The Impact of You

Chapter 24

Avery

I’m still smiling like an idiot as I make it to my dorm room. Madison’s sitting on the futon painting her nails when I arrive. She studies my wrinkled clothes and messy sleep-styled hair with a smirk. “Have fun last night?”

“Yes.” I bite my cheek to avoid squeeing. “It was fun. How was your date?”

“Dull.” She shrugs. “Oh, a package came for you.” Madison nods toward the desk where a large envelope awaits.

Wow. It’s here. A flash of warmth invades my chest.

Madison pauses, holding the bottle of polish. “Avery? What is it?”

“Hm?” I pluck the envelope. “It’s probably just nothing.” Lie. This envelope is everything: The cure to my identity crisis, a link to my past, and a possible future with my mom. Tears prick my eyes, and still clutching the envelope, I head off for the communal bathrooms, needing a moment to myself.

I pull open the curtain to the shower on the far end and sit on the cool tiled bench seat.

Then I hesitate. Maybe I shouldn’t be alone when I open it. I dial Jase’s number, but the call goes to voicemail. After waiting several minutes, I send him a text. I balance the phone on the bench seat beside me. Since he usually replies right away, I’m surprised when he doesn’t text me back.

I’ve been waiting a lifetime for this moment, and I’m unable to put it off for even another second. I tear open the envelope and slide out the inch thick stack of papers.

I know Jase said he didn’t have any plans today, so I’m wondering where he could be. That question settles like an uneasy pit in my stomach, but I push it to the back of my mind as I begin reading the

opening letter, addressed to me, on the adoption agency letterhead. It acknowledges the difficult journey this process may prove to be and lists resources to help deal with birthparent searches. Awesome. Even they don’t have faith in their process.

The following pages contain boring forms and information that my dads had to complete nineteen years ago. It’s funny to see that their handwriting hasn’t changed a bit in all that time. Seeing the sheer volume of forms and information they supplied overwhelms me. They must’ve really wanted me bad. That thought makes me smile, though it’s quickly followed by a pang of guilt about doing this behind their backs.

I continue leafing through the pages, knowing the good stuff is probably at the back of the pile.

Bingo.

An old photograph of a woman that looks shockingly familiar is clipped to the back page. The same wavy auburn hair and wide-set eyes that greet me in the mirror each morning are staring back at me. I pull in a deep breath, shocked by how young she looks.

Her first name and a generic email account are supplied on the last page.

Huh.

Jessica.

My mom’s name is Jessica.

I’m strangely devoid of emotion as I learn this. Her photo is captivating, though, and I find myself staring at it, brushing it lovingly with my thumb. Tears sting my eyes, and as scary as it is, I stuff the papers back into the envelope and head back to my room to email her. Lord help me for whatever happens next.

* * *

I haven’t heard from Jase in two days. I’ve called and texted several times, and still nothing. I’m more worried than anything else, and since he didn’t show up for class today either, I head straight to his house after. This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

I let myself in when no one answers the front door. Geez, they should probably keep it locked. The house is empty and quiet, and although my heart is pounding at what I might find, I climb the stairs to the attic. There could be a million reasons for him not calling me back…he could have the flu, maybe something happened with his mom…or the worst – is he back with Stacia? Yet, even as I try to justify his silence, I know it can only mean one thing. I saw Marcy and Stacia talking the other night. I’m sure they saw me too. I guess I just hoped maybe Jase wouldn’t have to find out this way – and from Stacia of all people.

Steeling myself for the worst, I knock on Jase’s door. A few seconds later, I hear the floorboards creak as he crosses the room. A ragged looking Jase peers back at me. He isn’t dressed, hasn’t shaved and his hair’s a complete wreck.

“Jase?”

He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, just continues watching me with guarded eyes. The pain I see reflected back at me is too much. This is why I don’t get close to people. This look. I hate being responsible for it when they learn I’m not who they want me to be.

“Can I come in? Explain at least?” I ask.

Jase’s brow is wrinkled in confusion, but he opens the door a few more inches and saunters away. It’s not exactly a warm welcome, but he’s not shutting me out just yet, either. I step through the door and pull in a steadying breath. I’ve never wanted to explain this before. When confronted with my past, I

always flee. Always. But Jase deserves more. So as much as it’s going to suck to tell him this story, I know I have to.

His room is cold and any and all warmth between us is absent too. Jase turns to face me. “Did you know about the pictures?” he asks.

I swallow the grapefruit-sized lump that’s lodged itself painfully in my throat. That’s the thing – it’d be easier to say no, that Brent had tricked me, I didn’t know I was being photographed. But I did know. Brent thought it would be fun, sexy. And I would have done just about anything to hear him say he loved me. It turns out when you have abandonment issues, you’ll do just about anything to feel loved. I needed to feel loved, to be close to someone, and I loved it when Brent held me or touched me. Whether or not it had anything to do with my adoption, I didn’t know, but I craved that affection. During those moments of feeling wanted and desired, it dampened my sense of abandonment. I know these are probably all excuses, and certainly not something Jase is likely to understand. Nor does it erase the fact I kept it from him.

I hang my head, not wanting to see his eyes when I tell him this next part. “Yeah, I knew.” I didn’t say yes to the idea right away – he wore me down over a couple of weeks. And of course what followed wasn’t heartfelt; it wasn’t filled with love at all. It was an experience that left me broken, shattered, and humiliated. “When we broke up a couple weeks later, he shared the images with his friends, which were quickly passed around our school.” I could barely get out of bed those first few days. My dads thought I had the flu.

The disappointment in Jase’s eyes is so severe, so all encompassing, I stagger a step back, struggling to remain on my feet. It’s the look I hoped I never had to see it cross his face.

Some of the photos, Brent and I had taken together, a few I took of myself and texted to him while we were dating. “I didn’t know how to bring it up,” I say.

“You have a fucking sex tape, Avery!” He throws his hands up in the air. “These are things you mention.” He punches the wall. “Goddamn it!”

His fist leaves a dent in the drywall, and I stifle the urge to go to him and inspect his hand. I figured it was only a matter of time before Jase found out, but I never imagined he’d actually see it. Of course, Marcy probably pulled it up on her phone.

My stomach cramps and I think I might actually be sick.

“Do your dads know?” Jase’s voice is low and controlled, like he’s barely holding back his anger.

“Of course not. They’d shit a brick.”

“Yeah, imagine how I feel.”

I meet his eyes. “How do you feel?” Even if his next words crush me, I need to know.

“I was falling for you, Avery.”

All the oxygen leaves the room. “Was?”

“Was. Am. Fuck I don’t know.” His voice is raspy and weak, slashing away at my heart. His hands tear angrily through his hair, leaving it standing on end.

Something vital for my survival has been ripped from my body. Something I didn’t even know I had, and now can’t fathom living without.

I tuck my chin to my chest. “It wasn’t a sex tape.”

Brent and his best friend had created a slideshow of all the images both he and I had taken. The end product looped like a video, lasting several minutes.

“Close enough. There were parts of you that I’ve never even seen exposed for the whole world to appreciate.” The vacant quality of his voice, the hurt in his eyes is so real, I feel it in the pit of my stomach.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry I ever took those pictures. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you…”

“Me too. You’re not who I thought you were,” he says simply.

I hate the dejected tone of his voice. Seething anger, screaming, yelling would be better than this defeated tone.

“Don’t you think I wish I could take this back? I would if I could,” I whisper.

His eyes flick up to mine, devoid of all the warmth I used to feel from those beautiful baby blues. “I wish you could, too.” He turns his back and the tension in his shoulders tells me our conversation is done. And worse. We are done too.