“No, I’m okay,” she said, her voice hoarse, somewhere between a whisper and a frog. She perched on the edge of the couch, hands balled into fists, resting on her thighs.
AJ set his keys and phone on the clay tray, which sat on the end table, and vanished down the hallway. Poppy glanced around and found herself in a strange, magazine-perfect reality. The house was an Airbnb, true, but you’d never know someone had lived here for over a month. AJ’s definition of “lived in” was everyone else’s definition of “deep cleaned by professionals.” Everything had its place. There was no whiff of chaos, no hint of human life. When he stayed at her place, he cleaned like he was being paid by the hour. She wasn’t messy, but she had never minded a few crumbs on the counter or dishes in the sink overnight. Babies were catastrophic agents of mess. She pressed her palm to her belly and tried to imagine the inevitable collision between her way of life and his.
It was just another issue they would need to discuss. She mentally added it to the list. As her eyes swept the room, AJ’s phone lit up. She glanced at it, not trying to be nosey, the light just happened to catch her attention. When it did, she did a double take because she saw her name.
The message was from a number with a Seattle area code, and it read:Thank you again for your discretion re: identity. I appreciate you allowing me to tell Poppy and the others …
There was more, but that was all that was visible. She grabbed the phone and tried to open it while the message was still on the screen, but she wasn’t able to. The sender wasn’t saved as a contact, just a number with a Seattle area code. All she managed to catch were the next four digits of the number.
She stared at the phone, adrenaline spiking. She grabbed her own phone, thumbed a text to herself with the digits before she lost them, and cross-referenced them with the only Seattle number she knew. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. The number that had just texted AJ belonged to Deacon.
But what the hell did Deacon have to do with AJ? Why were they talking about her and about “the others?” Who were “the others?” And why did it feel, all at once, like the floor had tilted and she was about to tumble off the edge of her life?
Poppy felt herself starting to hyperventilate. She wasn’t sure why her breathing was suddenly unregulated, it just was. She stood and tried to slow it down, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth as she paced back and forth.
She tried to breathe. Her lungs weren’t cooperating. It was like she’d forgotten how to do it, like her body’s autopilot had suddenly switched off and she had to remember each step. Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth. She paced back and forth, wearing a groove in the rug. She tried to slow the rising panic with facts, but the facts were a mess: her name, Deacon, “the others,” AJ’s discretion, and a baby about to enter the world with more secrets than a cold war defector.
Was “the others” a code for someone watching them? She replayed every conversation she’d ever had with both men, searching for a clue she’d missed, a tone of voice, or a slip of the tongue that would explain any of this. Every time, shecame up empty. She began to imagine worst-case scenarios with the relentless creativity of the truly anxious. Was Deacon blackmailing AJ? No. Was AJ blackmailing Deacon? No.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking back and forth gasping for air when AJ appeared.
“What’s wrong?” he rushed to her. “Do I need to call an ambulance?” He grabbed his phone from the end table. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”
“No.” She shook her head back and forth and pointed to his phone. “I saw it. The text. What identity? Who is he? What others?” She managed to get out between pants.
AJ looked down at his device and then back up at her. “Are you okay?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“No!” she shouted. “Who ishe?!”
“Your brother,” AJ stated flatly.
“My…” Her knees went weak, and she lowered herself down onto the couch. “…what?”
AJ sat beside her. “Your brother.”
“No. What? How? His parents are the St. Claires, they’re…” Poppy was trying to articulate what she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure how to put it into words.
“Rich. Affluent,” AJ offered.
“Yes and yes.” Poppy waited for AJ to say more, when he didn’t, she said, “So they’re not his parents, or did Rachel St. Claire…?”
Poppy’s dad had a very specific type, her own mom, Celeste, and Teresa all looked like they could be related, sisters even. They had dark hair, large blue eyes, and very delicate features. Rachel St. Claire was blonde, had fair skin, with sharp features, and she was…well, old. But who knows, maybe her dad found the money attractive. It’s not like Poppy actually knew her father all that well.
“Rachel is not Deacon’s mother. Not his biological mother.”
“Who is?”
“Selma Montez. She worked for the St. Claires.”
“Let me guess: attractive, petite, dark hair, and light eyes?”
AJ didn’t respond to her question, but she could see that she’d nailed it.
“But…why didn’t he say anything?”
“He said he wanted to get to know you all first, before he told you all who he was.”
Poppy wasn’t sure if it was the pregnancy hormones or if she was just emotional because of the situation with her and AJ, but she didn’t feel like she had the emotional stamina to deal with this right now. All she could think about was poor Teresa. First she and her mom showed up at her dad’s funeral. Then a couple years after that, Liam emailed. And now this. How many more bastards did Michael Davies have roaming the country, or maybe it was an international thing? Did she have half-siblings around the globe?
