Page 81 of Secret Baby for My Brother's Best Friends

"I didn't really know my parents," I say hesitantly. "I grew up in foster care, shuffled from one home to another. I guess part of my selective mutism was about feeling so uncomfortable and disposable. I thought maybe if I was quiet enough, people would forget I was there, and they wouldn't get rid of me. I didn't understand then that my silence was part of what creeped out my foster parents."

Her eyes soften, and she reaches across the table. I take her hand, holding it, allowing me to talk about something I've never spoken about before.

"It worsened when I went to school. I got bullied severely, and whenever I would talk, it always seemed like I said the wrong thing. So I spent a lot of time by myself, in my head, and decided not to make the effort anymore. I didn't think anyone cared what I had to say or wanted me around. At least until I met Jake. He kind of stuck to me like glue for long enough that I figured he wanted to be there." And I'm paying him back by ignoring him. The guilt pricks me, but I remind myself it's for the best.

"I felt the same," she admits.

"Really?"

She nods. "My parents...I don't think they wanted me. My brother, maybe, but not me. I was the 'oops' baby, and my mother only carried me to term because she's catholic and doesn't believe in abortion. But I think she may have resented me for it, just a little."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Her eyes are misty, but she tries to hide it as the butler approaches with the appetizers.

She can't get it in time, so I shift closer on the sectional and pull her into a hug.

25

CHELSEA

After the embarrassing start of me crying against his shoulder, the rest of the date passes by pretty smoothly.

We talk about our childhood, our hobbies, over the most delicious lamb chops I’ve ever had in my life. I fawn over the food so much that he laughs and says, “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“Thanks for bringing me here,” I say around a mouthful of meat. He answers, “You’re welcome.”

As it gets late, he asks if I want to go home with him.

“Yes.”

The word leaves my mouth before I can call it back, not that I don’t want to. For all my coyness, I do want to go home with him, especially after everything that happened.

This date just proved what I already knew: we have so much in common, in the best way. Being with him is comfortable in a way that’s rare to find with others. Our silences feel like warmcocoons of nothingness, which don’t require us to fill them with endless noise.

And when he speaks, I listen for it, knowing that I’m going to hear something that’s either going to make me laugh or touch me in unexpected ways.

The story of his childhood is moving, and though I had parents who cared about me in their own way, it feels familiar. I recall often thinking about whether I’m a bother, if they even want me.

Would it be different if I were older, like my brother? If I hadn't come at a bad time when they were about to retire? Would it be different if I were a better child?

Those things drove me to be an overachiever throughout high school, trying to make up for the trouble I caused. It’s also the same reason I don't visit home all that often and only attend on holidays.

I try to give them the peace they wanted and repay them for raising me by basically staying out of their way.

They don’t complain that I'm not home often, only when my brother isn't. It’s not like there’s any animosity there, but I’ve always known that my brother is their favorite and I’m just the spare child they never wanted, but felt obligated to take care of anyway, now that I’m here.

And when I told him that, he listened attentively. The understanding in his eyes released something from my chest. I didn’t know when I started crying, but I couldn’t control the tears that flowed down, and having him wrap his arms around me makes it so much better and worse.

Especially when he cups my cheek, leans in and says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here too,” I told him, and just like that, the connection was locked in, undeniable, growing even stronger though we can hardly explain where it even comes from.

As we drive to his house, his hand folds over mine, and I hold it in my lap. My heart is pounding. There’s an echo much lower as well.

I fully expect us to have sex when we get there.

It’s pointless to even lie to myself or deny the sheer power of the attraction between us, especially as he strokes his thumb over the back of my hand, while he steers one-handedly, humming the song on the radio.