Part 25 (1/2)

164.

sixteenthings.indd 164 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e A low hum travels up the stairs from the bas.e.m.e.nt. Voices meld together and m.u.f.fle, and it's impossible to hear actual words. And then footsteps. Two sets. I breathe deep. Deny. Deny. The power of denial is my superpower.

I wipe my hands on my jeans. The door opens. A tall blond man steps out, around the corner to the hallway. The cat purrs and prances toward him. My eyes don't leave him. His nose has a b.u.mp just like mine. He even has a dimple on his cheek where my cheek puckers in. Our eyes are the same shade of brown.

He's wearing jeans and a golf s.h.i.+rt, trim and fit for an older man. I can't take my eyes off him. He's so familiar looking. He's a stranger. There's no doubt I've found my dad. I swallow and fight an urge to cry.

”Yes?” He walks a few feet in front of me and stops. Stares at me.

My face burns. ”I'm Morgan.” I cower, just a little, but shake it off and stare at him.

I wait for it. His anger. Maybe some excuses. A reaction to having me show up on his doorstep without warning. Eighteen years later.

His daughter.

”Morgan?” He glances back, and I realize his wife followed him around the corner. She stoops over and scoops up the cat. His gaze returns to me. ”Have we met?” he asks.

There's an audible breath of relief from her mouth, and it softens the crow's feet in the corner of her eyes. She stands taller and touches his back for a moment and then goes back to stroking the cat.

He hasn't told her. About me. She doesn't know. To me, keeping quiet is the same as lying. I frown. Apparently she doesn't know 165.

sixteenthings.indd 165 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r him as well as she thinks she does. Her boyfriend? Her husband? I squeeze my fists together.

”We haven't officially met. But you know that already.” I speak methodically, trying to mask the anxiety in my gut. My mind is black. I want to punch him in the gut. He doesn't even care enough to acknowledge me? Not exactly what I was hoping for.

”You do look familiar.” His eyebrows crease and push together, and then he crosses his arms.

Familiar? I clench my teeth to keep my damaged pride pouring out. ”What exactly can I do for you, young lady?” His tone is less amicable now.

The hairs on my arm stand up. ”Well, you haven't done anything so far.” How can he look at me like that? He has to know I'm the daughter he abandoned. Even I can see myself in his face. He has to see himself in mine.

”What it is you want?” He uncrosses his arms and steps in front of the woman and cat, as if he's protecting them from me. Me?

Unbelievable.

”It's me,” I say. ”Morgan.” My voice cracks on my name.

Nothing.

”Morgan McLean.” My fingernails press into my skin as I wait.

He shakes his head and glances at the woman beside him, and their eyes speak without words. He's suggesting I'm a lunatic.

”Mary McLean's daughter,” I spell out.

”Mary? Mary McLean?”

Ah- ha, Einstein. Catching on now?

I brace myself for his outburst.

166.

sixteenthings.indd 166 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e ”From Seattle?” He frowns and reaches into his pants pocket and takes out a tube of ChapStick. I stare at him, kind of shocked, almost laughing, while he smears it on his lips. Nature versus nur- ture debate teams would have a blast with this.

”The one and only.” The clock in the dining room ticks loudly.

”I haven't talked to Mary in years.” He tilts his head, studying my face. ”How is she?”

”She just had heart surgery.” I unclench my fists and lift my chin so he won't see how much it's quivering.

”I knew your mom a long time ago. I haven't seen her in years.”

He glances at the little woman with him, as if he wishes she'd rescue him. ”She's okay?”

I stare at his face- the face that was never there for me. The face that never wanted a child, never wanted me- still isn't embracing me now. ”She's fine. She actually thought she was going to die. And that's when she told me how to find you. She's protected you all these years.”

”Protected me?” He glances at the woman. The cat stares at me, not blinking.

I put my hands on my hips, hating the cat, wanting to hiss at it.

”Your mother broke up with me over eighteen years ago. I haven't seen or talked to her since. I'm sorry she's been sick, but...?” He raises both eyebrows and glances at his watch, but his face is getting visibly paler by the second.

My stomach hurts and my hands shake but it's impossible to tell if it's from anger or fear. I could easily throw up. ”She's not,” I tell him, ”going to die.”

167.

sixteenthings.indd 167 9/9/13 2:21 PM.

J a n e t G u r t l e r ”Um. That's good?” He rubs his lips together and looks at the woman, his eyebrows raised.

I stare at him. This isn't what I'd braced myself for. I expected excuses. I hoped for regret- but not disinterest or impatience. It's actually worse.

”I'm eighteen,” I say.

He stares at me long and hard, and then his eyes wrinkle more in the corners and his back straightens.

”When were you born?” he demands.

”December.”

He presses his lips together, frowns, and rubs at the back of his neck. The woman puts her hand on his arm.

”My mom raised me. Alone. Well, me and my older twin brothers.”