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I’m in the twilight zone. Either that or the alien abduction that gave Jace the temporary mind-meld also infected Hell’s Bend High’s student body. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the radio silence as I walk through the halls.
No taunts.
No shoves.
Nobody pelting me with food in the cafeteria.
It’s eerie how quickly I went from social pariah to unnoticed ghost. Perhaps they’ve gotten their fill of torturing me and will soon move on to someone else. Or maybe Troy had something to do with this sudden cool. Either way, I’m grateful for the change.
After school, I get on my bike, still reeling from the non-events of the day. The miles stretch before me. I hold the handlebars in a white-knuckle grip, leaning in to jump the curb, but my tire comes down on a sharp rock. The tube snaps. I lose control and end up lying in a bush.
“Great,” I grumble, dusting off. Thankfully, no one saw my less-than-graceful fall, but my bike is screwed. The deflatedrubber hangs off the wheel, my only means of transportation rendered useless. I stand for a moment weighing my options—I could call Jace to pick me up or I could walk.
Sigh.
I start pushing the damaged bike along the sidewalk. One foot in front of the other with the hot sun beating down on my face. The broken tire flops against the concrete with every step. Getting home like this will be a nightmare. I’m just about ready to throw in the towel on my pride, but in the darkest hour of my day, a mirage of hope comes into view: the town’s only gas station.
Dusty’s Accurate Auto sits on the opposite side of the street like a beacon of hope. I wheel my bike in front of the open bay doors and peer inside. “Hello?” I call.
The attendant peeks from behind the lifted hood of a Chevy. “Can I help you?”
I move into the shadow of the garage, hoping to escape the bright sun outside. “I got a flat on my bike. Can you fix it?”
“Lemme take a look.” He stretches his lean body and slams the hood before rounding the car but stops short as I hover in the doorway. The blood drains from his face. He stares at me, blinking his eyes as if in shock. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Ellie.”
“Ellie.” My name rolls off his tongue in a mumbled whisper. “My God, you look just like her.”
I cast a quick gaze behind me before looking back at him. “Who?”
“You’re Sarah Cartwright’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Goose bumps prickle my arms. Did this guy get caught up in my mother’s web of lies? I’m not in the mood to discuss my family history with a random stranger. I just want to fix my bike and go. “How is that relevant to my tire?”
He grins. “You’re sassy like her, too.”
My stomach twists. “Did you know her?”
He lifts the brim of his ballcap with his thumb and forefinger, then uses the other three to scratch the white patch in an otherwise dark head of hair. For the first time, I catch a glimpse of his eyes: one blue and one brown.
Waardenburg syndrome.
Instantly, I’m in the back of Jace’s truck as he mentions the guy with eyes like mine who owns the gas station in town. For some reason, it didn’t register at the time, yet now it’s bearing down on me like the hot Texas sun.
“I’m Dusty Coltrane,” he says as if that should mean anything to me. When I offer no reply, his shoulders slump. “She never told you about me, did she?”
I shake my head, backing away. It’s not possible. My mother may have lied to millions of people, but she never lied to me.
“Wait.” He moves toward me, but I’m already out the door. “Don’t go. Please. I’ve waited all these years, hoping you’d come find me.”
His plea is a leash tied around my waist. It pulls me back against my will. I refuse to believe the insinuation slipping off his lips. She told me my father was a one-night stand she met in a bar. She claimed she never even got his last name. I still want to believe her.
He approaches me as if stepping toward a mythical being. I stand in stunned silence, waiting for him to talk, but instead, he pries the bike from my white-knuckled grasp and wheels it into the garage.
I swallow down the emotion climbing up my throat. I’ve been desperate to chain together the pieces of my mother’s past, and the missing link has been here all along. I watch him repair my tire and fill it with air. When it’s done, he wipes his hands and turns away. “All set.”
But I can’t move. The question burns on my tongue but it doesn’t want to come out. I pull a deep inhale through my nose and force out in a single breath. “Are you my dad?”
