Both Cleaving and Cleaving

Chapter 1The idyllic family of four playing together on the playground captured my full attention. In an epic game of tag, they ran around each other, dodging through swings, ducking under the rickety bridge, and skirting up the climbing wall. The parents were laughing as hard as the kids, and my engaged heart pounded as I surveyed the scene. My face fell as I looked back at Shiloh Kate, and I gave a wistful sigh. If only. “Lula, look at me!” Shiloh Kate squealed. Lula wasn’t my name, but it was the best she could do, and oh, so close. She could call me whatever she wanted, as long as I got to be near her sometimes. Her mother was pushing her on the swing as high as she dared. Shiloh Kate was fearless, like me. Her chubby little fingers gripped the chains until her knuckles were white, and her flexed feet kicked hard in-and-out with the rhythm of the swing. Her light brown hair flew past her ears, covering her face before swooshing back behind her again. “Wow, Shiloh! You are so high!” I recovered my smile and let my voice lift with the kind of fake enthusiasm given to a child to satisfy her. Shiloh Kate beamed back at me with her dark brown eyes. She looked just like me. There was none of Heath Cook in her—thank God. Behind Shiloh Kate, her mother—well, her adoptive mother—stood smiling at me with a knowing look on her face. Brooklyn Kell was a vision. She had long brown hair and blue eyes. Her skin was pale and clear. She was always dressed well, even when she was exercising. I liked her from the first moment I met her. She and Danny, her husband, were two of the kindest, most generous people I knew. They were easy on the eyes and easy to like. Still, I had my moments of mama-envy. Being a birth mom, I probably always would. When I placed Shiloh Kate with them, I never thought it would be like this. I made an informed decision and an ignorant choice at the same time. No one prepared me for how I would feel now that I had made it through college and was able to support myself. I didn’t know it would be this hard—that I would long for a family—for her. A family. Yeah, right. Who would want to marry me? I had too much baggage, too many emotions, and they were all wrapped up in that little girl on the swing. The regular visits with her were amazing and reassuring, but the aftermath was gut-wrenching and tense. Every time I had to walk away from her, it was like I was leaving the hospital all over again—without the fruit of my labor. Shiloh Kate was worth it, though. I would walk away a million times if it meant getting to be with her. I would take any amount of torture, just to spend a little time with her. That’s why I didn’t date. The last time I liked a guy and told him about her, he split after dinner, and I never heard from him again. Looking at Shiloh Kate now, I knew that jerk was not worth thinking about anymore. The family playing tag ran past me one at a time breathing hard and laughing. I took a deep breath. Maybe it was time to go. “Brooklyn, I need to run. I have to head to work.” I couldn’t keep the angst out of my voice. Brooklyn’s smile was small, her brow creased. As she slowed Shiloh Kate’s swing down, I decided not to look her in the eye. There was no way I was talking to her about this. Shiloh Kate ran over and gave me a big hug. I swallowed hard and let her go. I pulled back and touched her gently on the nose. “Boop.” My tone was high-pitched. “Boop.” Shiloh Kate mimicked me. We both loved Trolls and did this routinely whenever we saw each other like the characters in the movie. “Bye, Lula! See you next time,” she yelled as if I was not kneeling four inches from her. Then, she spun around. “Mom, can we get ice cream?” Brooklyn was still giving me a pitiful look as I stood. I shook my head, and she nodded. After a quick wave, I followed my daughter’s example by flipping around and walking on. Yes, ice cream sounded like a great idea. My phone rang as I started my car. My skin pricked. I didn’t want to talk about this with Brooklyn. I was fine. It wasn’t Brooklyn calling me, though. It was Casey’s mom. Casey Davies, my cousin and confidant, had parents that detested me. We roomed together in college our freshmen year, and when I got knocked up a few months in, they were unimpressed, to say the least. Casey’s parents, who had immovable ideas of people that included an us-versus-them mentality most of the time, blamed me when Casey got pregnant two years later. They told me I needed to convince her to do what I did and ‘give the baby a chance.’ A chance at what? I wasn’t so sure anymore. A chance at security? Or to be traumatized? A chance to have a capable set of parents or to struggle with identity and belonging? A chance to gain the opportunity for a loving home or to lose her first forever? The truth was, this open adoption relationship was already a struggle for me at the time Casey got pregnant, and I knew I would never recommend it to anyone. I still couldn’t. At the time I placed Shiloh Kate for adoption, I was eighteen with poor parents, needing to keep excellent grades to keep my scholarship, or I wouldn’t make it through college because I wouldn’t be able to afford college. I had no support, no direction, and my parents felt like it was cruel to bring a baby home with a mom who couldn’t provide for it. They lectured me at length on the struggles of parenting in poverty and how it wrecks your heart. I figured they would know, so I placed her for adoption. I thought that would be it, but I realized as time went on that being a birth mom is a long journey on a train you never get off. I was stuck on this ride, for better or worse, and though my daughter was alive and well and thriving, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Because of my experience, every chance I got, I affirmed Casey’s decision to parent, telling her I would be there for her to help out. Cora was three now, with red ringlets of hair and thoughtful expressions. She was adorable. “Hello,” I answered the call, trying my best to sound polite. “Luca? This is your Aunt Carrie.” Her voice was terse, and I could imagine the thin line in her lips as she waited for me to respond. She looked so much like my mother, her younger sister. “Hi. How can I help you?” I asked. “Casey isn’t answering her phone.” Her tone was sharp. “Oh, it might be dead?” I offered weakly. “It doesn’t matter. When is Casey planning to come home? We still have Cora, and we need to head to the country club.” My heart stopped. Aunt Carrie obviously thought Casey was with me, when Casey very much was not. Where was that girl? Why did she keep leaving her daughter with her wretched parents? I knew they had a ton of money and Casey was spoiled, but they were mean people. I wouldn’t let them within a hundred feet of my child if I were her. “Okay. I’ll let her know.” I ended the call without hearing what she said. I shot off a text to Corbin, Casey’s older brother, who usually kept close tabs on her. Then, after picking up my well-earned ice cream and savoring it in the sanctuary of my car, I went to work. After finishing my bachelor’s degree, I obtained my master’s degree in social work. Helping people was the only thing I ever wanted to do, but I wasn’t sure how I wanted to help them. When I had Shiloh Kate, everything became clear. I wanted to help families. Casey and Cora were the first family I helped stay together. It was good practice for Hope Place, the group home I worked at in Oklahoma City. As I walked into the recreation room at work, my phone sounded, but I couldn’t look at it for long because the screaming caught my attention. “Get off me!” It was a young, male voice. My eyes darted up and around the room, searching for the culprit. The children were in a large circle surrounding the scuffle. I heard a grunt as I pushed through the crowd of about twenty kids. When I grabbed Treyvon and Declan to push them apart, Declan’s fist landed on Treyvon’s cheek. “Boys!” I shouted. “Stop it!” “You’re going to pay for that, Declan!” Treyvon spit at him. “Calm down, boys.” I did my best to keep them apart, as the teacher, who was apparently late, ran into the room to assist me. He took Declan, and I took Treyvon, and we went to the Thinking Rooms. Thinking Rooms were small spaces for our kids when they needed a time out or just wanted to be alone for a while. They had padded floors and giant bean bags to sit on. We used them to split kids up when something like this happened as well. “What happened?” I looked at Treyvon, my eyes wide. Treyvon clenched his jaw and shook his head. I waited, taking note of every movement he made. This was a skill I learned in school; listen, even when they aren’t saying anything. Treyvon fisted his hands and then shook them out. Silently, he paced the length of the room, a strong crease between his eyebrows. “Declan said my mama only wanted me back for the paycheck.” My heart dropped. What a little jerk! These kids dealt with too much daily. Jada, Treyvon’s mama, was a hardworking, single mom from the streets. She fought for him and raised him out of nothing, something I admired greatly. When Treyvon’s father died in an accident at work, Jada and Treyvon began receiving a monthly check on his behalf. The pain of losing her son’s father drove Jada down a dark path, and she eventually lost control. Jada, however, was strong. She was fighting back now for Treyvon and for herself. “You know that’s not true. Your mom took care of you before those checks started coming, and she’s fighting for you now. She has a job—” “No, she doesn’t.” “What?” It was like he slapped my face. Jada and I worked so hard for her to see out her plan to regain full custody of Treyvon. “That’s where she is now—trying to find a job before the hearing next week.” He wouldn’t look me in the eyes. “What happened out there?” I asked him. The boy shrugged and slid down the wall to a seat. “I don’t know.” I took him in. He had mocha skin, dark brown eyes, and beautiful long eyelashes. “Okay, well, listen. You have the power to walk away from Declan. When he says something to upset you, walk away.” “All right, Miss Luca.” “What did fighting prove?” “That I’m stupid enough to get myself in trouble.” I nodded at him with a little smile on my face. “Something like that, yes.” Patting him on the shoulder, I released him to go back to his room or stay for a while and remain calm. Then, I walked into the next room, where Declan sat with a smirk on his face. I had to remind myself that his behavior was a cry for help. “What happened?” I asked him. “Nothing.” I waited. He looked at me for a while, fidgeting the whole time. Finally, he said, “My mom missed her last visitation and the judge granted the termination of her rights. It’s over now. I’m officially up for adoption. Oh, but wait, nobody wants a kid my age.” “That’s not tr—” “Yes, it is. Stop trying to make it better. Nobody adopts a nine-year-old.” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about your mom.” “She isn’t my mom anymore. She’s nobody, just some piece of s**t that gave birth to me and then changed her mind. I mean, who does that? Who gives their child away? What kind of monster could do that?” The lump in my throat cut off all circulation in my body. My face was red, and my heart seized up. I couldn’t respond. I had no words. “Adoption is love,” he mocked, waving his hands in the air. “Bullshit! It’s leftovers when you can’t get pregnant or plus-ones, like celebrities and their dogs. People just want a trophy to show off at church. It’s not fair! I’m a person!” Declan roared, clenching his fists. I counted to ten in my head before I responded. “You’re right, Declan. You are a person, and your life matters.” We both sat silently, shoulder-to-shoulder for several minutes. I turned over his words in my mind. Who does that? Who indeed? I wondered if Shiloh Kate would think those same words when she was his age. At the time I placed her, I was sure I was doing the right thing, as if one decision could make it all right. Now, I knew I could only do the next right thing. I would have to continue learning to live with my decision to place Shiloh Kate for adoption, and maybe someday, comments from struggling kids wouldn’t affect me as much. Maybe. “Sorry,” Declan said finally. I rolled my head to the side to look at him. “You should say that to Treyvon.” “I will.” His eyes were downcast. “Listen, what your mom did sucks, and I’m sorry. You are worth fighting for.” Suddenly, Declan threw himself at me and wept, clinging to me like a toddler who had just discovered gravity the hard way. After work, I rushed home to get all dolled up for the Hope Place Annual Gala. It was our biggest fundraiser every year, and we needed the money desperately. This year, Coleen Tuttle, my boss, managed to book a Major League Baseball player who was adopted out of Hope Place when he was a young boy. I was excited to hear his story but worried about what he would say about his birth parents. Maybe it was the birth mom in me, but every time I looked at an adoptee, I wondered about the woman who gave birth to them. I secretly hoped she was okay and felt some sense of responsibility to her to look after her child, for my part, even if her child was an adult. Because the gala was a black-tie affair, I went all out. My dress was a black, backless number that hugged my body to the floor. The straps were super long and made to wrap around my body repeatedly. I pulled each of them up over my chest, brought them together at my neckline, and twisted them down the right shoulder blade on my back until I could split the straps and wrap them around my waist. I finished the straps off by tying them in a knot on the front of my left hip. I paired the dress with black stilettos and fake diamond earrings. My makeup was on pointe with smoky eyes and a dark, dramatic lipstick. I decided to pull my long, sandy brown hair up onto the top of my neck and tuck it in here and twist it around there. I kept a few strands out to frame my face and was pleased with my final product. By the time I stepped inside the hotel ballroom in downtown Oklahoma City, I felt like a celebrity on the red carpet with my dramatic dress. The place was beautifully decorated with floral centerpieces and pictures of the kids and families we helped. It was a sit-down dinner, and I located my seat quickly, before being put right to work by Coleen. She instructed me to schmooze, and so I strutted around the room as the music played and people danced. It was a large room with tall ceilings and dramatic chandeliers. The tables were round with white tablecloths covering them and floral centerpieces small enough to allow room for images of children and families we served. The contrast between pictures of children and families in need and the black-tie attire of the potential donors was sharp for me. I felt more connected to the people in the photographs than the people dispersed throughout the room. Still, I had a job to do. If I cared about those people in the pictures, and I did, I had to advocate for them in the crowd of doctors, lawyers, professors, wives of professional basketball players, and one former resident, who went from being a picture to a pitcher in major league baseball. I wondered how he would feel seeing the images. The atmosphere was charged, the music inviting. People were dancing, drinking, and laughing all over the room. Everything was going well enough for Coleen to be genuinely smiling, something that made me smile. I answered questions, helped people find their tables, and gave directions to the bathrooms. Half an hour later, I was laughing with Oliver Tate, a lawyer in his late twenties, who was flattering me endlessly, when I felt a presence over my shoulder. I whirled around into the chest of a large, extremely well-built man that towered over me, even in my stilettos. He was wearing a tuxedo with a maroon jacket and black designer shoes, sans socks. His skin was the color of hot chocolate, and his curly hair, brown like a handful of dark roast coffee beans, was shaved tight on both sides with a little on top and down the back ending in a point at his hairline. “Excuse me,” he said to Oliver. “Can I borrow her for a minute?” Oliver’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Sure, but can I say first, I’m a huge fan? Your curveball is one of the nastiest things in baseball.” The pitcher smiled, “Thank you. I hope it stays nasty after this surgery.” He shrugged his left elbow up toward Oliver in explanation, and I could tell then that he had a brace on it under his suit jacket. Oliver didn’t blink, clearly up to date on our sports celebrity’s medical condition. However, he was shaking the guy’s hand a little too long, and the big guy looked at me for help. My mouth set in an amused, crooked line, and I spoke to the exuberant young lawyer. “Yes, well, I will see you later, Oliver.” “Yeah, you will.” Oliver winked at me, and I blushed. He wasn’t really my type, but he knew about my placement of Shiloh Kate because he was an intern at the law firm the Kells and I used to complete the adoption in court. Something about him knowing my story and still finding me attractive made me hot and shy at the same time. At the moment, though, I had more significant problems than remembering that this was Oliver Tate I was talking about and it would never work. I could not for the life of me remember the name of the baseball star standing next to me, wanting to steal me away from Oliver. Being a famous baseball player didn’t help me much, as I only watched baseball with my dad. I enjoyed the game and knew some of the lingo, but I didn’t remember too many of the names. This guy was our big special guest, who we were hoping would make a generous donation, and I was about to screw it up. I looked up at him with my big brown eyes, begging the name to come back to me. I noticed his strong hand resting lightly on his chest, adorned with an enormous ring encrusted with diamonds and a “CR” logo made of amethysts, as his steel-gray eyes traveled back up my body. He was checking me out. I was two-for-two tonight, and that elated me. I put a smirk on my face. The giant man before me shook his head. “Wow.” He cleared his throat. “I just had to come over here to see if the front was as stunning as the back.” “Well?” I asked him coyly. “Definitely. You’re a queen.” Our eyes were locked, my face coloring pink, and I forgot how to speak. He didn’t speak either but stood silently searching my eyes. It was as if he was dumbfounded, like he couldn’t remember his name either. After a long moment, I c****d my head to the side, a huge smile springing onto my face. “Thank you.” The guy was still gawking, and it made me flush all over. He was hot, like stupid hot, oozing s*x. I gave a silent and fervent prayer of thankfulness to Jesus for making such a beautiful man. Then, he licked his bottom lip, and I swayed so far forward onto my tiptoes, I was afraid I might bump into him. I shivered involuntarily and shoved my hand between us. “I’m Luca Pearl Jones.” My mouth dropped open. Luca Pearl Jones? What? Why did I give him my full name? “Luca Jones, really. I mean, you can just call me Luca, not Luca Pearl. Or Jones. No. I don’t know. I mean, I know what my name is. I don’t know why I said that.” His eyes were intense on mine, but his crooked smile was full of humor. “Hi, Luca Pearl. I’m Boaz Stone.” I shook his steady hand and noticed his bulging bicep. “That seems a bit unfair.” I was half talking about his biceps and half talking about me giving away private information involuntarily. “What?” Boaz’s eyebrows pulled together, but he didn’t let go of my hand. “I told you my middle name, but you didn’t tell me yours. You now have a power over me that few people do.” I flirted with him, batting my eyelashes, trying desperately to not look mortified. His full lips pulled up on one side, and then, he leaned toward me and whispered into my ear. “I did tell you my middle name. It’s Boaz. And in that dress, you are the one with all the power. Believe me.”