with Charlie, complaining that it was too tight around the middle and it would never look good on her flabby mom belly again. Smiling a little at the memory, I padded into the kitchen to check my calendar. I was pretty sure I had to work at the Depot at one, but since becoming semi-nocturnal, I’d gotten the days mixed up before.
The doorbell rang before I made it to the living room. I jumped a little, and all around me dogs began barking hysterically, working extra hard to make up for the fact that they hadn’t heard anyone approach. Generally the only person who could surprise the dogs was Quinn, because he was vampire-sneaky. “Dropped the ball, guys,” I muttered.
The animals swarmed the front door, and I had to wedge myself between them to get to the little glass window. When I peeked through, I saw an unassuming Caucasian man with his hands stuffed in his pockets. When he saw me, he held up his hands slightly in an unconscious nonthreatening gesture. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I automatically thought salesman .
He said something, but I couldn’t make it out over the barking. I cracked the door, jamming my body in it to keep the dogs inside, and opened my mouth to get rid of him. He overrode me.
“I’m sorry to just drop in on you like this,” he called over the noise, “but I didn’t have a number for you. My name is Emil Jasper, and I . . . well. I’m your biological father.”
Chapter 7
“You’re . . . what do . . .” I sputtered. I was having a hard time rearranging my entire worldview in a few seconds.
Sam and I had never celebrated an adoption day the way some families did, and most of the time I barely remembered that we weren’t biologically Luthers. But I knew the story. My birth mother had walked into a Denver hospital in the middle of a terrible rainstorm, dripping wet and well into labor. She wouldn’t give her name or any background information, but she spoke with an accent, and the hospital’s assumption was that she was likely an undocumented immigrant.
The doctors would have questioned her further after we were born, but then I went into distress—something about fluid in my lungs choking me. While they were busy saving me, our mother was suddenly bleeding out. And then it was over. I’d wondered who my birth father was, of course, but I’d never actually expected to find out.
Unable to form any actual sentences, I snapped my mouth shut and looked him over more carefully, tuning out the barking. Jasper was just over six feet tall, with dark blond hair silvering to gray and a neat goatee. He carried a little extra weight around his middle, but it was mostly disguised by his simple, forgettable clothing: khaki pants and a plain charcoal button-down, with new-looking casual oxfords. The only remarkable thing about his clothes was the awkward way they fit. His shirt bunched a little just below the collar, and his pants hung low, as though the pockets were filled with change. I’d had a lot of practice looking for weapons under clothing, but this didn’t seem like guns or knives, just . . . weighed down.
At first glance he had appeared to be about forty, but now I saw the signs of age: sag under his chin, lines around his mouth, and the small potbelly despite his wiry forearms. I put him just north of fifty. His eyes were cornflower blue, exactly like mine. And Sam’s, and Charlie’s.
That itself wasn’t proof of paternity or anything, but the more I looked, the more similarities I spotted. Our noses. Our thick eyelashes. I glanced at his hands. Even his fingernails were shaped like mine.
“Why are you here?” I blurted, and immediately felt like a jerk.
But he didn’t seem offended, just nervous. His fingers kneaded together at his waist, as though he were holding an imaginary hat. “I was hoping to meet you. Speak to you. Explain why . . .”
He trailed off, looking so mortified that I took pity on him. “Are you okay with animals, Mr. Jasper?” I
The doorbell rang before I made it to the living room. I jumped a little, and all around me dogs began barking hysterically, working extra hard to make up for the fact that they hadn’t heard anyone approach. Generally the only person who could surprise the dogs was Quinn, because he was vampire-sneaky. “Dropped the ball, guys,” I muttered.
The animals swarmed the front door, and I had to wedge myself between them to get to the little glass window. When I peeked through, I saw an unassuming Caucasian man with his hands stuffed in his pockets. When he saw me, he held up his hands slightly in an unconscious nonthreatening gesture. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I automatically thought salesman .
He said something, but I couldn’t make it out over the barking. I cracked the door, jamming my body in it to keep the dogs inside, and opened my mouth to get rid of him. He overrode me.
“I’m sorry to just drop in on you like this,” he called over the noise, “but I didn’t have a number for you. My name is Emil Jasper, and I . . . well. I’m your biological father.”
Chapter 7
“You’re . . . what do . . .” I sputtered. I was having a hard time rearranging my entire worldview in a few seconds.
Sam and I had never celebrated an adoption day the way some families did, and most of the time I barely remembered that we weren’t biologically Luthers. But I knew the story. My birth mother had walked into a Denver hospital in the middle of a terrible rainstorm, dripping wet and well into labor. She wouldn’t give her name or any background information, but she spoke with an accent, and the hospital’s assumption was that she was likely an undocumented immigrant.
The doctors would have questioned her further after we were born, but then I went into distress—something about fluid in my lungs choking me. While they were busy saving me, our mother was suddenly bleeding out. And then it was over. I’d wondered who my birth father was, of course, but I’d never actually expected to find out.
Unable to form any actual sentences, I snapped my mouth shut and looked him over more carefully, tuning out the barking. Jasper was just over six feet tall, with dark blond hair silvering to gray and a neat goatee. He carried a little extra weight around his middle, but it was mostly disguised by his simple, forgettable clothing: khaki pants and a plain charcoal button-down, with new-looking casual oxfords. The only remarkable thing about his clothes was the awkward way they fit. His shirt bunched a little just below the collar, and his pants hung low, as though the pockets were filled with change. I’d had a lot of practice looking for weapons under clothing, but this didn’t seem like guns or knives, just . . . weighed down.
At first glance he had appeared to be about forty, but now I saw the signs of age: sag under his chin, lines around his mouth, and the small potbelly despite his wiry forearms. I put him just north of fifty. His eyes were cornflower blue, exactly like mine. And Sam’s, and Charlie’s.
That itself wasn’t proof of paternity or anything, but the more I looked, the more similarities I spotted. Our noses. Our thick eyelashes. I glanced at his hands. Even his fingernails were shaped like mine.
“Why are you here?” I blurted, and immediately felt like a jerk.
But he didn’t seem offended, just nervous. His fingers kneaded together at his waist, as though he were holding an imaginary hat. “I was hoping to meet you. Speak to you. Explain why . . .”
He trailed off, looking so mortified that I took pity on him. “Are you okay with animals, Mr. Jasper?” I
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