I’ve become close with Kyle, and his mom, too. After Hannah left, I sort of threw my emotional energy into making sure Kyle was safe. It took me a while to convince Myra she would be able to handle life on her own, away from her husband, and two years beyond that to support her through finalizing her divorce.
Her asshole ex really put her through the wringer, actually fighting for sole custody despite the fact his teenaged son flat-out told him he didn’t want any part of him. Thanks to the broken-ass system, his parenting rights were way too generous throughout the nightmare. Now that Kyle’s in college and able to make his own decisions, I doubt he’ll spend much time on the big plot of land his dad owns in town.
When he interned with us over the summer, he stayed at our place. He said it was basically like living in a frat house, which I can see. Tommy is a slob and I’m a minimalist from years of having to live among junk. Kyle got his first taste of life without rules and a parent looking over his shoulder. I reminded him that those milestones also mean you don’t have a parent looking out for you. He called me overprotective, but I think one day, he’ll get it.
“All right, well, I’ll probably spend the night there on the couch. You know how my mom likes to throw in game night and Dad wants to get started on Christmas decorations. Bailey’s staying for that part. Maybe, if you aren’t too busy—”
“I’ll try,” I say, knowing I won’t. At least if I show up for the food part I can distract myself with eating. If I’m there for holiday music and cookies and untangling light strands, I’ll have idle mental time to focus on Jorge and Hannah. Idle time is bad.
“All right, then. If you do come, bring your own beer. I’m not saving any for your wishy-washy ass.” Tommy laughs over his shoulder as he strides out of our place, and I wait for the door to close behind him before flopping on the sofa and thinking about how pathetic my existence is.
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the text I got three days ago from the private investigator I hired to track down my real mom, Alysha Solerno. Her last name is Peterson now, though she isn’t currently married. Divorced, twice. Single for the last six years, and living in a small apartment in Coolidge, about a hundred and fifty miles away. She works at a Mexican restaurant in the older part of town, and I keep trying to remember if I’ve ever been there. If I’ve seen her. If I’d know who she is by sight.
The guy sent me her address and phone number, and I have no fucking idea what to do with it. I’m recognized now, but only by some. The racing world knows my face, and people who have known me from years ago, they recognize me, too. They’ve seen my name in the news or followed the kid from their town who went on to do something bigger with his life. I suppose Alysha falls into that category, though she hasn’t seen me since I pissed in diapers and cried most of the time. Even then, she didn’t spend much time with me. Other than DNA, our connection is nonexistent.
It’s strange to finally hold something I’ve wanted for so long. It was easier when it was only some fantasy—me walking up to my real mom’s place of business or home and introducing myself. It goes many ways in my imagination. Sometimes, she cries the moment she sees me and pulls me in for a hug, rocking me as though I’m still that infant she left behind. Other times, she pretends she has no idea who I am and denies the story I tell her. And yet others, she’s angry, mad that I found her.
Whatever way this goes, if I do anything at all with this information, it’s a bad idea to set things in motion on Thanksgiving. From what the investigator could tell, she’s never had any other kids. But with my luck, there’s one out there—one she’s stayed close with and is spending precious time with today.
Some of us are meant to be alone on days like this. Even when I was a kid and the Judges had me to their house for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I felt like some novelty, the way people hire balloon artists for birthday parties. I was the rescue animal destined to go back to the shelter the next day. All the fame and money in the world won’t be able to fix that feeling I carry deep inside—the sense of not belonging anywhere or to anyone.
I used to fill that void with winning. The thrill of being the best, of coming in first, was a temporary reprieve from the constant sense that I was a failure everywhere else. And now, I can’t even fucking win. I’m not allowed.
I spend the next hour moping around our empty apartment. Our place is nice, part of a new resort development built into the creek side with floor-to-ceiling windows and a loft bedroom upstairs. The second bedroom, Tommy’s, is more private and on the first floor. Since he has an actual life, it makes sense for him to have the privacy. Anyone I hook up with either doesn’t stay long or we go to their place so I can leave to wallow in shame when I’ve sobered up. I don’t even like the feeling of that anymore, though; hence ditching my date with Chelsea.
I’ve riffled through our empty pantry a dozen times, and my plans for watching all the Marvel movies back-to-back-to-back doesn’t seem to be getting underway. I pull my phone out again to stare at the blurry photo from the PI and notice I have a text message from an unknown number. I’m ready to delete without even looking but something deep inside nags me to check it. I’m glad I do.
You should come. Everyone wants you here. I want you here. – Hannah
I blink a few times and read the text over again. My mind tries to insert different words—nobody wants you here. That’s not what it says though. And for Hannah to reach out, from a phone number she’s kept guarded, can’t mean her words are empty and simply for show.
Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I run upstairs and slip on my black fitted shirt and my clean pair of jeans. I spray a dab of cologne on my neck and run wet hands through my hair before grabbing my keys and wallet and Rolex on my way out the door. It takes about twenty minutes to get to the Judges’ from where Tommy and I live, and today, with zero traffic and half the lights on flashing yellow, I’m there in fifteen.
Everything was fast and easy up to this point, but now, I’m skidding. I have to get out of the car. All of those fears, those feelings, come roaring back. I can’t deny that if Hannah weren’t here, going inside wouldn’t be a problem. She’s the reason I’m balking. She’s the reason I don’t feel welcome. Yet, she’s the reason I showed up . . . because she asked.
How can I hate someone and love them at the same time?
The flash of movement to my left catches my eye and I’m relieved to find Tom unpacking bins of decorations from the high shelves in the garage. I’ve come to learn there are a lot of reasons that man spends so much time on the lake and in this oil-stained space. He likes to avoid confrontation and emotions, and I’m interested in doing that right now.
“You need a hand?” I ask as I climb out of the car.
He grunts as he drops one of the bins on top of another, holding his back as he straightens to stand up straight.
“Here, let me move those.”
He steps back and waves me into his place. I chuckle, teasing him about getting old, but he reminds me he can still kick my ass. I’d doubt him, but he’s scrappy. I think he’ll always intimidate me.
“You know, you really should have a garage sale sometime,” I say, pulling down the last of way too many bins of decorations.