Page 149 of Really Truly Yours

Sydnee’s face blanches as white as a naked almond and her painfully extracted no harmonizes with mine.

“Chelsea…” I dash my head, breaking free of Sydnee long enough to turn my palms up. “Seriously?”

I flex my arm and return Sydnee to my side. “I’m sorry, Sydnee. Ignore her.” I’ll get my sister for this later.

Even my parents launch disapproving frowns at Chelsea. She barely shows signs of remorse.

“No, sister, that is not what I was about to say.” Suddenly, my brain is flailing to remember what was on the tip of my tongue.

Donny. Right. Well, this may be a case where the wow-factor of my real news might live up to the stage set by my out-of-line sister. “Back to your question, Dad, Sydnee and I met when she contacted me on behalf of a friend of hers. A neighbor. He has health issues, so he couldn’t meet with me himself.”

Chelsea, finally all ears, leans in. “Why did he want to meet with you?”

I inhale to my lungs’ full capacity. “The man’s name is Donny.” I zero in on Dad, who shared my adoption information with me years ago. “Donny Grayson. Sydnee’s neighbor is my biological father.”

Chapter 33

Sydnee

Is it just me, or are the men in this idyllic family actually half crazy?

Tripp and Gray, that is. They sure know how to pick their moments, both of them dropping bombs over the dinner table.

At least it wasn’t shouted across the table, and no one’s throwing punches or flinging drunken insults. Commendable.

The parents take the news in stride, even peacefulness bordering on joy. It seems to mean a lot to them that their son is rounding out a jagged corner of his life. They’ve chosen the noble path instead of perceiving Donny as a threat.

Poor Donny. Neither one of his sons needs him at all. As Tripp said, the Smiths are loving, good, and decent.

The parents are anyway. Chelsea is harder to read. She’s trying with all her might to read me. Some subtlety wouldn’t hurt.

Truly, I could have sat out this part because, as the subject of Donny rolls forward, I feel dragged, at least marginally, into the spotlight. Gray’s sister, pretty, blonde, and perfect—a doctor, for crying in the sink—shifts her attention to me once or twice in a way that makes me feel like she’s looking into me with one of those scope things she must use daily in her practice.

My knuckles ache as Gray goes into detail about the wreck of Donny’s house—pre and post-roof collapse. That’s one of the times I fall under Chelsea’s inspection. Yes, I live in the same rotten and rotted out neighborhood.

By the time our meals arrive, the Donny-line of conversation has largely played out. The food is as wonderful as last night’s, but my strong-willed stomach isn’t cooperating. Gray, of course, asks for all to hear, if my stomach is acting up again, and I swear the sister is still toying with the notion of me being pregnant.

Over a final cup of coffee, Mr. Smith inquires about my writing. Huh. Like father like son. I’m not embarrassed about what I write, it’s just…private. I plan to publish under a pen name for a reason. Parts of myself spill onto the pages.

The Smiths yawn and say they need naps before the big night ahead. Gray has to be at the ballpark soon, so he arranges with his family to pick me up later and ride in with them.

Thanks bunches. In this alternate reality, riding with the Walkers is much closer to my comfort zone.

Gray holds my door, and once inside his car, he takes my hand and rubs his thumb back and forth over my knuckles. “Well, what do you think?”

“About?”

“My parents,” he says like it’s obvious.

It was obvious, but I’m not in a play-along mood. “They seem like nice people.” My tone is off, I know it is, and my peripheral vision logs his reaction.

Lines form beside his mouth. “I’m sorry about Chelsea. Don’t worry, she’s going to hear from me later.”

And who are you going to hear from, mister? “It wasn’t your fault.” Other things were.

“Is something wrong?”

What could possibly be wrong?

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