Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
It was easy with us. No pressure. No bullshit. No games. It wasn’t always easy to keep my hands to myself, but I did.
Right up until I didn’t.
“So she’s a wedding planner now?” I asked.
“Yes, and she’s amazing. She’s working her ass off for me. She looked at all my dream ideas and came up with ways to make them work on a smaller scale. And she called in favors from a bunch of vendors to get everything done fast, because of course, I’m doing everything last minute.” Sadie laughed. “You’re not really supposed to plan a wedding in three weeks.”
“Do you need money?” I asked, still distracted by the thought of seeing April Sawyer after so many years. What did she look like now? Did she still have that cool red hair?
Sadie shook her head. “We’re okay. It’s a small wedding, less than a hundred guests, and Josh and I want to pay for it ourselves. But thanks for offering.”
“Just let me know,” I said, finally flagging down the waitress and ordering another beer.
When it arrived, something about the amber ale’s rich auburn color reminded me of April Sawyer’s hair. While we waited for our food, I found myself glancing at the door every time it opened, wondering if by chance she’d walk in and what I’d do if she did.
I couldn’t get her out of my head.
On the drive back to my hotel, I wondered if she was married. If she had a family. If she was happy.
While I undressed and turned back the covers, I wondered if she ever thought about me.
As I lay on my back in the middle of the king-sized bed, I recalled little things about her I’d liked—the sound of her laugh, the dimples when she smiled, the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the surprisingly loud way she could whistle with her fingers, the smell of this lotion she used to wear that reminded me of birthday cake.
Was it that scent that had finally gotten the better of me that night? Was it the long red hair? The way she’d listened to me ramble on about my major league dreams while we sat in the back of my truck under the stars? Was it the fact that I was leaving the next day, and we had to say goodbye?
Or was I just a typical eighteen-year-old kid, fueled by a couple of beers and a fuck ton of testosterone?
Even now, I wasn’t sure.
What I’d told my sister and Josh was true—I didn’t know the first fucking thing about babies.
But I knew that eighteen years ago, April Sawyer had given birth to one.
And it had been mine.
Two
April
“I did it. I wrote the letter.”
Without even a hello, I dropped breathlessly onto the couch in my therapist’s office and made the announcement.
Prisha Dar, LMSW, smiled at me and lowered herself into her chair. Crossing her legs, she nodded encouragingly. “Go on.”
“I did what you said. I went home and listed all the reasons I want to meet my birth son after eighteen years, and all the reasons I don’t.”
“And what did your lists tell you?”
“Well, the list of reasons for was much longer. It included things like wanting to see what he looks like, wanting to know he’s happy, wanting to hear about his college plans.” I paused, picturing the lists I’d written out on two separate notebook pages. “It also included things like wanting confirmation once and for all that I made the right decision for him all those years ago . . . and wanting closure on that chapter of my life.”
She nodded. “And the list against?”
“It only had one word on it,” I admitted. “Fear.”
Prisha smiled sympathetically.
“And I’m still afraid. But I’m tired of letting that fear keep me from moving on. I always thought keeping my secret and burying all the painful feelings I associated with it—the guilt and the shame and the grief—was the best way to get over it. But maybe I was wrong.”
“We often try to protect ourselves that way,” Prisha said. “But it doesn’t work, does it? Those feelings become anchors that tether us silently to the very pain we need to work through and let go. And even if you make the decision not to meet your birth son, which is perfectly okay, you still need to address those feelings. When you first came in here, I could tell you weren’t quite ready.” Her lips curved into a gentle smile. “But now I think you are.”
I nodded. “I think so too. And last night, I wrote the letter to his parents. I even sealed it and addressed it and stamped it, but . . .” Ashamed, I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out an envelope. “This morning, I couldn’t bring myself to put it in the mailbox.”