Page 152 of One Wild Wish

I pulled out a chair for her. “You say that every time.” Even after Step Class Hell. “How are things with your mom?”

She swiped a towel over her forehead, then hung it around her neck. “Not good. Chemo doesn’t seem to be helping, and doctors wear that bad-news frown when they talk to her.”

Rachel and I exchanged worried glances. She reached over the table to hold Gwen’s hand. “How are you ?”

“Also not good. I’ve tried to spend time with her, but we usually end up fighting. It’s like me being there is making things worse. I’m going to take a break.”

“You sure that’s smart?” Rachel asked.

“I have zero clue what’s smart right now. All I keep focusing on is the fact that she’s going to die before she tells me who my father is. I brought it up last time, and our fight was pretty epic. We both need space, I think.”

Whatever my relationship and life stress, it was peanuts compared to this. “We’re going out tomorrow, with the guys and maybe Owen’s brother. You should come. We can ply Rachel with wine until she gets on the dance floor and embarrasses herself.”

Gwen snickered. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

Somehow she perked up and chatted about her next death-defying stunt—rock climbing sans rope.

I once asked her why she tempted fate by jumping from planes and the like. Her reply: Scaring myself makes me feel alive. In the face of her mother’s illness, she was still scaring herself. Still living, careening into the void. Dating Owen and ignoring that slanderous text certainly scared me, but confronting Anton also sent me into panic mode. I may never test my limits the way Gwen barreled through hers, but it was time to take control of my life. Facing my past seemed like a good place to start.

* * *

I’d skipped out on this week’s volunteering sessions. Although I didn’t have the willpower to turn down Owen’s evening invitations, I’d studiously avoided him during the day, as though the sunlight would expose my nervous energy and he’d tire of my hot-and-cold routine. With tonight’s ambush on the horizon, the notion was less unsettling, and it was nice to be back.

The familiar hustle and bustle of the Habitat build had me smiling: hammers pounded, saws whirred, voices shouted instructions and questions. I didn’t spot Owen or Anton right away, but a handful of students were sitting on scaffolding, paintbrushes in hand, as they joked and painted window frames.

The first six townhomes were nearing completion, another six rising from the ground. Pride puffed up my chest at the sight.

Then a red-headed man slid into my peripheral vision, and my pride went splat .

Anton was talking with two girls, both teens grimacing. He was too far to see his scarred hand, but his arms cut stern lines as he spoke, maybe reprimanding them. The girls then faced each other, hips jutted out with attitude, as though they were forcing out insincere apologies.

If I could write thought bubbles above their heads, they would read:

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The depths of teenage sincerity.

The two trudged off toward the build, and Anton rubbed his eyes, clearly exhausted. He didn’t look like the guy who’d laughed as I’d stumbled, terrified, out of the walk-in fridge, or the villain who’d hissed stupid bitch when I’d forget to put a second tomato on a Chucky’s Chicken Sandwich. But he did have a limp from the mean prank I’d pulled, a slight drag of his right leg.

I contemplated scuttling back to my apartment and hiding in the dark for the rest of the day. Never showing my face onsite again. But I’d made a bold wish to better myself, which meant doing more than Habitat work.

Yes, Anton had been a dick. Yes, he had tormented me. But this was about acknowledging the cruel thing I’d done, provoked or not. Not hiding. Not pretending volunteering made it all better.

This was my trial, and I was as guilty as Anton.

He hadn’t moved, likely enjoying a breather from his students. I chanted a series of yoga oms , searching for serenity. I’d been out scoping stores this morning and was still in my Donna Karan jersey dress and ankle boots. That left me dressier than I’d have liked for this encounter. The exact thing Anton had teased me about all those years ago.

At least my walk of shame would be fashionable.

I forced my spine straight, determined to face the music. (The soundtrack to Jaws , specifically.) I navigated the uneven ground until Anton was a foot away. Close enough that I could glimpse red, puckered skin on his right hand. His attention cut to me, maybe sensing my horrified stare. His eyes widened behind his glasses. Then they narrowed, slicing me down at my wobbly knees.

His stance slammed from relaxed to rigid. “Ainsley Hall.”