Page 25 of Licks

I saw him at TASC.

When I spotted the intimate tidbit: I’m dying to kiss him, my hands shook. This was my first clue. A real lead, not the stupid window washer business cards I’d stolen from my mother’s purse. There had been a boy at this TASC place.

Possibly my father.

Part of me wanted to keep reading, but the reality of August and these clues tumbling into my life so suddenly had my head ready to pop. What would I say if I met my father tonight? How was I supposed to act around August later?

Thank God I’d made plans to meet the girls, a reprieve I desperately needed. A chance to find my equilibrium and unload this drama before it intensified, even though August would be there, too.

Soon, he’d be sitting with us, possibly flirting with me and going on about his saved photo and pole like the two of us could forget our past. Even worse was the possibility of him not flirting with me and going on about his saved photo and pole like the two of us could forget our past.

I wasn’t sure which option stressed me more.

Journal left in my car, I crossed the street to Sweet Pea, a cute bistro/bar we frequented. The barn-board walls and cramped wooden tables created a casual-chic vibe. I normally found the place relaxing, the country tunes not too loud. This afternoon I scanned the room as though a jack-in-the-box might spring from the floor.

My friends were at a table, drinks in hand, no August in sight. I breathed easier. It was also nice having space from the journal and the possibilities it might hold. “I hope this is for me.” I nodded to the white wine near one of two empty chairs.

Rachel squinted at me. “Should I have ordered you a bottle?”

“Do I look that bad?”

“You don’t look like you.”

Even my best friend sensed I was an imposter. “Things have happened.”

My mother things. Finding my father things. August things. Unsure where to begin, I sat in the seat beside Rachel. Ainsley was on her right, their boyfriends across from them. They all watched me, waiting. I sipped my wine, stalling. I tried to remember that I wasn’t alone in the complicated-relationship department.

Owen was the strong silent type, the tiniest twang to his baritone, a rugged man who’d look at home corralling sheep and saying ma’am. Here he was, smitten with Ainsley, a blond bombshell whose closet rivaled a Bloomingdale’s display. Rachel’s freckled innocence was a sharp contrast to Jimmy’s inked skin and biker style, but they’d fallen cupid stupid in love with each other.

I’d watched both girls the past year, falling in love, then not falling, then falling harder, then hurting before eventually zooming to cloud nine. I was thrilled for them. They deserved the world. Watching them find their other had also torn at me, on a fundamental level.

My dating hiatus the past year had been necessary. The only way to break a habit was by going cold turkey, and my asshole dependency had become a problem. Part of me had believed I didn’t deserve more; a girl who slept with her first love’s brother wasn’t high on Santa’s Nice List. Part of me was just plain tired of no man ever measuring up to the one who owned my heart.

I did want my other, though. I dreamed of it. Yearned for that and more.

A family of my own.

If it didn’t happen one day, I’d toss my name in the adoption pool, find a baby who needed a loving mother, someone who would support her, rub her back when sick, celebrate the highs and commiserate for the lows. I would do it, on my own if need be. It wasn’t my first choice. I wanted the whole package, but there was only one man I’d ever imagined in that role. A virtual impossibility, no matter our earlier flirtations.

I sighed into my wine.

Ainsley nudged Rachel, the two of them striking up conversation as though I wasn’t there. “Is this because of the soccer guy? Her old crush?”

“Considering he showed up at her mother’s house unannounced, I’d go with yes.”

“I need details.”

“Do you ever.” Rachel looked as bewildered as when I’d confessed my WTF. “But it’s not my bedtime story to tell.”

I glared at the girls, who chose an inopportune time to play our Make Her Squeal game. If two of us ignored the third while hanging out, and talked about her in front of her face, the ignored friend eventually caved and spilled her stockpiled gossip. Which was what I wanted to do, break this dam holding my August and lost-luggage drama hostage.

Unfortunately, explaining it was easier in my head.

“Is he as hot up close?” Ainsley went on.

Rachel fanned her face. “Hotter.”

“Damn.”