“You okay?” he asked, dipping his chin low to catch my eye.
I brought my cup to my lips, willing one last drop to wet my tongue and miraculously un-pause my mental stall. Please, just one more drop.
I shook it. Twice.
My cup couldn’t be more empty.
“I’ll go get you another one.” He stood and pushed out his chair. “You want the same drink? If so, you might need to coach me through the order.”
My answer crawled up my throat. “Water will be fine, thank you.”
Two feet from the counter, he swiveled back. “You sure? Don’t let me influence your decisions.”
Interesting choice of words since that was exactly what he’d been doing since the day we met. “I’m sure.”
As he waited at the counter, I slid my phone from my back pocket and tapped the screen to check the time. An email notification box surfaced to the forefront, blocking my ability to see the clock. Or anything else for that matter. Because the sender’s name was the only thing I had eyes for: Small Wonders International.
The sounds in the coffee shop muted to undistinguishable white noise as I scrolled to my inbox and tapped the update I’d been waiting on.
Happy Saturday, Lauren!
First off, I apologize for the delay in responding to your request for an update, but things have been going a hundred miles an hour around our agency lately. We’ve been working half days on Saturdays to catch up. But I do have an update for you!
As of yesterday, your file’s been moved to the top of our match pile. The Chinese government dropped the largest group of prepared orphan files into the shared agency pool about ten days ago, so that has sped things up quite a bit. I don’t want to overpromise, but I think we could be sending you the big match email very soon. Keep in mind that when it arrives you’ll have two weeks to accept or deny a file. We encourage all new adoptive parents to share the medical portion of the child’s files with your family doctor before making a final decision. Once you accept a file, we’ll submit the Letter of Intent for that child and lock them in for you as you go through the final stages of the paperwork process.
Excited to work with you more closely in the coming weeks,
Stacey Adams
My mind fumbled over the content, working in slow motion to process the phrases: match pile, orphan files, big email, very soon.
“Here you are. Boring old ice water with a side of this all-too-tempting cranberry almond scone.” He set the chilled plastic cup and plate next to my iPhone, and I quickly darkened the screen, struggling to connect with a reality outside this latest update.
“Thank you.”
He studied me. “Bad news?”
“What?”
“Your face . . . I’m trying to get a read on it. You’re either in shock or upset. I can’t tell which.”
“Oh . . . uh.” I shook my head, trying to shake a thousand jumbled thoughts into a single cohesive sentence. “I just read a surprising email—still trying to wrap my head around it.”
“Well, for your sake, I hope it was surprising in the most positive of ways.”
I swallowed the emotion tripping up my throat. “It is, yes. Thank you.”
He slid the purple folder toward me. “I’m guessing you need to get going?”
Relief settled over me. “I probably should be, yes, but I know we didn’t spend nearly enough time talking through these lesson plans and—”
“I had a great morning with you, Lauren. With or without lesson plans.”
Clearly, I was too out of sorts to interpret his brand of kindness in any professional manner. “Keep it.” I pushed the folder back in his direction and took out a pen from my purse, scribbling my number on the inside pocket. “Feel free to text if you need help with any of the abbreviations in there, and you’re welcome to make copies of anything I have if you need to.”
With the folder back in his custody, he tapped the edge of it with his forefinger and eyed me with the most pensive expression I’d ever seen him wear. “Looks like there’s only one thing left for us to discuss today.”
My already shaky stomach took a nosedive. “There is?”
“Yes. Which one of us gets to take home the cranberry almond scone?”
chapter
seven
Two days.
Two days of not sleeping. Two days of obsessive Googling. Two days of eating cookie dough ice cream smothered in hot fudge for dinner and pretending not to think about my name sitting atop my agency’s wait list.
Skye dragged her wet nose across my bare calf, and I reached down to scratch the white patch of fur behind her ears. “I know, I know. I’m pathetic.”
She whined as if in confirmation. She could always tell when something was emotionally off with me. Maybe she could sense the changes in my mood, but then again, maybe she just wanted to lick the splatters of ice cream off my college sweatshirt. Either way, we were both stress eaters.
“Ugh.” I set the bowl on the coffee table and watched the spoon sink low into the soupy mess. “I need to do something, Skye. Something productive. Something that . . . I don’t know, feels like a step forward and doesn’t add ten inches to my waistline before Thanksgiving break.”
I padded across the living room in my blue-and-white striped fuzzy socks. My matching pj bottoms slipped from my hips just enough to require a cinch and tie. Skye dashed to the front door, as if I was suiting up for a run. Hardly. “It’s raining outside, silly girl. I can’t take you for a walk right now.” Even if I could, no amount of walking would settle the adrenaline spikes Stacey’s not-so-helpful email response had awakened in me.
I mean, seriously, how could that email have produced anything but anxiety in a waiting parent? It was like saying, “Hey, you over there—you who’s been on the path of adoption for more than a year, you who’s been trying to keep your mind occupied while still being an active member of society—well, guess what? Your wait’s about to be over! Only in the meantime, you get to wait some more!”
Skye slumped onto her dog bed under the corner living room window, laying her head on her front paws. Her heavy-lidded eyes closed mere seconds before her snoring kicked in. At least one of us was able to get some good rest this week.
My text alert chimed. Four times. No, five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
My sister.
I hesitated before retrieving my phone off the arm of the sofa.
Between Lisa asking me what I was bringing for Thanksgiving meal and Jenna asking what happened with Joshua at the coffee shop, I was seriously considering throwing my phone into the garbage disposal. Only I couldn’t. Because that would mean not being able to refresh my inbox every thirty seconds.
And that might literally kill me.
With a little too much force, I tapped the phone screen and opened up my sister’s text thread. By the rapid-succession alerts, I knew she was voice-texting in her car. Lisa’s favorite form of communication.
So what are you bringing to Thanksgiving?
I told Mom I’m not eating that greasy casserole thing she makes for one more holiday. If a heart attack had a face, that would be it.
I’m bringing walled-off salad.
No. Stupid voice-to-text. Not walled-off. Waldorf!