Page 29 of Blitz
What could I say that wasn’t too emotional, or make her think I couldn’t handle it? “I know him,” I said. And I did know him. He might be all godly righteousness and pretend sunshine,but I’d seen the hate under his skin. The same hate that had sent his sixteen-year-old son to a conversion camp.
“… drove Mom to get an abortion and, when she refused, he had her sign an NDA and paid her money to keep quiet. She took it and ran, and I grew up thinking my dad had died. She only told me when…”
“I’m sorry she’s gone.” That was important for me to say.
Rebecca sniffed. “Me too.” I caught raw grief in her eyes. She smiled, but it wasn’t the bright grin from earlier—it was smaller, sadder.
I reached over the table and squeezed her hand. “Genuinely sorry.”
“It’s just me now, you know.” She shrugged, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m at Pitt. College is hard enough without feeling like you’re the only person on the planet, and I never had a sibling, you know?”
My throat tightened. I nodded, swallowing hard.
“Me neither,” I said, voice low.
We sat in silence for a moment. Not awkward. Not angry. Just… quiet.
Then, Rebecca pulled out her phone and navigated to her photos. “Want to see her? My mom, I mean.”
I nodded, my heart hammering. Rebecca slid the phone across the table, and I found myself staring at a woman with kind eyes and Rebecca’s smile. She was sitting on a park bench, autumn leaves scattered around her feet, caught mid-laugh.
“That was last year,” Rebecca said. “Before the cancer got bad.”
I studied the photo, wondering if this woman had hated my father as much as I did. If she’d known what he was capable of.
“She looks happy,” I said finally, handing the phone back.
“She was. Mostly.” Rebecca tucked the phone away. “She never talked about your dad until the end. She told me I’d knowhis name after she was gone but made me promise not to look for him. When my lawyer explained it was Pastor Cole, with all his shit”—she waved her hand, dismissive—”I found your Instagram after she died. I didn’t want anything to do with him… but wanted to know if I had family left.”
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with the sudden vulnerability between us. “And what did you find?”
“You’re a dude with a team that’s currently shit, too many cars, and a perfect Instagram life.” She smirked. “Though your captions are kind of emo for a pro athlete.”
I snorted, nearly choking on my coffee. “Jesus.”
“What? It’s true. All those sunset pictures with quotes about shadows and light? Very deep, bro.”
For the first time since walking into this coffee shop, I laughed. It felt strange, like exercising a muscle I’d forgotten I had.
“So,” she continued, leaning back in her chair, “now that we’ve established I don’t want your money and you don’t want me talking to our sperm donor of a father, can we maybe just try being siblings? Just… see what happens?”
I gazed at her for what seemed like an eternity. The term“siblings”felt right and wrong all at the same time, a bit like coming to terms with my sexuality—an internal tug-of-war between discomfort and acceptance.
What would it be like to have someone in my corner I could talk to?
About Tom?
“If people find out, he’ll want to be involved. I’d need to put things in place to protect you from the media and from him,” I said finally. What secret was worse? Fucking with Tom on the stairs or hiding a sister?
Rebecca’s face softened. “You’re worried about protecting me? That’s… kind of sweet, in a paranoid sort of way.”
“Not paranoid. Practical.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “My father has people who watch me, track what I do, who I talk to. If you suddenly start showing up in my life, he’ll want to know why.”
“We’ll be careful,” she said with a shrug. “Anyway, you might want to read this.” She rifled through her bag and pulled out a worn envelope and handed it to me. I took it as if it was a live grenade—what else could she tell me? “Read it, although long story short, I get a million if I stay away.”
I didn’t read it; I shoved it back into the envelope and slid it over to her. “Take the money.”
“I don’t want the money.”
