“Very busy,” she agrees, looking up at me with a smile. “Want to go out for breakfast? That place by the harbor has amazing eggs benedict.”
“Sounds good,” I say, even though my mind is still processing, still circling the tattoo like a problem to solve.
“I’m going to shower,” she says, kissing me once more before heading toward the bathroom.
While she showers, I stand in the small kitchen, making coffee with the pour-over and trying to settle my thoughts. The familiar ritual helps slightly. Boil the water, pour in slow circles.By the time she emerges, hair damp and smelling like her shampoo, I’ve managed to push the feeling mostly aside.
“Shower’s free,” she says, taking the mug I offer. “Oh! I just remembered, last night I saw there’s a panel on Sunday about contemporary women writers. The one with that author from Portland you mentioned? I definitely want to catch that one.”
“Sounds good,” I say.
She’s already scrolling through her phone, coffee mug balanced in her other hand. “I’m adding it to the list so we don’t forget.” She glances up at me and grins. “Your turn for the shower. I’m starving and if we don’t leave soon, I might start gnawing on the furniture.”
I shower quickly, the hot water helping clear my head. When I come out, towel around my waist, she’s sitting on the bed fully dressed, sipping her coffee.
“We could walk,” I suggest, pulling on jeans and a clean shirt.
“It’s too far and I’m too hungry,” she says, standing and grabbing her keys from the dresser. “My stomach is staging a revolt. Let’s drive.”
She tosses me her keys without looking, already trusting I’ll catch them. “You drive. I want to finish my coffee in peace.”
The drive to the harbor is quiet, Maren humming along to the radio while I navigate the familiar streets. Morning fog still clings to the Sound, everything soft and indistinct. The café sits right on the water, weathered wood and nautical charm, the kind of place that hasn’t changed in thirty years and fights off any attempts at modernization.
Inside, it smells like bacon and coffee and the sea. We slide into a booth by the window, red vinyl seats that have seen better decades, and Maren immediately starts chatting with our server, an older woman named Deb who knows everything about everyone in Dark River.
“The usual for you, hon?” Deb asks Maren.
“Yes, and he’ll have...” Maren looks at me expectantly.
“Eggs benedict,” I say, though my appetite is uncertain.
“Good choice,” Deb says, scribbling on her pad. “Be right up.”
Maren starts talking about the conference, which panels she’s most excited about, asking if I know any of the speakers. She mentions wanting to explore my neighborhood in Seattle, maybe checking out the bookstore I mentioned. The casual way she discusses it all, like of course we’ll be doing this together, like we’re a given, makes something twist in my chest. Because I want that. Want her planning things with me, want the assumption that we’re an us. But my mind keeps circling back to the tattoo. My words inked on her ribs. Why didn’t she tell me?
“You okay?” she asks suddenly, studying my face. “You seem quiet. More broody than usual.”
I’m about to respond when I see a couple approaching our table with the determined stride of people on a mission. The man is tall, grey-haired, and as he gets closer, I feel my stomach drop. He’s wearing my face, twenty years older. Same jaw, same nose, same way of carrying himself. The woman beside him looks to be in her fifties, nervous, clutching her purse like armor.
“Calvin Midnight?” the man asks, stopping at our table.
“Yes?” I don’t stand. Don’t offer my hand. Just stare at this stranger wearing my features like a Halloween mask.
“I’m David Reeves,” he says, then gestures to the woman. “This is my wife, Jolene. We’ve been trying to get in contact for some time now. And, um... There’s no easy way to say this. But we’re your biological parents.”
The words hang there. I just stare at them, trying to process. I’ve always known I was adopted, like all the Midnight boys. Mom and Dad told me when I was seven, sat me down in the living room with hot chocolate and careful words. Made it clear I was chosen, wanted, loved. I’d never been curious about the biology of it, never felt incomplete or wondered about my birth parents for more than a passing minute.
Then my mind flashes to the paper. The contact request form I found weeks ago while sorting through Mom’s desk, shoved between old tax returns. A formal request from someone seeking contact with the child they’d given up. I’d stuffed it back in the drawer, pretended I’d never seen it. Refused to think about it.
She’d kept it from me. Protected me from this moment.
“Oh,” I manage. I feel Maren’s hand tighten on mine under the table. “I... wasn’t expecting this.”
“We know this is a shock,” Jolene says, her voice gentle but nervous. “We tried going through proper channels, but our requests weren’t answered.”
“My mother just died. We literally just had her memorial,” I say slowly.
“We know,” David says. “We read about it. The obituary. That’s partly why we’re here. We’ve been following your career. Your writing. The essays about grief, about family. They’re powerful. Moving.”
