I stretch and sigh. There’s no way I can go back to sleep now. I quickly slip on a waffle-knit hoodie and make my way downstairs, stepping softly as I go.
I fill a glass of water at the sink. Suddenly, something behind me catches my eye. At the far end of our immaculately landscaped backyard, a soft yellow light glows from within the latticework of crisscrossing branches.
The clubhouse. Laurel and Thayer are out there, looking up at the stars. I can picture their silhouettes in profile. They’re tilted toward each other, whispering in the dim space. About what, I wonder. What would it be like, to be the one curled up in there, with Thayer all to myself?
“Did we wake you?”
I jump at the figure in the doorway, dropping my glass of water in the process. It hits the granite countertop and shatters. When I pull my hand away, I see blood.
“Ouch!” The cut is shallow, but there’s a lot of blood. I lean against the countertop, suddenly woozy.
Thayer strides over to me. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I eke out. “But maybe you could get me a Band-Aid?”
Thayer looks like he doesn’t want to leave my side. “Where are they?
“In the hall bathroom, in the medicine cabinet.” I point with my non-injured hand.
Thayer walks away quickly, and I use the time to catch my breath. What is wrong with me? I don’t go around dropping glasses, even in the middle of the night. Does he know I’m being extra clumsy because of him? Can he tell how I’m starting to feel?
How am I starting to feel? I still haven’t answered his text about sorbet. I tell myself it’s because I want to keep him on his toes, but really, I haven’t decided how to respond. I’m realizing that the usual rules of flirting don’t necessarily apply with Thayer.
A moment later, Thayer reappears with a first-aid kit in hand. He pulls out a thick square of gauze and holds it firmly against my palm, leading me gently to the kitchen table to sit down. “Keep the pressure on while I clean up,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“No problem,” Thayer says over his shoulder as he wipes off the countertop, picking up the larger shards of glass and tossing them in a garbage bag. “I shouldn’t have scared you like that. What are you doing up?”
“A dream woke me, I guess,” I say.
“About what?”
I look away, shy. I don’t usually talk about my birth mom with guys. Or with anyone, for that matter.
Thayer ties off the plastic bag and loops it around the doorknob of the door leading to the mudroom. Then he grabs the first-aid kit and takes a seat next to me at the table, sliding my chair out and tilting it so that we’re facing each other. I inhale, feeling the air charged and alive between us, and he leans in to me. Gently, he takes my injured hand and stretches it out, removing the gauze and placing it aside, on the table.
“This is going to sting,” he warns, his eyes never leaving mine.
He tears open an antiseptic wipe and runs it across my cut. I shiver from the quick, sharp burn. Then he lifts my palm to his face and blows lightly. I shiver again. This time, I think it has more to do with Thayer than the cut.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Thayer asks softly.
“I’m fine,” I say, wincing.
“I don’t mean from the cut,” he says. “I mean about … your dream. Whatever woke you up. You seem …” He trails off, perhaps not able to find the words.
“I was dreaming about my mother,” I blurt suddenly. “My real mother, I mean. You know I’m adopted, right?”
“Yes.” If Thayer can tell I’m nervous, he doesn’t react. He just peels the backing off a large Band-Aid, fixing it tightly over my cut. Then he balls my hand into a fist, cupping it in his own, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. His strong grip comforts me, and I continue.
“I do that, sometimes—dream about her. It wakes me up every time. Except, it’s not really her, even—not that I’d really know. I have no memories of her. And it was a closed adoption, so my parents—the Mercers, I mean—won’t talk about it.”
For a moment, the kitchen is still, the low hum of the air-conditioning the only sound other than my own and Thayer’s breathing. When a few more seconds pass and Thayer doesn’t say anything, I start to panic. Maybe I shared too much. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear my lame dreams or angst about my birth parents. It’s not something I like to think about myself. I don’t even write the feelings down in my journal.
But then Thayer squeezes my hand more tightly. “That must be hard,” he says simply.
A rush of emotion washes over me. It is the best thing, the only thing, really, to say.
“Do you hope to meet her someday?” Thayer asks.
I consider this. Astonishingly, it’s a question no one has ever asked me. “I think so,” I say. “I mean, there’s part of me that’s really angry at her, of course—every adopted kid feels that way, probably. I want to know why she gave me up, why she couldn’t keep me.”