The First to Know

by Abigail Johnson

  Are some things better left unknown?

  Dana Fields’s father never knew his parents. When Dana secretly does a DNA test for her dad, hoping to find him some distant relatives for his birthday, her entire world implodes. Instead of a few third cousins, Dana discovers a half brother her age whose very existence means her parents’ happy marriage is a lie.

  Dana’s desire to know her half brother, Brandon, and the extent of her dad’s deception clashes with her wish not to destroy her family. When she sees the opportunity to get to know Brandon through his cousin, the intense yet kind Chase, she takes it. But the more she finds out about Brandon, her father’s past and the irresistible guy who’ll never forgive her if he discovers the truth, the more she sees the inevitable fallout from her own lies. With her family crumbling around her, Dana must own up to her actions and find a way to heal the breach—for everyone—before they’re torn apart for good.

  Books by Abigail Johnson

  available from Harlequin TEEN

  If I Fix You

  The First to Know

  THE FIRST TO KNOW

  Abigail Johnson

  For my sisters, Mary and Rachel. You are both my favorite.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  The swing was so smooth and effortless I barely felt it. Adrenaline slammed though my body as I hit a screamer into right center, knowing it would find the gap. It had to. I dropped my bat and bolted for first, picking up speed as I rounded to second. I had at least a triple. I made the split-second decision to ignore the stop sign from my coach, kicking up dust as I passed third and charged for home. We needed this run to go to extra innings. From the corner of my eye, I saw the second baseman pivot and rear back to throw home. My heart rate skyrocketed and I slid, taking out the catcher staked over home plate.

  She fell onto me in a cloud of orange dust that choked us both. We were still in a heap on the ground when the sound of the cheering crowd shifted from one side to the other—from our team’s fans to theirs. The Hawks swooped out of their dugout in a flurry of teal and black and tackled their rising catcher in a massive hug.

  Only one of my fellow Mustangs came and offered me a hand up: our shortstop and my best friend, Jessalyn. I brushed her off, despite my eagerness to get away from the celebration going on around me.

  “Way to go, Dana.”

  “I was safe,” I told her, yanking off my batting glove to check my nose. I’d hit the catcher’s knee pretty hard.

  “Actually, you weren’t. Otherwise Coach would be screaming at the umpire right now instead of—”

  “Dana!” Coach was descending on me with a look that sent Jessalyn retreating to our dugout. His eyebrows were practically touching his hairline and his face was blotchy red from the blood roiling just below the surface. “What are you doing? Huh? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I was trying to win.”

  “For us or them?” He got in my face, so close that I felt exactly what it meant when someone was spitting mad. My own anger receded under his frothing fury. “Are you wearing teal?” He jutted his chin toward my uniform. “Is that the color you’re wearing?”

  “I’m wearing red,” I said, but so quietly he made me repeat it. “I’m wearing red.”

  “I gave you the stop sign because you were never going to beat that throw. Damn it, Dana!” He turned away, hands on hips, and then faced me again. “You don’t get to decide what rules to follow. They—” he pointed at my teammates, who were watching me get chewed out from the dugout “—all know that.”

  My temper flared again, but I held in my response.

  “That’s it? You got nothing to say?”

  Nothing that would make him stop yelling at me any faster. Silence was my best bet. I’d had more than a little practice getting yelled at by coaches, especially this one.

  “You’re not starting on Tuesday—”

  My head jerked up. “What?”

  “—and I’m benching you for the first three innings.”

  “You can’t—” When he walked away, I was right on his heels but skidded to a stop when he rounded on me.

  “What? What can’t I do?”

  It took everything in me to bite my lip. I clamped down so hard I tasted copper. I wasn’t responsible for us being down by one with two outs in the bottom of the seventh. And I sure hadn’t made a lineup that put Amanda Watson at bat after me. I’d had to take the chance. Amanda was the least consistent batter on our team. She either hit moon shots or struck out, the latter being more often the case when the pressure was on. But I couldn’t say any of that, not if I wanted to play at all the next game.

  He was in my face again. “You think Selena would have pulled a stunt like that? No. Because Selena listened to her coach.”

  My eyes stung at the mention of my sister, whose gaze I could feel from the stands. Every time I messed up, he compared me to her. I rotated my jaw and looked at my cleats. Selena had led her team to the state championships as a senior two years ago, something I was determined to do my junior year. And I couldn’t do that by risking wins with unreliable players. Why was I the only one who saw that?

  “I was trying to win,” I repeated, half through my teeth.

  “Yeah. All by yourself.” He thrust my discarded bat into my hands and went to join the rest of our pissed-off team as they lined up to congratulate the Highland Hawks on their win.

  After the less-than-sincere—at least on my part—congratulations were given and I’d sat through our coach’s spiel about how well we’d played—not well enough, or I wouldn’t have had to try to save the game—and how we won and lost as a united team, I ducked out before anyone else could yell at me and headed around the bleachers.

  “Hey, slugger.”

  My scowl evaporated at the sound of Nick’s voice and became a smile when I turned to see the hulking Samoan guy who’d been one of my closest friends since junior high. Since then, he’d grown a lot bigger, a lot cuter and, frustratingly for me, a lot more shy too. It had gotten so much worse since
we got partnered together in biology that semester. I thought he was developing more than friendly feelings for me, but with Nick it was hard to tell, which made it really hard to tell if I was developing any feelings of my own. Still, he’d come to my game, so maybe he was trying to be bolder. He even spoke to me first, though I could tell he was regretting his choice of the word slugger based on the way he lowered and shook his head.

  “I should have just said Dana.”

  “Nah, slugger’s a classic. So, the first game you got to see this year ended with me losing. Awesome.”

  “I thought you were great.”

  “Thanks,” I said, not really meaning it. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I had to come late, so I only caught the last inning.”

  “Even better,” I said.

  He smiled, ducking his head a little. “It was only the first game, right?”

  “Said like a guy who doesn’t play sports.” I stopped walking when Nick slowed. Then I mentally shook myself in an attempt to beat back my venomous mood. “Sorry. I’m the worst loser on the planet.” I also wasn’t looking forward to the car ride home with my endlessly disappointed dad and the shining sibling I’d never live up to. At least Selena would have to head back to her dorm eventually. Dad could berate me all night if he wanted.

  Nick recovered from my semi-insult and kicked his foot to dislodge a cricket that had landed on his shoe. It was mid-March in Arizona, which, in addition to being the start of softball season, meant the weather was losing its cold bite. That was all the invitation the crickets needed. They weren’t at summer-level swarming yet, but the chirping was an ever-present sound outside, and it was already hard to avoid the little hopping bodies, try as Nick might.

  “Aren’t you going to ask why I was late?” he asked.

  I hadn’t known he was coming at all. I’d told him in class that I was playing, but that was all. “Everything okay? Did something happen with your grandmother?” Nick’s newly widowed grandmother had recently moved in and was still grieving deeply.

  “She’s actually doing a little better.”

  “Oh, good.” I squeezed his forearm, and he half jumped like I’d touched him with an iron.

  “Yeah, so, that’s not why.” Nick slid the backpack from his shoulder and unzipped it for me to see inside.

  “No way.” I grabbed the sides of the bag and stepped right up to him. “Why didn’t you text me?” I looked up when Nick didn’t answer and found him staring at me.

  “I thought it’d be worth it to see your face.” He swallowed. “And it was.”

  Nick’s skin was as rich a brown as my glove, but I thought he was blushing. Still, I couldn’t dwell on the cute-but-shy thing he had going at the moment. I had eyes only for the white rectangular box he’d brought me. “I’m still pissed about losing, but a lot less now.”

  “Have you figured out how you’re going to do it?”

  I nodded. “Selena finally agreed to help, despite her massive reservations.” I took a deep breath as I put the box in my duffel bag. “I think this will be the best thing I’ve ever done, and she’s convinced it’ll be the worst.”

  “You know if it doesn’t work out, you don’t have to tell anyone.”

  Right. But it had to work out. “I guess tonight’s the night.” I couldn’t help bouncing on my feet a little. “Okay.”

  “And you can call me if you have any questions or anything.” He reached out like he was going to pat my arm or something but pulled back before touching me.

  That was fine. I’d need to get used to taking the lead with us, if we ever became us. I hugged him. “Seriously, thank you, Nick. I wouldn’t be doing this without you.”

  It had been only a couple weeks since our biology teacher had started class by sticking his rolled tongue out at his students. A few people laughed at the continued display; the rest waited for the inevitable explanation. When at last Mr. Rodriguez raised his arms and gestured for us to imitate him, he was quick to point a finger at Nick.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holloway—no, no. Keep your tongue out. You too, Miss Fields.” He shifted his finger to me. “Here we have a perfect display of a dominant phenotype for tongue rolling.” He pointed back at Nick. “And a recessive phenotype for tongue rolling. I’m assuming you cannot roll your tongue, Mr. Holloway?”

  Nick shook his head while a slight flush marched up the back of his neck.

  “Then my original statement stands. Now, what is a phenotype? As you all should know from last night’s reading, it’s simply the collection of observable traits, like a widow’s peak.” He pointed to his own hairline. “Or freckles or any number of characteristics that are physically demonstrable, like our tongue rollers here—feel free to close your mouths now,” he said, addressing the half of the class who still had their tongues out. “What I’d like you all to do with your partners is complete a chart listing several phenotypes, note which are dominant and recessive, then felicitaciones! You’re going to have two children and, from your original data, determine the phenotypes of each child.” He began passing out packets. “Refer to chapters eight and nine of your textbooks if you need further reminders about phenotypes, genotypes, alleles, gametes and the marvelous process of meiosis. I’ll be circulating the room to answer questions. Now learn, students, learn!”

  I leaned into Nick, who still hadn’t fully recovered from being singled out. “I think our kids are screwed. Between my attached earlobes and your flat tongue, what can they possibly accomplish in life?” I got a pity smile for my lame humor, but Nick made eye contact for more than two seconds. “Though maybe there is something awesome hidden on my dad’s side that they could inherit. He was surrendered at a hospital as a baby, so we have no clue about his birth family.”

  Nick nodded. “I never knew that about your dad but I guess that goes for me too.”

  Nick had grown up knowing he was adopted—his family had their own mini holiday, Nick Day, celebrating the day they brought him home—and had never shown the least bit of discomfort talking about it. The opposite, really. Score me for bringing it up. I had Nick’s full, unguarded attention. He turned to face me.

  “Did I tell you I recently took one of those online DNA tests to try to figure out more of my heritage? I’m obviously Samoan, but turns out I’m 8 percent Inuit too. I even found a few fourth cousins floating around the country.”

  I’d forgotten to care that he’d been holding my gaze for longer than his usual few seconds. “Wait, like actual blood relatives? A DNA test can tell you that?” My heart rate spiked as the possibilities began darting through my brain.

  “Yeah. A lot of people are doing them now, so you never know who you’ll find. Cool, huh?”

  I’d almost kissed him that day in biology class. Instead I’d pumped him for every speck of info on the company he’d used and started planning something I’d hopefully get to finish that night. The knowledge now made me hug Nick tighter despite the duffel bag smashed between us.

  From over his shoulder, I saw my mom heading toward us. I pulled back a scant second after he’d worked up the nerve to hug me back, noticing that I’d transferred a good amount of orange dust from my uniform to him in the process. I left him beating dust from his spotless white T-shirt and quite possibly ironed jeans with a promise to text him once I’d succeeded—which I absolutely would. I wasn’t about to lose twice in one night.

  Mom didn’t care about dust and gathered me into a hug while whispering a disparaging comment about the umpire’s vision before releasing me.

  “Tell that to Dad.” He was still in the dugout talking to a couple of the girls before making the final shift from Coach to Dad again, a distinction he and Selena had established back when he’d coached her softball team. Honestly, I never noticed much of a difference.

  “Oh, I will.”

  That made me sm
ile, because she would. My parents often had loud, passionate disagreements that, to an outsider, might seem like fights. But they didn’t see the way Mom would goad Dad even after she’d made her point just to watch the heated color infuse his pale skin, or the way Dad would bait her until she slipped into her native Spanish because she had even less of a filter in those moments than normal.

  “Who was the boy and when do I get to meet him?”

  I tightened the grip on my duffel. “That was Nick, and you’ve met him a dozen times.”

  “Not since you started hugging him like that.”

  I so wasn’t having that conversation. “Where’s Selena?”

  Mom gave me a knowing look at my obvious subject change. “Ask him to come to dinner. He’s not a vegetarian, is he?”

  To my mom, being a vegetarian was slightly less offensive than being a Dodgers fan. “He’s not a vegetarian. And he’s still just a friend.”

  “Hmm,” Mom said, which meant we’d be revisiting the topic later. “Selena’s waiting for us at the car.”

  “Where’s her car?”

  “She got in early, so we drove together.”

  Great. I get both her and Dad the whole way home.

  As soon as we were within earshot, Selena started. “I can’t believe you ran through a stop sign.” Her shoulder-length brown hair, a shade darker than mine, swished as she shook her head. “I get that when the adrenaline is flowing, it’s hard to stop, but, Dana, you don’t get to make that call. When I was playing...”

  I tuned her out. Selena had this way of seeming to support and motivate me that undercut everything I did, and it had only gotten worse since she left for college. The University of Arizona was only a couple hours from Apache Junction, so she still tried to make most of my games—largely, I was convinced, to remind us all of her glory days as a Mustang. She was no doubt relaying one of her many victories, where she single-handedly played every position and hit so many home runs that the other team’s coach begged her to transfer schools, or my personal favorite, Dad crying when she told him she wasn’t interested in playing college ball. Those were all slight-to-gross exaggerations. Dad never cried; he’d just looked like he wanted to.