“You failed to ask.”
“Is there anything else I’ve failed to ask that I should be aware of?”
“Oh, yes,” he exaggerates in humor. “But where’s the fun in transparency?”
“Man of mystery.”
He smiles, and I laugh.
“So, tell me, Lachlan. What is it that you do for Declan?”
“I manage his finances among other things. And what about you?”
“Me?”
“What do you do for a profession?”
His question perturbs, and I deflect, “I prefer to dabble instead of commit to a singular entity.”
“Entrepreneur?”
“Isn’t that just a fancy word for unemployed?”
“Which do you prefer?”
“Honest and straight forward,” I tell him. “No reason to dress up the truth because when people realize the crudité is just a veggie platter, they feel cheated and the culprit looks like a fraud.”
He laughs, but little does he know, I’m the crudité here. I’m a distorted hyperbole. At least that’s what I have been. I’m trying to shed the guise because I need a solid ground of understanding to figure out who I am. What are the true fibers from which I’m woven?
And then I remember why I’m here, and I wonder, Am I ready for this? Do I really want to know? He told me he found her, the mother I’ve never known, and a multitude of questions begin to rain down: Did she ever love me? Did she love my dad? Why didn’t she want me? Did she know my dad was in prison? Did she know I was in foster care? Why didn’t she come for me? Why didn’t she save me? How could she just dispose of me?
“Are you okay?” Lachlan questions, his voice thick with concern.
I flick my eyes up to him, realizing I let my mind drift and pull me away.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” I shift, and leaving the humor behind, I say, “I’m a little uneasy.”
“How so?” His voice mellows with the change in mood.
“Wondering if I want to open this door that’s been closed my whole life.”
“We don’t have to do this,” he tells me. “If you’ve changed your mind or you want to wait . . . it’s up to you.”
“Seems weird,” I remark. “Sitting here with you—practically a stranger—and yet you know about my mother when she’s nothing more than a question mark for me.”
“She doesn’t have to be a question mark. But if you’re not ready . . . ”
“I thought I was. Now I’m not so sure.”
He stands up, walks over to the credenza, and picks up a manila envelope. My eyes follow him as he moves to me and sits by my side. Placing the envelope on my lap, he says, “I don’t believe there’s a right or wrong choice here, but if you do find yourself wanting to open the door to the mystery, it’s all in there.”
I run my hands along the paper that separates me from my mom, and my apprehension grows. It’s the conundrum of whether this envelope holds hope or dejection. Will this lead me to answers or just create more questions? And do I even care? It’s not like she means anything to me, right?
And then I wonder why I never did care enough to learn about her. Maybe it’s because Pike was enough for me to fill that void of family. I mean, he never could fill the void of my father—nobody has the power to do that—but Pike did become my family. He was my protector and comfort, and I didn’t feel like I needed anyone else because he was enough.
But now he’s gone.
And so is Declan. Even though he keeps me around, he no longer belongs to me. But did he ever?
These few weeks since everything came crashing down, my loneliness has grown to a point of neediness. And now a part of me feels like I need this, whatever it is that’s inside of this envelope.
“Tell me, Lachlan, are your parents still alive?” I ask in melancholy, confused about my feelings, wondering if there’s anyone else here on this planet that can relate to me.
“Yes.”
“Big or small family?”
“Big.”
“Close?” I question.
“Yes.”
Sad warmth creeps along my cheeks, and I take a moment to push the feeling aside before speaking again. “I never had that.”
He doesn’t respond, but what is there to say?
“Would you like a distraction?” he offers, and I sigh in exasperation, “Please.”
His smile is friendly as it grows, and he takes my hand, guiding me to stand.
Handing me my coat, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”
He then takes me to Caffé e Cucina where we indulge ourselves with cappuccinos and kouignoù amann, which Lachlan promises I’ll enjoy, and the French pastry doesn’t disappoint.