“I don’t know.” I scan the paper again. This is… kind of a letdown. I don’t know what I expected. I let my hands holding the document drop to my lap. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
Two weeks later…
I open the Facebook message, expecting it to be from someone I know. Instead, it’s a message from… Felise Candler.
The woman who’s a close relative according to Who’s Your Daddy DNA Testing. Her profile picture is of a young woman with long, wavy red hair and a sweet smile.
My heart beats faster and I close my eyes. But curiosity gets me, and I open my eyes and lean toward my computer to take in the words. She saw the link in the DNA report and found me on Facebook. Like me, she’s not sure what close relative means. She wants to know if we can communicate.
Even though I wanted this… suddenly I’m scared.
I may not have family, but I have lots of friends, especially Kesha and Hannah. I love the kids I teach art classes to on Saturday mornings as a volunteer at a local art gallery. I may not have much luck in my love life, but I’m fine being alone until the right man comes along.
And I have this… this feeling… that if I do this, if I meet this woman, it’s going to change my life. Much as I’m bored with my job, satisfied with my bland condo, and content with my friends… this change terrifies me.
Mom never liked it when I had a feeling about something.
But how can I not know about this? I can’t erase it from my memory. I’ll always know there’s a girl out there about my age who could be related to me. We could become best friends… or maybe hate each other’s guts. She could be a psycho bitch… or a sweetheart. I have to know.
So I reply to her message.
2
Trace
I fucking hate blind dates.
So what the hell am I doing here?
I’m sitting here by myself because the woman I’m supposed to meet hasn’t shown up yet. And if she does, I fully intend to have one fast drink and then get the hell out of here. Last weekend, I bet my buddy Garrett he couldn’t win a hundred dollars in poker on a stone-cold bluff, and goddammit, he did it. So here I am on a blind date with a friend of his wife’s. Now, Garrett’s wife is a lovely, sensible witch, don’t get me wrong, but she’s quiet and shy and her idea of fun is whipping up loaves of bread. Again, nothing wrong with baking bread. Homemade bread is delicious. But if Julie’s friend is like her, I think we’re going to be as compatible as Kanye and TSwift.
I look around the bar—the Singing Horse. I’ve never been here even though it’s not that far from where I live in Ravenswood. There’s karaoke some nights, and it’s one of the places that has turtle races. Sweet Jesus, turtles. If Garrett made me come here and sit here all alone as a big joke, I swear I’ll waive my magic embargo and hit him with one of my best black magic revenge curses. His online porn will always be buffering.
Then she walks in.
I think it’s her. She matches the description Garrett gave me—dark hair, slender. She’s really pretty. I stand and lift a hand to get her attention.
She pauses. She tilts her head. I feel like she’s hesitating. I guess she doesn’t recognize me from the description. Then she smiles and moves toward me through the tables. Yep, it’s her.
“Hi! You made it.” I force a smile and extend my hand to her. “Nice to meet you.”
“Hi. Nice to meet you too. I’m Romy.” She shakes my hand.
I thought her name was Amy. Whatever. I must have misheard. “Trace.”
“Trace,” she repeats. “Have you… been waiting long?”
“Uh… we were supposed to meet at eight, right?” Did I screw up?
“Right!”
“Have a seat.” I gesture. “I ordered myself a drink while I was waiting.” Crap, that sounds like I’m giving her shit for being late.
She hangs her purse over the back of the chair. “What are you having?”
“Citra Ass Down.”
She freezes and gives me a look, one eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?”
My eyes fly open wide. “This!” I grab the can and show her. “It’s the name of the beer. It’s a pale ale. Brewed with citra hops.”
She studies the beer, then bursts out laughing, dropping into the chair across from me. It’s a