“What would I do without you?”
“I don’t know. You’d probably get bored. I’m told I can be rather stimulating.”
I laugh and step out of her embrace. “Gross.”
“Perv.” Brooke sticks her tongue out at me. “Do you know what you want to wish for?” She passes me a plate with a single cupcake that has one candle in its center. It’s a tradition we have kept since we roomed together in our foster home all those years ago.
“Yes.” I smile.
“Same old wish?”
Brooke knows me better than anyone. We clicked the instant we met once I was placed in the same foster home as her. She was abandoned as a baby and grew up within the system, which gave her the opportunity to show me the ropes. Awful parents aren’t something two teens should bond over, but our survival instincts called for it. And together, instead of allowing our circumstances to ruin us, we supported one another through the darkest times.
With Brooke’s friendship, I did what others didn’t dare. I made wishes. Whether it was a birthday wish or a late-night entry scribbled in my wish journal, I dared to wish so freaking big, Walt Disney himself would be jealous.
Every single birthday, year after year, I make one wish. Despite the same result time and time again, I always gather a new hope that this will be the year I find out who my dad is. I never give up on my wish. Not even after my mom confessed one year how she had no idea who my dad was since she was drugged out of her mind at the time of my conception. While some girls are the product of two people who love each other very much, I’m the result of someone who cared more about the drugs in her system than protecting herself from an unwanted pregnancy.
To counteract the ugly thoughts inside of me over the years, I made up a grand story about who and where my father was. He became this hero in my head who had no idea I was born in the first place. If he knew about my existence, he would stop at nothing to find me.
Brooke lights the candle, pulling me back into the moment. “Dream big, Chloe.”
I shut my eyes and pull back my dark hair, not wanting to burn a strand with the flame. Please let this be the year I find some new clue about my dad. I release a gust of air and blow out the flame.
Brooke claps her hands. She grabs a knife and cuts the cupcake in half before sliding my half across our cracking Formica counter. Some people might turn their nose up at our fifties-inspired, closet-sized apartment. Brooke and I worked our butts off to afford a place in New York City, so we are proud of it. I work two jobs to cover my half of the rent. My mornings consist of taking care of kids at a daycare while I spend my evenings working as many shifts at a restaurant as I can. Meanwhile, Brooke has her life mapped out since she is a few semesters away from graduating with a degree in Fashion Journalism. Unlike Brooke, I can’t seem to think of next month, let alone what I want to do for the rest of my life.
Brooke pulls a wrapped present out of the spice cabinet.
I lift a brow. “Really? You decided to
hide it in there?”
“Since you can’t cook to save your life, it seemed like an appropriate place to hide this bad boy.” The package rattles as she shakes it once for good measure.
“I hope you didn’t buy anything—”
“Expensive. I know the rules.” She bobs her head in a mocking way.
I smile up at her. “You’re the best. You know that, right?”
“Open it!” Brooke cries.
I rip at the paper, revealing the last thing I’d expect.
“Oh Brooke, I thought we said we wouldn’t.” I run a trembling finger across the ancestry kit packaging.
“No. I said I wouldn’t. You only went along with my plan because you wanted to make me happy. But I decided to take your fate into my own hands.”
We both considered doing the genetic test last year but chickened out after we both considered the potential disappointment if the results didn’t work out. Brooke was adamant against it, and I agreed because I didn’t want to do it without her.
Leave it to my best friend to know me better than I know myself.
“You shouldn’t have.” This is the burden of being a dreamer. It’s all fun and games until Cloud Nine turns into a torrential downpour. And the reasonable side of my brain says this dream can morph into a category five hurricane.
But seeing the kit in my hands makes the dream of meeting my dad attainable. No, Chloe. It’s another dream that could break your heart.
Brooke grabs a bottle of cheap vodka from the top of the fridge. “There’s no time like the present. What do you say? Spit into the little tube, ship it off, and then we can get drunk off our asses to celebrate?”
This whole plan has the potential to explode in my face. I could either end up with an empty ancestry tree or find out that my father is some terrible human who knew about my existence this entire time. But—the irrational part of my brain intervenes—I could end up finding a father who didn’t know I existed in the first place. Someone who wants to get to know me and take me in as his family. A dad who wants to love me and make up for lost time, not because he has to, but because he wants to.