Page 59 of Call You Mine
Patricia doesn’t skip a beat, keeping her voice calm and neutral. “Then once the paperwork is processed through the court, your sister will be cleared for adoption, and we can move forward.”
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding finally releases.
“I’ll be honest,” she starts softly, putting her gloved hands into the pocket of her jacket. “When we first opened this case, I had some concerns. A two-bedroom apartment with a roommate, variable income, no secondary caregiver?—”
“But it’s not just me,” I quickly remind her.
“That’s right. Your fiancé’s house and his stable hours and income really help, along with his insurance and the overallsupport he seems willing to give you and your sister. I know I only spent a short time with him, but I could tell in that time that he is all in when it comes to taking care of you and Georgina.”
My heart skips a beat before I remember how carefully Anderson was playing his part on Sunday, giving Patricia the show of a lifetime.
I’m glad it paid off—despite the pit in my stomach at how easy it was for him to pretend we meant something to him.
“Have you two decided on a wedding date yet?”
I’ve been preparing for this question ever since our initial meeting, when this whole fake marriage mess came about, but I haven’t had time to talk to Anderson about my answer. I’ve been losing sleep over making sure this plan of ours is foolproof, especially with seeing Rumi, Jack, and Emerson tomorrow. It was on my to-do list for today, to run the plan I came up with by Anderson, but my list of tasks is forgotten on my desk back at Hey Honey’s.
And as Patricia waits for my answer, I decide I don’t have a choice but to answer, “Next month.” I don’t tell her that my internet browsing history from today is filled with research on Las Vegas marriage licenses and the address of the Little White Chapel nearest to the hotel I booked for all five of us today.
Patricia’s eyes grow wide, her cheeks rosy from the wind as a smile spreads across her lips. “That is so great to hear!”
I nod, forcing a smile. “We’re keeping things small and a little more casual. Once the adoption is finalized, we’ll do something much bigger with all our friends and family since we’ll have more time to plan.” The lie rolls right off my tongue, since I know Anderson and I have already agreed to divorce once the adoption is all said and done.
“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” Patricia beams. “Georgina is so lucky to have you and your fiancé. Shedeserves to be in a happy home built on commitment and love.”
I hum in agreement, opting for the “less is more” approach for this cover story, ignoring the guilt eroding a hole into my stomach at her words.
Patricia straightens, walking the few steps to stand on the sidewalk next to my parked car. “So, once we have the documentation, the home study will reflect the new residence and combined income. With the relinquishment signed and your updated circumstances, I’ll be recommending approval for kinship adoption.”
CHAPTER 18
ANDERSON
I tryto keep my face neutral, even though my heart is breaking for this little girl.
I know what it feels like to lose a father so young.
I know what kind of hole it leaves not only in your life but in your soul—like part of the person you were going to grow up to be is completely ripped out from inside of you.
And hearing her say how the house she was living in stopped feeling like her home when she lost him has my throat feeling like I’m swallowing broken glass, the emotion making it hard to get any words out.
“It’s the people in the house who make it a home.” The words come from a place deep inside me, one that I often forget about. It’s the place where I put all my grief when my dad died. The same place it ebbed and flowed with every year of my childhood that went on without him, until suddenly I had lived more of my life without him than with him.
A place that I go to when I miss him, even as an adult, just to remind me of him. The hurt of losing him is the only thing I have left of him.
I push the button for the fourth floor.
“After my dad died, my mom got rid of everything that reminded her of him,” Georgie admits over the soft humming of the elevator moving. “I think that’s what made it stop feeling like home.”
I sigh, remembering the way that my mom did the exact opposite after my dad died, keeping everything almost exactly the way he left it—from his work boots he had taken off in the garage that evening, to the empty can of beer he left in the cup holder of his recliner in the basement before he went to bed that night.
It took years to clean up the remaining remnants of him. But even to this day, the closet they shared is still half-full with his clothes, the pantry still stocked with his favorite type of pretzels—the ones he used to snack on as she made dinner, promising they wouldn’t ruin his appetite—as if one of these days he’ll come home and pick up where he left off.
Maybe that’s why I still add to the record collection he helped me build, even if he’s not here anymore.
“When did your dad die?” Georgie asks.
The elevator dings, and the doors open to the fourth floor. We both step out, walking down the hallway. “I was eight. He had a heart attack in the middle of the night.”
