“Is it bad?” Leah asks. “Did somebody die? Oh my God, are you pregnant?”
“Leah, on what planet would Jo be getting a random letter saying she’s pregnant?”
“It could be from the doctor.”
“Doctor who?”
“Probably not Doctor Who, but—”
“Shut up, both of you!” I yell. Instantly, their lips zip. I toss the letter onto the floor by their feet. “Just. Read it.”
Gabby raises an eyebrow and scoops the page into her hands, sitting gingerly beside Leah on the bed. I study their bouncy curls and somber faces, eyes sweeping from left to right as they discover their orphaned best friend has a father.
A father. Holy shit.
Gran’s never said much about him other than I shouldn’t waste my time asking questions about the man who left me—his own three-year-old daughter—right after a freak car accident took my beloved mother. Leave well enough alone, Johanna. You’ve got us. No one’s brought him up in I don’t even know how long. Not like that’s stopped me wondering. Whether he accounts for my sense of humor, my bony knees, the goofy dimple in my right cheek. Despite Gran’s urging, I’ve imagined him showing up at my graduation with flowers, pictured him singing me to sleep at night. My strangely estranged father; a stranger reaching out after thirteen years.
“Jo, this is incredible!” Leah whoops.
Gabby hesitates. “Incredible?”
“Yes, Gabby. It’s a frigging dream come true, okay?” Leah squeezes my fingers. “What’s going through your mind right now? You’re being really quiet.”
I frown at the letter, the simplicity of my father’s handwriting, his friendly tone. All my brain can do is throb. Two cymbals, crashing on repeat—FATHER! FATHER! FATHER! I shake my head. “I’m trying to think.”
“Okay, but—” Gabby tucks tight corkscrew curls behind her ears. “Your grandparents kept you away from him for a reason. Right?”
My eyes twitch in response. I want to tell her this isn’t the SATs with a predetermined right answer, that I feel slapped and naked and clinging to the edge of the universe. But the words don’t come out.
Gabby takes my silence as an invitation. “We know nothing about this guy. What if it’s a scam? Is your dad’s name even Robert Newton?”
“Of course it is,” I snap after a few seconds. But my cheeks blaze. I mean, I had to pause. I had to think what my own father’s name was.
Leah stands timidly between us and clears her throat. “Maybe Jo should take some time to think about this on her own. It is ridiculously intense. We’ll give you some space, but we’re here when you need us, okay?”
They get as far as the door when she turns back, her brown eyes wide and moist. “God, I can’t get over it! This is so special, Jo—and we were here to witness it. This is going to be life changing! But okay. We’re leaving. So you can think. Hey, we should grab coffee tomorrow after school. We can chill, maybe talk about it then. Or not. Whatever you want.”
I nod, mostly so she’ll shut up about giving me space and actually let me have some. I succumb to one of her classic, motherly hugs—a real I-care-about-your-struggles embrace—but for the first time, her arms only act as a straitjacket around me.
“Okay, sunshine.” Gabby literally has to pull her off me. “I’m taking you home.”
The door clicks shut, and they’re gone. It feels weird, sending away my punished children, but I need to be left in peace.
Peace. Like that’s a thing anymore.
Gran will want me to set the table soon, but I can’t think about cutlery when my whole life just got dumped in a blender. I need a minute. Need to center myself and find a way to stop the room from spinning. In a daze, I stumble toward my antique storage trunk, raising the heavy leather lid. Down at the bottom, below my wigs and yards of fabric scraps and old journals, I find it—a scruffy, one-eyed kangaroo, lumpy from too much love and lack of cotton. With my thumb, I rub the once-brown, now-faded-yellow plastic nose.
“Remember me?” I whisper.
Kenny the Kangaroo seems to smile lopsidedly as I pull him into my chest.
2
My name is Robert Newton. I’m your dad. I’m your—
“Hey, friend.”
I glance up from the depths of my caramel chai latte and smile at Leah, standing in front of the table I’ve staked out for us. She smirks a little and pulls a pink beret off her curly black hair. “You’re in your own world, huh?”
“Pretty much. Where’s Gabby?”
“With the debate team. You were on the group text, but …” She trails off, gesturing toward my aura with wiggly fingers. “You seem distracted. Don’t waste your time, I’ll paraphrase. She’s horribly jealous that we’re meeting up to discuss your daddy drama without her, but she needs to work on her original oratory or she’s never going to get into Stanford, thereby never becoming—”
“A Supreme Court justice,” I finish, and I’m not about to argue. Gabby fights harder than any other kid at Chavez—as a young Black woman, she’s always had to—so I will never, ever give her grief. Even if it does mean missing my daddy drama. “Well, did she at least impart some oratorical wisdom?”
Leah nods. “Something about Pandora’s box? She thinks you should skip the reunion and go down a beauty vlog rabbit hole—improve your mermaid eyes. Or take up Roller Derby.”
I force a smile. Half disappointed, but also relieved. I mean, if mermaid eyes were going to be her contribution, I’ll pass. Leah skitters to the front of Bluebell, this rainbow-toned and relatively new café in town with a fun, pride vibe and about a thousand varieties of tea—hence my new chai obsession—and plops back down at our corner table with a mocha and an almond croissant.
“So.” She leans forward on her elbows. “What’s the plan?”
I rub my eyes, exhaling till my chest caves in, wondering if insomnia is my new thing, or if last night was a one-off. From midnight to five a.m., all I could do was read and reread and re-reread Robert’s letter. I memorized the entire thing. Paragraph two, line three: It’s a lot to take in, I know. But I miss you.
“Oh, sweetie.” Leah’s whole face twists into a frown. “I can feel the confusion, like, pulsing off you.”
“It’s just—I’ve always been curious about him, but am I supposed to come a-runnin’ because it’s suddenly convenient for him? Know what I mean?”
“Totally.”
“But I don’t want to ignore it either. This could be my only chance.”
“What about your grandparents?” Leah asks tentatively. “Do they have an opinion?”
“Are you kidding?” I scoff. “They hate him.”
“They said that?”
“No, but I know they do. I’m not telling them.”
Leah sighs, chewing her lip. “Try not to let their drama become your drama. He wants to visit you, right?”
“I mean, that’s what he said.”
We sit quietly for a minute, sipping our drinks, listening to Lana Del Rey on the stereo system. Leah won’t take her eyes off me, like I’m going to morph into a cell phone and start dialing the guy’s number. She lives for this crap—destiny and happy endings. A father-daughter reunion would be better than a double rainbow for her. Maybe make her pity me a little less for being this abandoned sad sack while her life is basically perfect.
She taps my foot under the table. “Think you’re gonna call him?”
“I want to,” I say, and the lack of hesitation in my voice feels good. “I mean, I really want to. But I don’t know.”
What-ifs curl my toes tight inside my boots. What if he doesn’t like me? What if he sees me and remembers why he bailed in the first place? What if I don’t like him?
Leah offers a sympathetic sigh. “I get that you have doubts—your grandparents and everything to consider—but be true to yourself. Don’t let them call the shots.”
Even if she’s right, I can’t help musing. In my mind, there’s Gabby, flanked by her cosmopolitan, West In
dian parents, visiting MoMA or strolling along the Seine; Leah on these epic hikes, actually enjoying family meditation hour. Their parents give them the moon. And then there’s me. My “moon” consists of dipping into my grandparents’ retirement fund in order to pay for private school. Which almost feels bigger than the moon. Would it crush them if I went through with this?
Shame rattles inside me. “My brain hurts.”
“Try focusing on the positives,” Leah says. “As my psychic, Dharma, would say—”
“Your psychic?” I groan. “Again?”
“As my psychic, Dharma, would say, everything happens for a reason. So it’s been a long time—so what? And despite what Gran may or may not think, the guy is making an effort. He must have his reasons for staying away. Besides, we all know that if he tries to dick you over, Gabby will hide under his bed with a Freddy Krueger mask and switchblade fingers.”
A warm laugh tickles my throat. “I’d pay huge amounts of money to see that.”
It feels good to laugh. Hydrating, almost. A reminder that this is not the end of the world. Maybe it’s even the beginning. Not of the world, but of something. Our giggles fade away, and I’m left sipping lukewarm chai, twisting rings around my fingers. Thinking about DNA and the two strangers that made me. Wondering if I got my love of spicy food from my father, if he could carry a tune better than me, do math better than me. I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t even know if my parents were married—was I a Newton before the adoption made me a Carlson?
And if I met him, would Robert tell me about my mother? Would I learn that she was wise, brave, daring? Did she love sewing? Despise sports? Could she make a cloverleaf tongue as good as mine? I’m ignorant, but not by choice. My grandparents buried her stories along with her body.
An imaginary balance scale teeters within me, weighing down toward my father—or at least the idea of him. Of what he might be able to give me.
With a muddy kind of sigh, I take my chemistry textbook out of my bag and drop it on the table. That’s half why we’re here—homework waits for no man. Not even Robert Newton.
Robert
Newton
His name bubbles up inside me, a kettle ready to whistle from steam. It hums in time with the coffee grinder, writes itself in cursive along the knotted throw rug beneath our feet.
Too much time has gone by. I’m sorry for that.
It has to count for something.
“Oh my God,” Leah whispers. “Don’t. Look.”
I look. Obviously. Bluebell is empty enough that my eyes go straight to him—Milo Schmidt, standing in the doorway. Gorgeous and freezing and blowing warm air into cupped palms.
Leah and I glue our foreheads together over the center of the table and become telepathic. Is he here with someone else? my eyes ask. Leah scopes the room and shakes her head. Do you think he has a girlfriend? She shakes her head more emphatically, despite having no actual clue. By the door, Milo pulls a gray cap off his head. Some of his brown hair shoots up, zapped with static electricity. My stomach flips.
“Go talk to him,” Leah whispers.
“You go talk to him!” I whisper back.
She gives him a fleeting glance. “His boobs aren’t big enough.”
“So vulgar,” I scold. “And I thought you were bi.”
“Do you want me to charm the pants off him? Because I will.”
I giggle and shake my head.
“Then go, already! He’s brand-new and doesn’t know anybody. Look at him, standing in line looking all lonely. Go ask him if he’s as cold as he looks. Because dude looks like an ice pop.”
He does look freezing. Adorably glacial. Not that I’m agreeing to anything, but I reapply my burgundy lipstick, the one that makes my skin look angelically fair and brings out the sea green in my eyes. Because, I mean, maybe I’m here on a Serious Introspective Quest, but Milo is barely ten feet away, shivering as he reads the café menu. It’s fairly impossible to avoid.
“Casually walk up and get another latte,” Leah says. “Yours has food in it.”
“No, it—”
But I stop short when she dumps buttery crumbs into my mug. Apparently, yes, my chai has been tainted. I flip her off, feeling my stomach clench as I rise from the table, wishing I’d worn something cuter than a boxy black sweater. It hardly seems to matter, though. Even when I walk right up next to him, Milo’s too entranced by the chalkboard menu to notice me.
“Another chai?” the barista asks after a few seconds.
“I’m still deciding,” Milo says, right as I go, “Yes, please.”
Surprise glitters in his eyes. “Hey, I know you. You’re—”
“Chavez,” I say, and then die inside. Because, does he think—
“Your name is Chavez?” A smirk catches on his lips. “You look way more like a Johanna.”
My cheeks burn. “Yeah, I’m Jo. And you’re Milo. From history.”
“Milo from History,” he muses. “Good band name.”
I grin and look at my toes for a second too long, because I can feel his eyes on me and it’s making my cheeks so red, I think they may incinerate. When I do look up, he’s grinning too, struggling to read the menu.
“What are you choosing between?”
“Bagel and a scone,” he says. “Thoughts?”
“Bagel. Definitely. I don’t trust a pastry that can be either sweet or savory. Too big of a mindfuck.”
“Ah, but bagels can be savory or sweet too, right? I mean, somebody explain strawberry cream cheese to me.”
“Yeah, or pumpkin spice.”
“That’s just sick.”
The barista rolls her eyes at us, but I can’t stop smiling, my heart pounding beneath my sweater. This close, Milo smells of lemongrass and nutmeg. A sexy, human version of the chai latte I’m currently being handed. I pass the girl a five-dollar bill, and Milo orders an Americano and a bagel—cinnamon raisin.
“Cinnamon raisin?” I sneer. “Traitor.”
“Hey, my mom’s a pastry chef,” he says, raising his palms. “I’ve got a sweet tooth. That’s actually why we moved here.”
“You moved to Santa Fe because of your sweet tooth?” I marvel. “I thought gambling was the worrisome addiction in Vegas. But, wow.”
His chin juts up to the ceiling as he laughs. “Actually, no. The sweet tooth is serious but not criminal. My mom’s job, I meant. She’s a pastry chef at that new French bakery on Water Street.”
“That’s cool. What’s her stance on scones?”
“I’ll have to ask her.”
“How about your dad?”
“He’s ambivalent on scones.”
“Okay.” I giggle. “But I meant, what does he do? Another pastry chef?”
Milo grabs his coffee off the counter, wincing as he brings it to his rosy lips. “My dad’s still in Vegas. Closing on our old house and packing up. But let’s get back to the genetics of scone hatred—how do your parents feel about savory versus sweet?”
“Oh.” My smile crashes. “They, uh, don’t.”
One of Milo’s eyebrows creeps up, and I clear my throat.
“I live with my grandparents. They’re retired. Buttermilk biscuit people,” I say, but my breath catches. Because, for the first time in my life, maybe disregarding my parents is a lie. Or a half truth, at least.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I—it’s complicated.”
He nods gravely. “Like scones.”
I solidly chuckle. “You know, I think we’ve just broken a world record for longest scone conversation in human history.”
“How about, next time I see you, I promise to have an arsenal of scintillating conversation topics in my back pocket. Are we relegated to baked goods?”
“Sky’s the limit.”
“Okay, cool.”
On cue, my insides turn into a mosh pit of warm gummy bears because, next time. He’s already planning future encounters. I watch him grab a lid and a cardboard sleeve for his cup. “Hey, I got
ta go. But it was really nice talking to you, Jo.”
“You too, Milo from history.”
He pauses for a second, smiling at me. Like, smiling at my soul, almost. Then he pulls his wool cap back down over his ears and heads for the door. The frustrated barista clears her throat with a look that says, bitch, would you focus? and hands me my change, which I promptly put right back in her tip jar. It takes everything in me not to dance as I turn back to the table where Leah is full-on gawking.
“And that’s how it’s done!” she whoops. “Boo-yah! That was honestly one of the most adorable, rom-com-iest moments I’ve ever witnessed. I wanted to get my phone out and take pictures! We could have done that football thing after—where they go over each individual play on screen with a special pen?”
“You want to critique my flirting moves?”
She shrugs, like, yeah, and?
I roll my eyes and resume smiling. “He’s really easy to talk to.”
“Easy to look at too,” she murmurs. “Tight little butt on him.”
“Mind out of the gutter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Despite the lack of photos and stylus to help make her points, Leah wastes no time dissecting every second of my interaction with Milo, breaking down our body language and the way he laughed at my jokes. It’s nice. Hearing that I might actually have a shot with this beautiful new stranger. But, even more than that, I like what the past ten minutes has done to me. Bolstered me. As if I, Johanna Carlson, can be one confident, cool-ass bitch. Maybe even a badass. A sudden siren of energy blares through me, and, on a whim, I grab my phone from my jacket pocket.
“Ooh!” Leah shrieks. “Are you texting him?”
“Yes,” I say, then shake my head. “I mean, no. Not Milo. My father.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
I type a few versions of: Let’s meet for coffee, and my thumbs freeze. Breath stalls in my chest. Leah grips my arm for moral support, and then—holy shit—I press Send.
She gasps.
I gasp.
And then I turn off my phone before it can explode in my hands.
Accidental Page 2
