cheeks burning bright, she lets me pull her up to my apartment.
Once we’re in the door, I put the trunk down on the little Formica kitchen counter. Then I point to the pair of overstuffed chairs in the corner.
“Sit,” I command. “I’ll play the bartender.”
She puts her stack of books down on my wobbly kitchen table, then retreats to the other side of the room, watching me very closely. I’m getting a wary vibe off of her and I don't know how to get her to just relax.
Everything about her posture and her face is uptight, her eyes roving around my apartment as if something will jump out at her in any moment. After a second, I realize she’s probably thinking of her only other experience in here. Me, half-naked. And her, seeing more than I wanted her to.
As I get two glasses down and put a little chilled ginger ale in them, I glance at her.
“What did you find that you wanted me to know about?” I ask. “Something about my mom?”
She sits back in her chair, warming to the topic. “Yeah. I wasn’t looking at 1989, exactly. I’m only in the 1910s. But I found a stack of papers that were totally out of order, from the late 1980s. They mention a girl living at the estate, someone about your mother’s age.”
“Oh yeah? Is there any more information?”
“I think there was a name… let me see…” She leans over and starts digging through the pile of papers.
I open one of the dusty whiskey bottles, sniffing its contents. It smells more like some combination of chocolate and Barbasol than just alcohol per se. I make a face, pouring a splash of it into one of the glasses. The liquid is dark amber. Tossing it back, I shiver a little as the caramel flavors mix with a spicy, sweet taste of fruit.
It’s still good. Very good, actually. I pour a healthy amount into my own glass, then a little bit into hers. I top her glass off with a little more ginger ale than whiskey.
“Ah. Here it is,” she says, nodding to herself as she reads.
I carry our glasses over to where Olivia sits, handing her the tumbler full of high ball cocktail. She looks up at me when I hand her the drink.
“Thanks,” she says, although she looks dubious of its contents.
I sit down, sipping my whiskey. Watching her as she takes a hesitant sip of hers makes me smile. She seems thoughtful for a second, wincing after she swallows.
“It kind of burns when I swallow,” she says. She looks up at me, her blue eyes soft. “But it’s actually not terrible. Thanks for making it for me.”
She studies me boldly for a second, then blushes and takes another sip.
“Not a problem.” I sit back. “Did you find the name?”
“Ah. Yes, it was Anna, I think.”
My heart falters for a second. I lean my head back, taking a moment to absorb that news.
My mother’s name was Anna. It’s pretty likely that she was the only Anna visiting in the summer of 1989. Having my suspicions confirmed a little bit more makes me feel sort of vindicated. For a minute there, I was starting to feel like my mother sent me on a goose chase, telling me Thomas Morgan was my father when he wasn’t.
Then I feel a flash of guilt for doubting my mom. Not only that, but I feel like a complete piece of trash for handling her confession so badly. The parting words I said to her — especially the fact that I told her fuck herself — that’s something that I will have to live with every day until I die.
The heavy stuff aside though, why would she lie to me on her death bed?
“I can't really tell if I just gave you the news you wanted or not,” Olivia says quietly.
My lips tip up as I look at her delicate features again. “Yeah, that’s my mom.”
She looks relieved. “Well, then that’s good. Or I think it is, anyway.”
“Mmm.” I’m not really sure whether it is good or not, but I won’t dwell on that.
What I will dwell on is Olivia. My eyes sink down to take in what she’s wearing again, especially that crop top. It just showcases a few inches of skin right below her tits. My fingers throb dully with the desire to touch that creamy, bared skin.
Out of nowhere, the words bubble up and spill out of my mouth. “Your brother warned