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It was Natalie who suggested the Westside café as a good place for breakfast the next morning. Brooke had never been to the restaurant, so she left her apartment an hour early to make sure she wouldn’t be late. She’d struggled over what to wear, wanting to make a good impression the first time Natalie saw her, and finally landed on a simple black skirt with an elastic waist—maybe she was imagining things, but at twelve weeks, her clothes were already starting to feel tight around her stomach—black tights and knee-high boots, and a purple sweater Ryan had bought her because he said it brought out the color of her eyes. She let her curls dry naturally to reduce their normal frizz, then swiped on a little mascara and lipstick before she walked out the door.
Twenty minutes later, Brooke was searching for a parking spot on the very narrow, heavily populated residential side streets that T-boned the main stretch of Alki Beach. She had already driven past the restaurant, so she knew where it was, but it took her another fifteen minutes to find a place to park. It was a cold but clear morning, and the sidewalk lining the beach was littered with people jogging, walking, or pushing strollers in their Columbia fleece outerwear. The blue water of the Puget Sound shimmered as though diamonds had been scattered across it, and after Brooke walked the four blocks back to the restaurant, she stood for a moment, looking out to the green islands across the way. One of them was likely Bainbridge, but Brooke couldn’t have picked it out—local geography had never been her strong suit. Though the sun was shining, the breeze was icy coming off the water, so she tucked her hands into her coat pockets and pushed the restaurant door open with one of her shoulders.
“Good morning,” the hostess said over the clang of pots and pans from the exposed kitchen and the noisy chatter of already-seated patrons. “Are you meeting someone?”
Brooke nodded. “A woman named Natalie.” Her heart pounded an errant rhythm inside her chest, so she took a deep breath in an attempt to settle it. She looked over the small dining area, unsure if she’d recognize her sister after all these years.
The hostess smiled. “Right this way, please.”
Apparently, Natalie had come early, too. With her hands still shoved in her pockets, Brooke followed the hostess through an archway and to the very back of the seating area, to the last table, where a woman with long, straight blond hair sat alone. When she saw the hostess bringing Brooke her way, the blond woman stood up, one hand gripping the edge of the table and the other splayed across her chest.
“Thanks,” Brooke told the hostess when they were several tables away. “I see her.” The hostess smiled, told Brooke their server would be with them soon, and then headed back toward the front. Brooke walked, the muscles in her legs quaking, the rest of the way to her sister.
“Hi,” Natalie said, dropping her hand from her chest. She smiled at Brooke, and then took a step toward her. “I feel like we should hug?” She hesitated, waiting for Brooke to give the okay, and so Brooke bobbed her head, letting this petite woman with dark chocolate eyes put her arms around her. It was a short embrace, and an uncomfortable one, but when Natalie pulled away, Brooke’s eyes immediately filled with tears.
Seeing this, Natalie ushered her into the seat opposite her at the table, then handed her a tissue. “I thought we might need these,” Natalie said, using one to wipe beneath her own eyes.
Brooke didn’t know what to say. She might not even be my real sister, Brooke reminded herself. We don’t look anything alike. Without DNA testing, there’s no way to know for sure.
But then Natalie reached for something in her black leather bag, which was sitting on the chair next to her, and pulled out a faded and worn lavender blanket. She held it carefully, as though it might fall apart, and suddenly Brooke felt as though she might, too.
“My soft side,” she whispered, unable to hold back her tears. Oh, god. It was her. It was Natalie. Her sister.
“Your what?” Natalie asked with a puzzled look.
Brooke reached out for the blanket, and Natalie handed it to her. “That’s what I called it,” she said. “My soft side. I don’t know why. I just . . . did.” She clutched the worn fabric, her fingers rubbing the blanket’s silky edges in what felt like an autonomic response, as natural and uncontrollable as the beat of her heart. “I haven’t thought about this in years. I forgot I gave it to you.”
“You?” Natalie asked. “Not my—I mean, our—birth mother?”
“She didn’t give us anything,” Brooke said in a flat voice, unable to lift her eyes from the blanket.