Something about the way he says it makes me wary. “Thank you?” I manage.
“You have my gift with words, you know. I’m a poet myself, published in several literary journals.”
“Your gift?” I say slowly.
“Well, genetics...” he starts, spreading his hands like it’s obvious. “Talent like that, it runs in families.”
“Genetics didn’t sit with me while I learned to read. Genetics didn’t drive me to college visits or edit my terrible first stories.” The anger is building in me now. “That was Susan and Hank Midnight. Myactualparents.”
“Of course,” Jolene says quickly, touching David’s arm in warning. “We’re not trying to diminish what they did. We just thought, now that they’re gone, maybe you’d want to know where you come from.”
“Iknowwhere I come from,” I say, gripping the edge of thetable. “Dark River, Washington. The house on the bluff. Parents who wanted me.”
David’s jaw tightens, the expression so familiar it’s unsettling. Like looking in a mirror, or a warning. “We were eighteen. We couldn’t raise a baby. Giving you up was the hardest...”
“Stop!” My voice cuts through his rehearsed speech. “Just stop. What do you really want? Because this isn’t a Hallmark movie. You didn’t track me down after thirty-five years just to share medical history.”
They exchange glances. Jolene nods slightly, giving him permission for something.
“We’re in trouble,” David admits, the words coming out rushed now. “Financial trouble. The house is in foreclosure. Medical bills. I thought maybe, since you’re successful now, you might help.” He pauses, then adds quickly, “And I have a poetry collection that needs a blurb, maybe an introduction. Your name would open doors. We could split the profits.”
“There it is,” I say, my voice cold. “The real reason.”
“Calvin, please understand—” David starts.
“No,youunderstand,” I cut him off, standing. The booth shakes slightly. “You gave me away. That was your choice. You don’t get to cash in thirty-five years later because I made something of myself despite you.”
“We gave you to good people,” David says defensively.
“Yes, you did. The best people. People who actually raised me, who were there for every nightmare and every achievement. And now that they’re gone, you show up with your hand out?” I shake my head, disgust rising in my throat. “We’re done here.”
“Wait,” Jolene says quickly, pulling something from her purse. “Please. Just... in case you change your mind.” She holds out a small card. “Our numbers. Both of them.”
I stare at the card for a moment, her hand extended between us. David watches with a desperate kind of hope that makes mystomach turn. Against my better judgment, I take it, the cardstock feeling heavy in my fingers. I look at it briefly—their names, two phone numbers, an email address—then shove it deep in my pocket like it might contaminate me if I hold it too long.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say.
“We understand,” Jolene says softly. “We’ll be here if you ever...”
But I’m walking away. Maren follows me out of the café. I’m already at her car, hands braced on the hood, trying to breathe through the rage. My knuckles are white from gripping the metal too hard.
“Calvin, I’m so sorry,” she says, reaching for me. “That was horrible. They had no right?—”
“Your tattoo.” The words come out before I can stop them. My mind’s been circling it since this morning, and now with everything else crashing down, I can’t hold it in.
She freezes. “What?”
I turn to face her, studying her expression. “The tattoo on your ribs. My words.”
Her face goes pale.
“How long have you had it?”
“Seven years,” she says quietly.
“Seven years.” The math spins in my head. Before she knew me. Before Mom got sick. Before any of this. “You’ve had my words tattooed on your body for seven years. And you never told me. We’ve been together for weeks, we’ve slept together, and you never mentioned it.”
“I know how it looks?—”
