Then I hear the ping of the elevator and feminine laughter behind the doors. The second they open, there he stands, as handsome as I remember him, dressed in a formal blue tuxedo.
A woman is draped over his arm. Her posture’s loose, and she’s someone intoxicated.
The shock paralyzes his face rendering him speechless. A stupid part of me was expecting his welcoming smile, but nothing comes. Instead, his mouth remains an uncharacteristic grim line amid his barely-there stubble. Almost robotically his hand rises upward toward the door handle, ignoring the blonde’s babble as he fumbles for his keys.
He’s being anything but inviting.
Callous words, refuting my need to apologize follow.
He’s every bit the arrogant Aussie I remember him to be, and somewhere during his need to fight me, I crumble.
I wanted to remind him how we shared our vulnerabilities more readily than trading cards, experienced a new world away from home in which we both found love. I desperately wanted to tell him how I visited our pier on my morning runs, listen to songs which remind me of him, and how I would sleep on his side of the bed with the same pillow he slept on in my arms.
But most importantly, I wanted to tell him I still loved him.
That feeling, despite time lapsing, has never faded away.
But I did none of that.
I walked away because he has moved on.
The nausea swirled like a vicious tornado inside my empty stomach. My head swam with half-formed regrets.
I shouldn’t have walked away.
If only I went with him to his appointment.
If only I had half the strength I have now, could I have said I love you when it was right for me to admit that to him.
My heart’s torn into pieces, already fragile from the broken state my mistakes have left it in. My melancholy mood and nerves over meeting Miles tomorrow hangs over me like a black storm cloud, raining my personal sorrow down on me in bucket loads.
Seeing Oliver has fueled the flame burning out of control.
There’s no way to extinguish a flame of that magnitude. So instead, I cry myself to sleep, a mixture of releasing emotions and my utter exhaustion. The weight of the world is resting heavily on my weakened shoulders.
Tomorrow will be a new day.
I will finally meet the man who should have been my father from the moment I was born.
The man who stole my mother’s heart, just like Oliver had stolen mine.
Gabriella
I find myself in a state of panic all day long.
Miles agreed to meet me in the lobby of the hotel.
The day I’ve been anxiously waiting for is here. Everything hinges on this moment, and once done, it can never be undone.
I changed my outfit three times and barely ate any food but rather survived on caffeine. Australian coffee had a nice taste unlike the stuff back home. It’s much stronger which probably explains my jittery hand and inability to slow down my heart rate.
Butterflies swarm in my stomach, my head buzzing with possibilities.
What if he doesn’t like me?
What if he tells me to stay out of his life?
I’m not sure if I have the strength within me to face rejection from someone who is supposedly my family.
Inside the lobby, I nervously check my surroundings. I’ve seen pictures of him on social media, so I know what he looks like.
A tall man, exactly like the photographs, walks toward me with a welcoming smile. Unknowingly, the breath I’d been holding releases at a steady pace.
Trust your gut.
Everything will be okay.
Upon seeing him for the first time, I examined all his features, stunned by our resemblances—the shape of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, even the arch of his brows.
“You must be Gabriella.” His smile captures his sentiments, and just like me, I watch him examine my features with a nostalgic expression. “You’re beautiful. Just like your mother.”
“And you must be Miles…” I pause, unsure of what to call him. “Or should I be calling your Mr. Kelly?”
“Miles is just fine.”
Standing here in the lobby proves awkward, so Miles suggests a quaint restaurant a block down.
We commence our walk past the other establishments and a load of Japanese tourists exiting a large coach. Miles tells me about his exchange-student program in high school which led to a year in Japan. To this day, he’s still fluent in Japanese.
“Japan, wow. So how did swimming come into play?”
We take a seat inside the restaurant by the large bay window. It’s not as busy or rowdy as the hotels we walked past, yet a perfect place to eat and talk without shouting through loud noises.
“I was a strong swimmer growing up, and my height proved an advantage. I tried out for the state championship, won first place, and a retired Olympic coach recruited and introduced me to all the right people. The rest is… well, a long story.” He laughs, grabbing the menu and quickly scanning it before placing it down again.
My father was an athlete.
I can’t help but be proud.
“I… I just want you to know that meeting you means a lot to me.” I stumble on my words, riddled by my emotions. In front of me sits my biological father, a man whose blood runs through my veins. He’s nothing like Edward Carmichael, they couldn’t be more worlds apart.
A waitress arrives at our table. Miles orders the chicken parmigiana while I choose the barramundi and salad. We both settle for a glass of chardonnay which is served moments later.
“I’ll admit I knew of your existence. But I was young at
