Page 14 of Mirror Image

That was it for me.

“How can you not see how huge this is?” I demanded loudly. “You have no idea what it is to spend your entire life wondering who you are—really. Who was my mother, and why did she give me up? Why did she insist on the closed adoption so I couldn’t find her? And now, out of nowhere, the universe sends me this . . . this piece of me that I didn’t even know was missing! I’ve felt more complete in the last eight hours than I have in the last eighteen years. And if the two of you can’t see that—can’t help me figure this out, then I don’t think I want to be here anymore.”

“Good idea,” Dad said. “Why don’t you drive back up to campus, and we can talk about this again in a few days when everyone’s calmed down . . .”

He stopped as I shook my head.

“Uh-uh. You don’t want her to be a part of our family? Then I don’t want to be a part of it either,” I informed them less than an instant after the thought formed in my mind.

Mom gasped. “Mary! What are you saying?”

“I’m saying she’s blood. You’re not.”

Chapter Five

Jenn

Thursday afternoon

I pick up my rental car, springing for a convertible because, Why not? The hospital is paying for it, along with a hotel room. I don’t know how the next few days are going to go, but these people owe me thousands of dollars in therapy, and I aim to start collecting right here, right now. And, while my pain and suffering warrant a suite at the Four Seasons, I’ll settle for a king-size single at the Marriott with some ridiculously overpriced room service and minibar purchases. Though I reserve the right to upgrade, depending on how bad this gets.

Braithwaite left about a dozen messages asking me to meet him for dinner, none of which I bothered returning, all of which I promptly deleted. He can see me in his office tomorrow morning, as previously arranged. In the meantime I have a date with a Cuban—of both the human and sandwich varieties. No doubt New York City has some stellar Cuban cuisine but nothing the likes of what you’ll find down here in the tiny Cuba Libre restaurant. Though I’m probably biased because my family has owned the joint for decades.

The parking gods are smiling upon me, and I’m able to find a spot on the same block. This whole neighborhood is hopping tonight, and when I walk through the door, there are about ten people already waiting for a table. I don’t draw any attention to myself, just slip into the back of the line. It isn’t until I’m almost at the front that Stef spots me, looks away, then looks back again so quickly, I’m sure she’s given herself whiplash.

“¡Ay, dios mio!” she shrieks loud enough to get the attention of every patron in the packed dining room.

A moment later she’s pushing past her other customers to scoop me up in a bear hug so tight I’m pretty sure a rib gives. Stef has always been a shorter, sturdier version of me—same dark eyes, same thick, wavy hair, though hers is worn loose and wild in the way our grandmother Lita used to wear it in old photos. She’s all warmth and volume and zero awareness of her own upper-body strength.

“Stef, please . . .” I manage to gasp while patting her back, “I can’t breathe . . .”

She releases me, plants her hands on her hips, and gives me that look—chin tipped, one eyebrow doing all the talking. “You don’t come to Miami for ten years, and now you show up without so much as a call?”

I shrug and smile sheepishly. “I’m sorry. It was kind of a last-minute thing. Besides, you were just in New York! I think the sheets in the guest room might still be warm!”

My cousin harrumphs, then grabs my hand and pulls me through the dining room, around the tables, and into the kitchen. A half dozen men and women in chefs’ whites are too busy chopping, sautéing, and searing to notice us. Finally we slip out the back door into the alley, settling onto the small bench tucked against the building.

“Dime,” she says. “Tell me. Are you finally ready to make me a tía?”

“Stef,” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “We’ve talked about this.”

Too many times.

She shrugs, soft but stubborn. “Hope springs eternal.”

“Hope needs a hobby,” I mutter. Before she can latch onto the topic again, I barrel ahead. “Actually, it’s work. I’ve got a consulting gig down here for the weekend.”

She perks up. “Really? That’s great, Jenn! Where?”

Here’s the hard part.

“Miami Killian Medical—”

She’s got her lips pursed and is shaking her head before I’ve even gotten the words all the way out of my mouth. “Oh, no. No, no, no, mama. Do not tell me you’re going back there.”

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have just slipped in and out of town without saying anything. She’d have never known. But I would have. And that’s not who we are.

Our abuelitos, Lito and Lita for short, emigrated to Miami from Cuba during the 1970s. Stef’s father and my mother are siblings. She, my sister, Jess, and I grew up together in our grandparents’ home, bonding over Teddy Grahams and Teletubbies from our earliest days. Now she drops my hand and shifts to face me fully, dark brows arched high enough to touch her widow’s peak hairline.