ingredients. Something tells me you’re going to need them while you’re here.”

I don’t object, because she’s not wrong.

I’ve seen it again and again—both as a psychiatrist and as a child who once waited for someone who never returned.

A lot of young people never give up hope that their birth parents will come for them. They believe that one day there will be a knock at the door, or a letter, or some dramatic reunion that rewrites everything that went wrong.

My mother, Lorena, certainly knew how to find me if she wanted to. Which, clearly, she did not.

And I was fine with that—eventually. I never went looking for her either, even though I probably could have tracked her down without too much trouble as the internet grew in availability and scope.

I had my grandparents, and they were enough.

It’s my intention to head straight back to the hotel from the restaurant . . . and I do start in that direction, but I don’t stay that way for long. Without my making a conscious decision to drive through our old neighborhood, it just sort of happens—and suddenly I’m passing landmarks that are familiar but different. Despite the years, not much has changed. The houses on our block look the same, more or less—just different cars in the driveway and different kids playing out front.

When I reach our block, I slow. The sight of that narrow, oak-lined street catches something in my chest. The same cracked sidewalks. The same mailbox with the dent from where Lito backed into it one Thanksgiving.

And then—our house.

Lito and Lita’s old house, still painted the same faded yellow, the porch sagging slightly at one corner, the iron railing rusting at the base. The hibiscus bushes have grown wild, pink blossoms spilling over onto the walkway. If I squint, I can almost see them there—Lito in his guayabera, Lita with her sun visor and her pruning shears, both rocking slowly in those squeaky wrought-iron chairs.

I pull over to the curb, kill the engine, and just sit there. The yard looks smaller than I remember. When I was a kid, it felt like a kingdom—grass tall enough to hide in, the old mimosa tree in the corner like a sentinel watching over us. There used to be a wooden swing hanging from its lowest branch, worn smooth from a thousand afternoons.

I can see us there—Jess and me. We’re around ten years old, barefoot, hair wild, pushing off with both feet.

“Higher, Jenny! Higher!” my sister hollers.