Page 55 of All Your Life

For a moment I’m bracing for a snarky comeback, something along the lines of:Must be nice,Princess,but I can’t really say I’m surprised when he says, “Yeah, I could see the weather making it difficult to plan in advance. Sounds like a great trip.”

I look over to him, studying him while his eyes are on the road, all sorts of crazy thoughts flashing through my mind. I want to see DC with Liam, backpack across Europe with him, hike the Appalachian Trail, camping out and sleeping under the stars with him all along the way.

My mind goes back to early yesterday morning when we were parked outside of Garth and Sienna’s house. Poor thing. He was breathing deep within five minutes, but I was too nervous and jumpy to sleep at first. The weight of his arm holding me close to his body left me feeling so content, so safe. And when he moved in his sleep and his hand slid lower, resting along my hip, I raised up a silent prayer that Liam felt the same as me. I want Liam to be mine.

Liam clears his throat, signaling with his finger to a street sign that reads Maple Lane.

“Is this the one?”

He nods as he looks at the houses on one side of the street, then the other. “I’m thinking her house will be around halfway down the block. What say you, Miss Hamilton?”

“Can we park and, I don’t know, walk around for a bit?”

“No drive-by?”

“Your car stands out,” I feel the need to reassure him, “in a good way, of course.”

“How do you think they described us?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before saying, “I’m guessing it was something along the lines of: guy who appears freakishly tall when standing next to his Christmas elf-sized companion, driving a 1970’s classic in pristine condition.”

“Or, two kids with questionable hygiene habits driving a car right out of the Smithsonian.”

He sniffs his armpit like I did before and declares, “Yep. That description fits, too.”

We exit the car and cross the street, acting casual, trying not to call attention to ourselves in this quiet as a morgue suburban enclave.

“That’s the house number, right?” I whisper as we pass by. He nods, and I’m thinking to myself that we must look so obvious. But there’s no one around, and no cars are parked in front of the garage door. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

“Nope,” he agrees. “Want to get a closer look?”

I surprise myself when I nod and cross the street as if there’s a magnetic force drawing me closer. It’s modest-sized, but pretty and well-maintained. There are a few stone steps leading up to the pathway, and I keep going without giving a thought as to what my plan is.

It’s not until a woman walks outside, nervously wiping her hands on her jeans, that I stop. She takes me in, swallows and then says my name in a soft voice. When I don’t answer, she asks, “Are you Sarah?”

I can’t speak. Taking in this woman with her long brown hair, and brown eyes like my own, I don’t feel as if I’m looking at a mirror image or anything, but I am sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I’ve found her.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

LIAM

This is her mother, no doubt about it.

Sarah hasn’t moved for a solid minute. The woman looked nervous when she first greeted Sarah by the door, but she’s composed now, smiling at Sarah in an encouraging way when she holds her hand out, palm up. It’s the same move you’d use when approaching a skittish animal, a gesture used to encourage trust, the equivalent of saying:I won’t bite.

And Sarah responds much the way a wounded animal would. She takes one tentative step closer, then stops and looks back to me. I want to jump in there so badly and broker this summit, ease away the awkwardness and pain for Sarah, but I can’t.

“I’m Grace Dawson, Sarah. I’m happy you’re here.”

Grace is an even keel, thank God. She doesn’t go overboard with the weepy, emotional reunion drama I’d been fearing. No, she’s patient, knows what she’s doing. She’s done this before. I don’t mean she’s met a child she gave up for adoption before—that would be…something—more that she’s skilled at the art of putting people at ease.

I take Sarah’s hand and give it a gentle squeeze. My eyes ask,Do you want to go in,to which she gives a barely perceptible nod.

Grace leads us to a couch and asks if we want some iced tea. I accept for both of us, being as Sarah is busy at the moment. She’s studying her surroundings, looking for clues and details, trying to figure out who this person is.

Looking to me, she whispers, “Are you all right?” That question tells me all I need to know about the state Sarah’s in. She’snotall right. And who would be?

Grace comes back in balancing a cutting board on her forearm while holding two glasses. When she puts it down, Sarah looks at her, perplexed, and says, “You made a charcuterie board?”

And when Grace begins to laugh, Sarah joins in.

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