“Hey, Jules, I’m trying to reach Alecia and I can’t get through on her cell. Have you spoken with her?”

“Dominic?”

“Who else would this be?”

“Your number came up as unknown. You’re lucky I answered.”

“Have you spoken to her?” I ask again.

“No, I haven’t spoken to her since the baseball game. Is everything okay?”

I swear under my breath and rub my fingers over my lips. “No, it’s not okay. But I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Dom.”

“Thanks, bella.”

She’s probably right. I’m sure she’s fine. But now worry has settled in. I need to get Gianna back on her feet and have words, and come to blows, with Marco, so I can go home and figure out what the fuck is going on.

Chapter Twenty

~Alecia~

I didn’t know I could hate a city as much as I hate San Francisco. And it’s really not the city’s fault. It’s a beautiful city with lovely buildings and interesting people. Excellent food. There’s always something going on here, whether it be an art exhibit or a festival.

And the views of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Pacific Ocean are stunning.

But there are nothing but bad memories for me here.

I drive my rental car through the neighborhood I grew up in. I know the streets like the back of my hand. I walked home countless times, alone, when one of my parents forgot to pick me up from school, or simply didn’t come get me because it was inconvenient.

I could find their house blindfolded.

I pull up to the curb, cut the engine, and simply gaze about the tidy, middle class neighborhood. It’s a beautiful, sunny summer day. The trees are heavy with green leaves, the sidewalks tidy and busy with kids on bikes or running around with friends. Two of the neighbors are mowing their lawns.

I step out of the car and stare at Mom and Dad’s house. They must have had it recently painted. Instead of the solid, dependable dark grey from my childhood, it’s now a rust color, and the green shrubs on either side of the small porch look even brighter against the house.

I take a deep breath and walk slowly up the sidewalk, climb the stairs of the porch, and ring the doorbell. My eyes can’t help but travel to the corner of the porch where I used to sit for hours on end, watching the other kids in the neighborhood, wishing I didn’t have to go to another piano lesson or basketball practice or day camp.

The door opens and my mother, her blonde hair curly and a bit unruly around her thin face, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and blue jeans rolled up to mid-calf, opens the door with a surprised smile.

“Alecia! Oh my goodness, what are you doing? Come in, darling.” She steps back, letting me in and kisses both of my cheeks. “Alan! Alecia is here!”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Well, this is a delightful surprise. Are you visiting from Sedona?”

“Seattle,” I correct her and clench my hands into fists. “I live in Seattle.”

“That’s right, dear. Come on back to the kitchen. Your father and I were just about to have some lunch.”

The furniture is the same. Brown leather couches and a tube TV at least fifteen years old sit in the living room. The same worn dining room set in the kitchen.

Even the mug my dad is drinking out of in the kitchen is one I gave him for Christmas when I was nine.

“Alecia,” he says kindly, and kisses my cheek. “How nice of you to visit. It’s been, what, at least six months?”

“Three years,” I reply, and blink back tears. Why does this always surprise me?

Mom frowns and begins gathering lunchmeat, cheese, and bread to make sandwiches.

“No, it can’t be that long,” she says and shakes her head. “I’m quite sure we spoke to you at Christmas.”

“No, you didn’t,” I reply firmly. This is what I’m here for, right? I might as well start standing up for myself now.

“Well, it’s good to see you,” Dad says with a grin. “How is Sedona?”

“Seattle,” I say between gritted teeth. “Why can’t either of you ever remember that I live in Seattle?”

“Do you want ham or turkey, dear?” Mom asks Dad.

“Turkey, please. Alecia, come sit.” He gestures to the chair to his left, and I lower myself into it, set my handbag on the floor, and take a deep breath.

I wish I had a good, strong drink.

“I won’t be here long,” I begin, and bite my lip, mustering up courage.

“What is it, darling?” Mom asks kindly and cuts dad’s sandwich in two, diagonally, just the way he likes it.

“If you didn’t want me, why did you have me?”

They both still, then frown at me, flustered.

“What are you talking about?” Dad says.

“I know I wasn’t planned,” I continue, tracing a pattern on the table with my fingertip. “That was never a secret. But, if you didn’t want me, and I was an accident, why didn’t you give me up for adoption, rather than keeping me and ignoring me my whole life?”

“Ignoring you?” Mom demands, and sits at the table, the sandwich forgotten.

“Let’s not mince words,” I say, and look them both in the eyes. “I was never allowed to eat with you. You kept me busy in school to keep me out of your way. I hated sports. I didn’t even particularly like the piano.”

“Do you have any idea how much it cost to keep you in piano lessons? In sports?” Mom sits back, angry now, her brown eyes wide and frustrated. “We gave you everything. Sent you to the best schools. The best college.”