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I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. “Do you really want to know?”
“Please,” he says in a low voice. He pulls away to look at me, and his eyes are pleading.
“She left when I was six. I don’t remember her that well, but she wasn’t a great mom. She was pretty absent, actually. I don’t remember her being around much when I was little. She worked on Broadway. Not as a star, just as a chorus member. She loved to dance and sing. I guess that’s where I get it from.” My chest is tight, the way it always is when I think about her too much.
“And you’ve never heard from her?”
I shake my head. “Never.” My voice comes out hoarse. “I wish I could stop being upset about it. Even after all these years.”
Jonah’s face twists in sympathy. “You never wanted to reach out to her?”
“I’ve looked at her social media. She has a new family. Two kids. One even kind of looks like me. If she wanted to come into our lives, she could. She knows where we live. She knows my name. But she just left.” My voice breaks on the last words, and Jonah puts his coffee down before pulling me against his chest. He smells like citrus and cedar. His T-shirt is soft against my cheek, and I curl my fingers into it. He’s so warm. Strong, like he could never break under the weight of the world. I inhale deep lungfuls of air as he holds me.
“I’m sorry.” He presses his lips to my hair. “I don’t know how anyone could ever leave you. I certainly couldn’t.”
I tense. What does that mean? I’m scared to ask, scared he’ll take it back, but a tendril of warmth curls through my chest.
49
Jonah
Mia interrupts us, looking annoyed, which is normal for her. She’s petite and blonde and extremely pregnant, which has not improved her mood whatsoever. She smiles at Callie, scowls at me, and gestures for us to come inside.
“We need you for the cake cutting.”
“Why?” Callie whispers to me as we follow Mia down the hall.
“Family tradition,” I mutter. “Guest of honor has to cut the cake. I’m the, ah, sperm donor for them.”
Callie’s face softens. “How lovely.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Pretty cool, right? That reminds me—” I hurry to catch up to Mia. She turns, still looking irritated. “I had the documents for me to give up paternity drafted. If you want to sign, we can fill in the name when he’s born.” Giving up paternity is a necessary step, and Mia’s greatest fear was that I would change my mind about it.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. I shrug awkwardly and follow her into the kitchen, where everyone is gathered.
Callie looks questioningly at me. “She was nervous I wouldn’t want to give up paternity,” I explain. “She wanted to go with an anonymous donor, but Christine didn’t. I’m trying to show her that she doesn’t need to worry.”
“You’re wonderful. You know that, right?” Callie’s eyes are shining with emotion. I shake my head, but I’m smiling as I step away.
Christine is waiting expectantly. I wrap my arm around her and press a kiss to her hair. “Proud of you, sis.” My voice comes out rough but Christine gives me a happy smile.
“Let’s get on with it,” Mia says. We wrap our hands around the cake knife. Christine, then Mia, then me, and cut into the massive chocolate cake with one definitive slice.
“A good cut,” my dad exclaims. “He’s gonna be strong-willed. Like Jonah.” Everyone laughs and I duck my head. My eyes search for Callie in the crowd. She’s pink-cheeked and her eyes are bright. Does she want kids? Maybe. She’d be a good mom. She’d teach them how to sing and how to navigate the city and how to never give up.
Mia’s sharp elbow digs into my side. “Move. I need to cut pieces for everyone.”
I ignore her and focus on Callie. I jerk my head to the left and give her a smile. She gives a tiny nod. We meet in the hallway behind the kitchen.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“And go where?” She’s grinning. “Won’t your sister be mad?”
“I’ll text her. Come with me for a ride.” I grab her hand and tug her down the hall, out the back, and to the garage. It’s musty and smells like oil and dirt. It’s full of my dad’s tools, yard supplies, an extra fridge. The motorcycle is in the corner, under a tarp.
“Wow.” Callie’s eyes are wide and excited as I uncover it. “What, um, kind is it?” She screws her face up. “I have no vocabulary for this.”
“It’s a cruiser.” I run my hand over the black leather seat. It’s worn and faded but soft from use. “It’s designed for daily riding, even commuting. But it was the fastest model available the year it was made. It goes 145 miles per hour. I couldn’t afford a new one, but I got it used.”
