She shakes her head as she gently tucks the card inside the front cover. “Thank you, Connor.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, ruffling her hair. “What are you working on?”
She sets the book aside while she smooths out her hair. “Just coloring.”
I toss a backward glance around the corner to confirm Drew’s still in the shower as I grab a colored pencil and settle into the seat beside Gretchen.
“Are you excited about your party?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I guess.”
I pull at my bottom lip, gaze locked on her profile, but she stays focused on her task. I could ask about her friends at school, but Gretchen’s sharp—she’ll see right through that. Maybe some reversepsychology is in order. Turning back to the coloring sheet, I say, “Yeah, I don’t really like parties all that much either.”
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
A minute later, her soft voice, barely a whisper above the sound of the pointed tips of our pencils dragging across the paper, finally says, “Do you think my parents think about me on my birthday?”
Stunned by the question, I halt my pencil. Shoulders hung low, she stares blankly out the window in front of us.
“Of course they do, Gretch. I saw the balloons and the banner in the kitchen. I know they’re so excited to celebrate you.”
She shakes her head and something knots inside my chest. “No. Not them,” she says. “I mean my real parents. The ones who gave me away.”
Gretchen being adopted isn’t a secret, but it’s not something I hear her family talk about, at least not while I’m around. Honestly, most days, I forget altogether that she’s adopted. That’s when it hits me: if it’s this easy for me to forget this major detail about somebody who is a frequent presence in my life, how much easier could it be for her own family to forget? You could argue that’s a good thing because it means they’ve fully embraced her as their own, but it must be so different from Gretchen’s perspective.
Perhaps her birthday is the hardest of all days to forget. Maybe, of all days out of the year, today is the day she wants—needs—this part of her to be remembered.
The details of her adoption aren’t something I’ve ever thought to inquire about. I’m the last person to wax poetic about her situation, much less know the right thing to say here.
As best I can, I muster a response that, I hope, can settle her vulnerable heart without speaking out of turn. “I think you were given to some pretty amazing people. I know your parents love you. And Drew?” I click my tongue. “That dude is freaking obsessed with you.”
Finally, she smiles in a fit of giggles.
I take in her dark hair that’s nothing like the light brown hair donned by her dad and brother, or the blond hair her mom has. Her deep, tanned skin that’s a stark contrast to the fair complexionof the rest of her family. Then there’s the dark chocolate eyes and light freckles over her nose; the two standout features on her face that hold zero resemblance to the saints who’ve raised her and the brother who adores her.
“If I knew your birth parents, I’d tell them how amazing and creative and smart you are. I’d also tell them about what a badass family you ended up with.”
“You’re not supposed to sayass.” She says the last word on a whisper behind a cupped hand. I lift two guilty hands in surrender.
“You’ve got a family here that loves you, Gretch. I know I’m just Drew’s friend, but I hope you know that I love you, too.”
I think she might cry, but she launches forward and wraps me in a hug instead. The awkward angle of our chairs butted up next to each other has her cheek buried in my chest with one arm thrown over my shoulder. I reach around her neck as best as I can, resting a hand on her head.
“You can be my friend too, Connor.”
“I’d love that, Fish.”
With one final “Happy Birthday” on my way out, I begin down the stairs. Pausing to look back, I watch as Gretchen sets her pencils aside, pulls her headphones back over her ears, grabs her new book andclutches it tight to her chest.
A second later, she opens to the first page and I smile.
Chapter Seventeen
SHE WAS NEVER MINE
Connor
Gretchen stepsinto the living room still wearing the pink dress from dinner, high heels swapped out for fuzzy slippers. Long black waves are thrown into a messy knot on top of her head, a few rogue strands framing her face. And there, on the bridge of her nose is a pair of tortoiseshell glasses I’ve never seen before.
