A flashback of myself hovering over my friend’s lifeless body slams into me.
“It was,” I say.
“You’re such a courageous young man.” Mrs. Blanchard places a hand over her heart. “I’m so proud of you.”
Her statement puzzles me since we just met, but I’m touched, nonetheless.
“Dawson would’ve done the same for me,” I say with unwavering conviction.
The couple nod, their expression somber.
I take a sip of my wine to calm myself.
Years pass, but talking about Dawson is still so fucking hard.
“I’m still not certain what compelled me to pick up thePeoplemagazine from my executive assistant’s desk and flip through the pages of your article, but I’m glad I did,” Mr. Blanchard says. “Without it, I would never have known we were neighbors.”
“Although I’m proud of my farmhouse, I wouldn’t say we’re neighbors, sir.”
He pins me with a serious gaze. “What I mean to say is, you’ve been right under my nose all this time.”
I frown my confusion.
The waiter approaches our table, but Mr. Blanchard lifts a hand, stopping him. The lanky man bows before walking away backwards.
Talk about power.
“When I showed Lore the article,” Mr. Blanchard says, “she turned as white as a ghost. When her blue eyes met mine, they were shimmering with tears. For a long time, she couldn’t speak, and when she did, she said,Oh, my God.The irony of it all wasn’t lost to me. We lived in the same state and we didn’t even know you existed.”
“Mr. Blanchard, there’s nothing special about me.”
“Had I found you earlier, I would’ve never allowed Jocelyn McClad to adopt you.”
My head jerks back.
“I was living in Dallas when you became an orphan—so, not far from Summerville. I should’ve been the one taking you under my wing. After all, you’re my flesh and blood.”
What the fuck?
Mrs. Blanchard places a hand on her husband’s arm. “Honey, you promised you would approach this with finesse,” she says. “You just clobbered the poor young fellow, and then proceeded to pull the rug from under his feet.”
What is she talking about?
Mr. Blanchard rubs impatient hands over his face before running his fingers through his gray hair. When his eyes meet mine, they’re stormy. Troubled, even. “I promised my wife I’d ease you into this”–– his voice cracks––”get acquainted first––”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blanchard, but none of this makes any sense to me.”
He stares at me for a few long beats.
I squirm in my seat.
“Son, you may have lost your parents and your adoptive ma, but you’re not alone in the world––”
“I’m not. I have my fiancée and her family,” I say, my chest puffing with pride.
Mr. Blanchard shakes his head.
Who the fuck does he think he is disapproving of Carina?
