Chasing Abby (13 page)

S
IX
HOURS
LATER
, we dine on Chris’s famous slow-roasted chicken. All the men and boys retire to the living room to watch a sci-fi action flick while I lead Abby upstairs to show her the guest room where she will be sleeping tonight. I had planned to have Jimi show Abby around, to give them a chance to chat, but Jimi still hasn’t come home.

We arrive at the guest room, where I stop outside and point at the double doors at the end of the hallway. “That’s our bedroom down there. If you should wake up in the middle of the night and need something, glass of water, extra blanket, anything, just go ahead and knock. We’re both light sleepers.”

I show her around the guest room and the attached guest bath, then I realize she has no clothes to change into for bed. I take her to Jimi’s room to get some pajamas for her to borrow.

“It’s fine. I can sleep in this,” she insists.

“Oh, don’t be silly. Jimi’s friends are always borrowing her clothes. She won’t mind.”

“I won’t mind what?”

We both whip our heads around and find Jimi standing at the doorway with her friend Sydney. Jimi’s long, light-brown hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders and her blue eyes are focused on me awaiting my response.

“Jimi, come over here and meet your sister.”

Jimi waits a few seconds before she turns her attention away from me and onto Abby. She walks slowly, almost reluctantly, toward us until she’s a few feet away. Crossing her arms over her chest, she waits for me or Abby to say something.

Abby looks at her for a couple of seconds then turns to me. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Of course not.” I glare at Jimi, letting her know that I am not impressed with her attitude. 

“Of course you didn’t do anything wrong,” Jimi says in a sugary voice, the voice she uses when she’s being sarcastic.

I hope Abby doesn’t notice it, but the confused look on her face tells me she’s definitely sensed the chill in Jimi’s tone. I place my hand on Abby’s back and lead her toward the door.

“I expected better from you,” I say to Jimi as we pass her. “Much better. And you, Sydney. It’s time for you to go home.”

Sydney flashes Jimi a tight smile as she heads for the door. “I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Yeah, like, never,” Jimi mutters as she heads for her closet to put away her shoes.

I close her door and say good-bye to Sydney as she descends the stairs. Abby looks a bit stunned as she heads toward the staircase. I grab her hand and she stops in the middle of the corridor, but she doesn’t turn around to look at me.

“I’m sorry for the way she behaved. I didn’t expect that from her at all. When I called her on the phone earlier to tell her you were here, she seemed genuinely happy. Abby, please look at me.”

She’s still for a moment, then she turns around slowly. But she doesn’t look at me, she looks at the pictures hanging on the wall. The upstairs hallway of both the beach house and this house are lined with pictures of the kids, including Abby. We took our pictures of Abby down when Jimi was a baby because it was too painful for me to deal with. But after Ryder was born, we put them back up, when we realized how important it was that they know Abby and how much she means to us.

“They’ve all grown up with me,” she whispers, then she turns to me. “I guess it only makes sense that they feel differently, more comfortable, than I do.”

I nod in agreement as I realize she’s making an excuse for Jimi’s behavior. She’s trying to imply that Jimi is only treating her the way they would treat each other if they’d grown up together. Just the way Chris makes excuses for me and my choice to give Abby up for adoption. She may look like Ryder and me, but Abby is truly her father’s daughter.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T
HE
PHONE
CALL
TO
my mom did not go well. I knew she wouldn’t like the idea of me staying the night here, but I’m not ready to go home yet. From the moment I stepped out of Caleb’s car this morning until now, I’ve had one thought simmering in my mind: If my birth parents are so successful and they really seem to care about me and want me in their lives, why would my parents want to keep me from meeting them?

The only answer I keep coming up with is that they were afraid I would prefer my birth parents to the mom and dad who raised me. That’s absurd. Along with Caleb, my mom and dad are the ship I’ve floated on for eighteen years. They’ve saved my life countless times. They’ve suffered with me through every illness, every surgery, every sleepless night. They were there cheering me on at every game, every award ceremony, every triumph. My adoptive parents didn’t just choose me; they fought for me.

I don’t want to hurt them, but they shouldn’t have let their fear affect their decisions. They should have known that I will never stop loving them. That I will never choose my birth parents over them. 

They shouldn’t have hurt me to keep themselves from getting hurt.

Caleb glances over his shoulder to where the door to this guest room stands wide open. He turns back to me and sighs, and I worry that he’s going to tell me that staying the night here is a bad idea. It does seem impulsive, but it also feels like my only chance to understand the other half of me. 

For eighteen years, I’ve known one part of me. The part that was raised by Brian and Lynette Jensen. But now, seeing how similar I am to my biological parents, I understand why there was a huge part of me that always felt disconnected. As if I would never be able to be myself around my parents. That doing the things that made me happy was an affront to them. Like pursuing music. I’m a real-life experiment in nature versus nurture. And I don’t know which part of me is larger, but I think I owe it to myself to find out before I go to NC State to major in
business
. 

“Go ahead. Tell me I’m making a mistake.”

Caleb smiles and shakes his head. “Not at all what I was thinking. I was actually just thinking that I hope they have less bedrooms in the beach house so we’re forced to sleep in the same room.”

I roll my eyes. “Go to your room. I have to try to get some sleep.”

“Did you take your Lasix?”

“I took all my meds. Now go, before they think we’re doing something in here.”

He chuckles as he leans in to kiss my forehead. “Goodnight, sunshine.”

W
AKING
UP
IN
SOMEONE
else’s bed two nights in a row is not something I’m used to. So when I open my eyes and realize that, for the second time in a row, I slept peacefully through the night, it feels meaningful. Why should I feel comfortable sleeping in a home with a bunch of people who are essentially strangers? 

The sunlight spilling through the window makes all the white furnishings and linens appear as if they’re glowing from within. Like I woke up in heaven. I throw off the covers and sit up slowly so I don’t get lightheaded. I don’t even notice I’m doing it anymore, but it took me about three years to get used to getting out of bed slowly.

I’ve always been an early riser, partially because my heart condition makes me tired, so I rarely stay up late unless I’m with Caleb or my friends. But I also like waking up early to see the sunrise. Here in North Carolina, we don’t get dazzling sunsets like they do on the West Coast. But we have some of the most gorgeous sunrises. A symphony of colors: Magenta transitions into a vibrant coral then becomes a soft tangerine bridge, leading to a finale in various shades of gold.

That’s it. That’s why I feel so comfortable here. Because the Knight family understands how music makes everything more beautiful.

The Knight family. My stomach vaults at these three words and I begin to have delusional thoughts of Chris Knight using his clout to get me a contract with his label. It’s stupid and dangerous to think things like that. That kind of craziness could cloud my judgment. Make me do things I wouldn’t normally do. Like going to stay at a beach house a hundred miles away from my parents.

But Chris and Claire are my parents, too.

Oh, God.
This is hopeless. I feel like Chris’s famous roast chicken, like I’m being carved into pieces: one piece for my mom and dad, one for the Knights, one for Caleb and my friends. How about me? Which piece of me do
I
get to keep?

The piece that has to go to college for four years to study a subject I have little interest in.

On this depressing note, I rise from the bed determined to fill this summer with new experiences. I want to tread into the salty ocean. I want to build a sandcastle with Ryder. I want to blast the music in the ’Cuda while taking Junior for a joyride. 

I haven’t decided yet what I want to do with Jimi. Something tells me she feels a bit threatened by my presence, but I can’t see why. She has everything I’ve never had. She probably has tons of friends. She’s younger than me but she’s taller, so she obviously doesn’t have a heart condition. And, by the looks of it, she has every luxury she could possibly want. I guess her behavior says less about the things she has and more about the things she’s afraid of losing. 

A knock at the door startles me. “Who is it?” I call out, scrambling toward the desk in the corner where the jeans and T-shirt I was wearing yesterday are neatly folded. 

“It’s me.”

I sigh with relief at the sound of Caleb’s voice. “Come in.”

He pushes the door wide open and smiles when he sees me. “Good morning.”

“Close the door. I have to change.”

He looks confused. “With me in here?”

“No, of course not. Go wait outside.”

He cocks an eyebrow as his gaze slides from my face and down the length of my body. “I’ll be right outside,” he says with a sly grin, “using my X-ray vision.”

“Get out of here.”

Once I’ve changed out of the pajamas I borrowed from Claire, I come out of the bedroom and find Caleb having a conversation with Junior about cars. Junior nods at me, his way of saying good morning, I guess. 

“Good morning. Is everyone awake?”

“Yeah, except Ryder. As usual.” He looks to Caleb, his eyes wide. “Hey, we should go cover him in shaving cream and post a video of it on Facebook.”

Caleb pats his arm. “You’re on your own there, man.”

Junior’s shoulders slump, but he follows closely behind us as we head downstairs. Jimi, Claire, and Chris are in the kitchen cooking what smells like bacon and waffles. Chris is ladling batter into a waffle iron while Jimi fries the bacon in an iron skillet. Claire is unloading the clean dishes from the dishwasher. Junior heads straight for the breakfast bar, not bothering to offer his help as he grabs the remote and turns on the TV/computer.

“Is there anything we can help with?” I say. 

Chris turns away from the waffle iron. “Hey, there. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Abby,” Claire says, smiling at me as she stacks up some plates in a cupboard.

Chris nudges Jimi’s arm and I can hear her sigh before she turns her head to flash me a stiff smile. “Good morning.”

“Sweetheart, we don’t need any help,” Claire says, grabbing the utensil tray out of the dishwasher. “You two just sit down and relax. Breakfast is almost ready. Chris’s famous waffles.”

“That’s lame, Mom. Not everything Dad makes is famous,” Junior says as he flips through the TV channels.

“He made you, didn’t he?” she replies.

Junior scrunches up his face in disgust. “Gross. Can we please save the sex talk for after breakfast?”

Jimi laughs at this and I cover my mouth to hide my smile, but Caleb lets out a brief guffaw. Claire and Chris glare at Junior, unimpressed.

“You’re lucky your brother isn’t here, or you’d be grounded,” Claire says. “Now set the table.”

Junior rolls his eyes then heads into the kitchen to grab some plates, glasses, and silverware. I offer to help him, but he refuses, nodding toward his parents to imply they’d be upset if he enlisted my help.

Once the table is set, Junior sits on the other side of Caleb while Claire sits on my other side. Chris sits next to Claire and Jimi sits between him and Junior.