Page 82 of Mad Girl

“You are, aren’t you? Oh my God.”

I flew past you, storming into your room. “So that’s why he moved you in here. That’s why. You were never a stranger. He would never leave me alone with some strange foreign guy who befriended Michael. You’re his son.” I paused, reeling, trying to count back twenty years. “He got some girl pregnant in college—just like John.”

You blinked, still pale and silent.

“Are you my mom’s, too? Did they put you up for adoption?” I sat on the edge of your bed, clutching my forehead. It all made sense: the glowing contentment on Nic’s face when he’d greeted you in the entry hall the day before, why you and Claire looked nothing alike, why you’d dodged my question about being adopted, why my dad wasn’t the slightest bit worried about leaving me alone with some random hot guy. “This is just—I mean—this is just so—I can’t even—oh my God.”

I thought of how I’d ogled your body in those little black swim trunks all summer. How I’d pictured what you might look like with no swim trunks at all. How I’d fantasized about crawling into bed with you. How, even now—even now—I still thought of you as hot. My own brother.

“I’m about to be sick,” I said, clutching my stomach, my insides roiling. I stood, then stumbled toward your bathroom. “Yep. I’m definitely about to vomit.”

But you blocked my path. “Elliot,” you said, ducking to meet my gaze. “You and I are not siblings.”

“We aren’t?” I choked out.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded. “I’m positive.”

Relief hit me like a wave—no, a tsunami. “Oh, thank God,” I said, this time clutching my chest. I sank back onto your bed and closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Said it again. “Thank God.”

When I opened my eyes, you were peering at me strangely. “What?” I said, drawing back.

“Why does the idea that we might be siblings make you want to vomit?” you asked.

I choked out a laugh. “I mean—can you imagine?—if you were my brother, I’d be stuck with you forever. You’d annoy me for the rest of my life.”

“Right,” you said, smiling as you joined me on the bed.

“Wait.” I pointed at the paper. “If my dad isn’t the alleged father in this report, who is?”

You hesitated, but ultimately said, “John.”

My mouth dropped. “John Harris?”

“Yes.”

“John’s your biological father?”

“Yes.”

“John got two girls pregnant in college?”

“Apparently so,” you said.

“So that makes Michael and Bree…”

“My half-siblings.”

“Okay, back up,” I said, hand slicing through the air. “How is any of this possible? You’re from England. You grew up there.”

“Grew up there, yes. But I was born right here—in Boston.”

“I need you to elaborate.”

So you told me the story of how you found out you were adopted after your mother died. Your adoptive father finally told you the truth, handing over two pieces of evidence as proof: your birth certificate, which listed Boston as your place of birth, and a letter from my grandmother, addressed to your adoptive mom.