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Emma: A boy
Me: Gross. You’ll get fired for that
Emma: laugh emoji Ew. Not funny
Emma: He’s a man
Me: Phew. date?
Emma: kind of
Me: It’s time you tell me about this boy-man. We need to meet soon. I want to hear all about it.
Emma: Yes. I need to talk.
Me: Everything okay?
Emma: yeah, I just need my free therapy sheesh with my bf
Me: this weekend?
Emma: yes. I’ll text after school tomorrow.
Me: Sounds good
Emma: Did you schedule the autism test?
Me: yes - six freaking months out
Emma: damn, I’m sorry
Me: it’s okay. Tell the boy-man to go home. You need to go to bed. You’re going to be hungover.
Emma: kiss emoji
My smile turns into a frown as I stare at the phone. It’s unlike Emma to be up past nine, and this makes me even more curious about this mystery man.
I click out of the text conversation and return my focus on the how-to-divorce article.
One step at a time.
TWENTY-TWO
ROWAN
Twenty-eight years earlier
The moment my eyes opened, I flung off the covers and surged out of bed. Wearing a ridiculous grin on my face, I grabbed the robe from the back of the bathroom door and slid into a tattered pair of fuzzy flip flops.
Despite the adrenaline rush, I paused at the bedroom door, and reminded myself to be quiet. Those were the rules. No noise in the house before 8 a.m. Pamela and Ed Jenkins, my current foster parents whom I’d been with for three months, were very strict. I didn’t mind this so much because I was just thrilled that they didn’t have kids. I was the only child in the home, and this was a scenario I greatly preferred.
I hurried down the rickety wooden staircase of the old farmhouse, the steps groaning under my weight. Swinging myself around the bottom banister, I ran to the kitchen.
I stopped abruptly at the doorway, waiting for fanfare.
Pamela and Ed looked up from their bibles, clearly startled at the usual burst of energy from me.
Ed frowned in disapproval.
