

23 and You and Me
CHAPTER ONE
January, Suburban Columbus, Ohio
This is it. After everything that happened, I’m going to die in a freaking golf cart.
Gabe gripped the steering wheel, his normally tan fingers turning frost-white, all his focus on keeping the vehicle from slipping on the icy curve and spilling out his family.
“I could walk faster than this,” Uncle Bobby grumbled from the back.
“I couldn’t.” In the front passenger seat, Grandpa massaged his knee. “That’s why we’re riding.”
“Leave Gabe alone.” From the soft oof behind him, Gabe figured Aunt Pat had elbowed her brother. “You know he has—” Her voice faded to a whisper too low for Gabe to hear.
He didn’t want to hear it. After five years of therapy, he was well aware of his own issues. He braked—slowly—and brought the cart to a skidding stop in front of the kiddie coaster. Clenching his jaw, he glanced at the low, snow-crusted lift hill, just to show he could. Then he turned his back to the sinuous steel structure and faced the Beach Island Board of Directors, also known as his family.
“We determined this one’s in pretty good shape,” he said. “The maintenance crew is checking each car and performing minor repairs on the track as the weather allows. Ramirez says they’ll be done in about two weeks.”
“Kiddie rides,” Uncle Bobby snorted. His smooth cheeks were red from the cold. “I want to see the moneymakers. Twister of Terror. The Basilisk.”
“Bobby.” This time, Gabe witnessed Aunt Pat’s elbow. For a woman who had to wear thick-soled sneakers to reach the you-must-be-this-tall-to-ride lines, she had a vicious swing. “We asked Gabe to give us a tour of the winter projects. Let him direct it.”
Uncle Bobby muttered something under his breath and crossed his arms over the Beach Island Amusements logo on his fleece jacket.
“Guests under forty-eight inches should enjoy the park, too,” Gabe said. Though he wished the kids would stay at home. He wished everyone would stay at home. Then Gabe wouldn’t have to worry all the time about someone getting hurt. And maybe he could do what he wanted for a change.
“Right you are,” Grandpa said. “Kids who ride this one grow up to ride Twister of Terror.”
Gabe shuddered inside his extra-large down coat.
“Plus, they buy plenty of snacks,” Aunt Pat said. When she nodded, the flower on her knit hat bounced. “Gabe’s a smart boy. He’s always done what’s best for the park.”
Gabe blew out a frustrated breath, which clouded in the icy air. At thirty, he hadn’t been a boy for a long time, not since the board had asked him to shoulder the massive responsibility of the park nine years ago.
“Fine, fine.” Uncle Bobby pointed over the trees to the wooden curve of Mystery Mountain. “But show us that one next.”
Gabe narrowed his eyes at him. “Seat belt.”
After Uncle Bobby refastened his belt, Gabe drove carefully along the blessedly straight path to Mystery Mountain. He fixed his eyes on the empty queuing area to avoid the towering hill.
“The team is checking the chain lift, same as every winter. Taking it apart, cleaning it, reassembling it. The cars, too.”
“I’m glad we kept this one,” Grandpa said. “Not too many wooden coasters left.”
“’Cause they suck,” Uncle Bobby grumbled.
Gabe silently agreed. The wood warped in the rain and again in the sun. Left unchecked, the coaster would become rough over time, leading to injured passengers. Ramirez griped about it constantly. Year-round, his maintenance chief dedicated a small crew to assessing and repairing this ride. Grandpa probably had no idea how much it cost to keep his pet coaster’s ride smooth, even though Gabe called it out every quarter in the financial reports.
His phone buzzed, and while Grandpa and Bobby argued the merits of wooden versus steel coasters, he checked it. Another call from DN-YAY. He hit the Ignore button. He’d deal with that annoyance later. For now, he had a bigger concern: the hill to Twister of Terror.
He cast a glance at his passengers to ensure their lap belts were buckled—too bad golf carts didn’t come with beefier restraints—and hit the accelerator. He hoped someone from Ramirez’s crew had laid down some ice melt. Despite the cold, his palms started to sweat.
“Gabe, you going to take a vacation this year?” Grandpa asked.
“What?” Was the incline just wet, or was that a thin layer of ice?
“A vacation. You know, sunshine, sand, umbrella drinks?”
“No time,” Gabe said through gritted teeth. “Less than four months to opening day.” He gambled and accelerated to build momentum to climb the hill.
“It’s your turn to go to the Expo this year,” Aunt Pat said. “You can get your umbrella drink on in Orlando.”
Crap. They’d skipped his turn last time. He’d hoped to pass on the Expo again this year. How was he going to get to Florida? He’d never survive a fourteen-hour drive. He pressed harder on the accelerator, making the tiny engine whine. “Why don’t you go, Aunt Pat? I’m more of a beer guy.”
“They have beer in Florida. Besides, you know I prefer the snow. I’ve already got my trip to Whistler planned.”
If Gabe hadn’t been steering the cart up the hill, he’d have shivered. He’d spent all his life in Ohio, but, unlike the rest of his family, he dreaded every winter. Why would anyone go somewhere even colder and snowier on vacation?
The cart’s back half fishtailed, arrowing his attention back to the road. His pulse roared in his ears. Straighten out. Don’t tip. The adrenaline pumping through him urged him to yank the wheel. Instead, he held it firm, steering gradually in the direction of the skid. At last, the cart leveled out, finally gaining purchase at the top of the hill in front of Twister of Terror. A shuddering cloud of his breath gusted out as he peeled his fingers off the steering wheel. He should’ve predicted that Aunt Pat and Uncle Bobby didn’t weigh enough to counterbalance his mass in the front.
Uncle Bobby chuckled. “Way to give us a little excitement, Gabe.” He stepped out of the cart. Gabe did, too, though his legs trembled. He wiped the slick of sweat from his brow.
“Yo, Gabe!” The safety gate clanged shut, and Tony Ramirez jogged out from the maintenance area.
Relief mingled with the dissipating adrenaline. The board would listen to Ramirez. Safety was his job. Gabe’s jaw unclenched. “Ramirez. I didn’t expect to see you out here today.”
“I thought I’d show the board what we’re working on here. Give you a break.”
Gabe was still too tight-strung to smile at his friend, but he nodded. “Thanks.”
Uncle Bobby and Aunt Pat followed Ramirez toward the blue steel monstrosity. Grandpa clutched Gabe’s arm, bending him down closer to the old man’s height. “I’ll drive the cart back with your aunt and uncle. Why don’t you head over”—he tipped his chin—“and pay your respects.”
The warmth that rushed through Gabe’s veins had nothing to do with the weak winter sunshine. Still, he checked his watch, his father’s battered old Omega.
Grandpa said, “Don’t worry. We’ll meet you back in the office in half an hour. Take your time.”
“Thanks, Grandpa.” Gabe might not have looked much like the short, slender old man, but Grandpa always seemed to know what he was thinking. “See you later.”
He meandered toward the circle of trees Grandpa had indicated. Stepping between them into Founders’ Park always calmed him, even in winter with ice coating the young trees’ branches and the flowers—yellow tulips for his mother—still resting underground.
He avoided the plaque and lowered himself onto his favorite bench, the one that faced away from Twister of Terror’s steel corkscrew. He traced the round watch face on his wrist, the smooth, cool glass settling his nerves. He’d never looked much like his dad—too tall, too broad, too dark—so, instead of looking in a mirror to remember him, he came here and dug through his memories for images of Dad’s hand clutching his smaller one as they walked through the park, of Dad’s almost hairless arm with this watch on it. The watch he’d handed to Ramirez before— Before.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket. Again, he pulled it out. Dismissed another call from DN-YAY. A few minutes of peace was what he needed. No phone calls, no ice, no board of directors. No Theme Park Expo in flipping Florida.
A crack rang out, making Gabe duck his head. When an ice-coated tree limb clattered onto the next bench over, Gabe shut his eyes. Breathed deep to slow his racing heartbeat.
Pushing his hands onto his knees, he stood. He hefted the limb onto his shoulder and headed toward the park’s landscaping shed. CEO or not, when there was work to be done, Gabe did it. He might not have his parents’ light builds or their cold tolerance, but he’d learned that lesson from them.
If only they’d taught him how to enjoy their legacy, the park, without them.
#
“Gabe, what are you doing?”
Quickly, he straightened, tucking the snow shovel behind his back. He shouldn’t feel guilty. He was watching out for his employee. Employees. “Clearing this ice.”
Darlene crossed her arms and shivered. “The maintenance crew’s on the way.”
“They have important work to do. I’ve got this.” He chipped at a hunk of ice on the sidewalk in front of the administrative office building. What if Darlene had slipped on her way in this morning? Or Grandpa? He’d never forgive himself.
She leaned on the doorjamb. “Tough meeting with the board?”
“No!” But his voice rose in that petulant way he hated. He cleared his throat. “It was fine. They’re pleased with the work we’re doing. You should go back inside. You’re not wearing a coat.”
“Neither are you. Come in here. You have real work to do.” Carefully, she turned and walked into the Beach Island administrative office building.
Real work. That’s what it was. When he was a kid, working at Beach Island, even when he’d been on vomit clean-up duty under Twister of Terror, had been fun. Now, it held nothing but bad memories. And spreadsheets.
Gabe leaned the snow shovel against the side of the building. He sprinkled a last trowelful of ice melt over the sidewalk and followed his assistant.
Darlene leaned on her desk. “You have a call with a new paper goods supplier at one. At two, you’re interviewing a candidate for the entertainment director position. In the meantime, you need to review these.” She picked up a stack of papers. “Applications for summer jobs. I’ve already screened them.”
Gabe paused before he took the stack. Sure enough, the papers fluttered in her hand.
“You all right?” He scanned her face. She was a few years older than him, in her mid-thirties. Her skin was winter-pale, but it wasn’t drawn with fatigue like it sometimes was.
“Course I am.” She stared right back. “Are you?”
Shoving the papers under his arm, he looked toward his office door and its brass nameplate that read, Gabe Armstrong, Chief Executive Officer. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Bobby irritating you again about the safety improvements. Or…Riley.”
“Who?” If she could pretend she wasn’t having a flare-up, Gabe could pretend, too.
“You might think—”
His phone rang, interrupting her. Gabe pulled it out of his pocket. DN-YAY again. For a second, he weighed his options: another conversation about his ex-girlfriend, or a hassle with the sketchy DNA testing company that’d screwed up his results? “Sorry, I’m going to take this. I’ll come check on you after.”
“Don’t bother. I’m fine.” She circled the desk, lowered herself into her chair, and swiveled until her back was toward him.
Shaking his head, he walked into his office and closed the door before swiping to accept the call. “Gabe Armstrong.”
“Mr. Armstrong, this is Sunny from DN-YAY. I’m calling about your test results.”
Sunny? Was this company for real? Of course not. They’d already screwed up his results, telling him he was seventy-five percent Italian. The Armstrongs were originally from Scotland, and his mother’s family was Danish. Who confused northern Europe with Italy? A company that employed Sunny, that’s who. He should’ve known a DNA testing firm that advertised nonstop on Riley’s favorite fake-reality dating show would be more sparkle than science. Their jingle—DN-YAY, find out who you are to-DAY!—tinkled through his mind.
“Did you run the test again?” After he’d gotten his results, he’d emailed Customer Service to demand a retest. Clearly, they’d mixed up his results with someone else’s.
“We did, and we confirmed the results. You have two brothers and a sister, all still living.”
“That’s impossible. I was an only child.” He snapped the blinds shut, blocking out the view of the nearby arcade and behind it, Twister of Terror.
“Mr. Armstrong.” The woman’s voice gentled, like she was talking to a small child. “Have you talked to your parents about the results?”
Kind of hard to talk to someone who’d been dead nine years. His blood went hot, and the peace he’d felt at Founders’ Park evaporated.
“Why would I talk to anyone about it?” he snapped. “The results are wrong. You know what? Forget about it. Take me off—”
She spoke over him. “Mr. Armstrong, listen to me.” Her voice dropped lower, like she didn’t want to be overheard. “I’ve talked to a lot of people about their families, and things can get…complicated. We found the parents you listed on your information sheet in our database. We have their test results too. I’m sorry, but it’s impossible for them to be your biological parents.”
Not his parents? And when had they taken DNA tests? And why? His knees wobbled. He flung out his hand for balance and hit the back of the armchair by the window. Gripping the fabric, he eased himself into the seat. “What?”
Her voice went even softer. “You really should ask your parents about the test results.”
“They’re dead.” The words cracked out of him like that snapping tree branch. He straightened in the chair, squaring his back to the window and the view of the roller coaster hidden by the blinds.
“Holy shit! Oh, I mean, I’m very sorry about that.” He could almost hear her cringe over the phone line. “Do you want to talk to a genetic counselor?”
“Not unless they’re going to rerun the test and explain what the hell happened the first two times.”
“Look,” she half-whispered, “DN-YAY has some issues, I’ll admit it, but they ran your results three times. Your biological siblings are living in Las Vegas.”
“Las Vegas?” That broke something inside him. He was from Ohio, the Midwest. He’d never been to Vegas. He slumped in the chair. “I didn’t want to take the test. It was all Riley’s idea.”
“Who?”
“Riley. We had the couple’s version. Two tests. A Christmas gift.”
“Oh!” When excitement bubbled in her voice, a spark of hope flared in his chest. “Maybe your tests got mixed up,” she said. “Is Riley from Las Vegas? It could be his siblings we found.”
“His?”
“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m new, and I’m screwing this up so bad.” He heard skin slapping on skin like she’d covered her mouth. “I wish I could tell you what you want to hear. DN-YAY has its problems, but it’s unlikely they’d mix up a man’s test results with a woman’s.”
The hope fizzled out like the last mortar in Beach Island’s Saturday-night Firework Extravaganza.
“We didn’t even take them together. She saw all those damned ads. She said it’d be fun.” Riley had wrapped the test packages in shiny silver paper with white polar bears wearing red scarves. The bears were doing un-bearlike things like sledding and holding candy canes in their paws.
Gabe didn’t have a Christmas tree at his townhouse, but when he’d come home after work a few days after their breakup, Riley had left his kit sitting on the kitchen counter, next to her key to his place. The bears mocked him with their joyful Christmas grins.
“After she—after she left, I, ah, I took the test. Does alcohol affect the results?” When he’d swabbed his cheek on Christmas Eve, his saliva had to have been fifty percent Maker’s Mark.
“No.” She paused. “I’m sorry she left you.” Her voice was so soothing, he almost believed she cared. “Especially at Christmas.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a Hallmark holiday, anyway.”
“Christmas isn’t a Hallmark holiday!”
Who was this woman? She didn’t sound like a customer service representative.
“Sure it is,” Gabe grumbled. “Cards, wrapping paper, Black Friday. It’s all about buying stuff.” He’d fallen into that trap. That night at the restaurant, he’d had the black velvet box in his coat pocket. He hadn’t had a chance to offer it to Riley before she’d stood up from the table and walked out.
“No, it’s not. It’s supposed to be about friends and togetherness. Family.” Her voice took a wistful turn on the last word. “Oh.”
Yeah. Oh.
“No one should be alone at Christmas.” Her voice had lost all its former effervescence. “I should know.”
In the beat of silence that followed, Gabe heard other, more strident voices over the line. She was in a call center. He didn’t know this person, and he shouldn’t have been sharing his feelings with her.
“I wasn’t alone.” Somehow, it was important that she not feel sorry for him. On Christmas Day, he’d dragged his hungover carcass to Aunt Pat’s like he’d done as long as he could remember, even before his parents had died. She’d made the same dried-out turkey she always had. No worries about salmonella. Those suckers could’ve never survived the too-long roast in Aunt Pat’s Viking oven.
But if what this woman said was true, Gabe hadn’t belonged at Aunt Pat’s. Aunt Pat wouldn’t have given a Brooks Brothers tie to someone who wasn’t her nephew, would she?
Sunny from DN-YAY couldn’t hear all the roiling that was going on inside him. “It’s good you were with friends,” she said. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said. It was a phrase he’d learned after his parents died. People knew not to push once he’d said that. They knew they’d done their job by asking, and he’d done his by being self-sufficient.
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t know the script.
“Positive,” he growled.
“On the bright side, this means you have a second chance. At family. At love.”
What had this call turned into? First she told him he had family in Las Vegas he’d never known about. Now she was going off about love? Maybe monosyllables would shut her down. It used to work on Riley. “Sure,” Gabe said.
“So are you going to look up your bio family?”
Who was this Sunny person? Did her supervisor know she was so…so…pushy and unprofessional? He’d have sent someone like her to remedial customer-service training. “I don’t think so.”
“But what if they’re looking for you? They all got tested. They checked the box to be notified of relatives we find. You didn’t, so we won’t contact them, but you should consider reaching out. Look, I…” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Family’s important. I always wished I had siblings, didn’t you? Like on that show, The Brainiac Bunch. Now you have a chance to meet yours. I’ll email you their names. It’s public information since they checked the box. You can call them. Meet them.”
Meet them? “No. Thanks.” He hung up. It was warm in his office, but chills raced over his skin. Thanks for dropping this bomb on me. Thanks for making me question everything I thought I knew about myself. Could it be true? DN-YAY’s website made all sorts of claims about their accuracy. But couldn’t they be wrong about this? Some sort of mix-up. Maybe he hadn’t sealed the envelope properly and someone else’s DNA had gotten in with his.
But…what if she was right? What if everything he thought was his—his parents, Grandpa, Aunt Pat, Uncle Bobby, his cousins, Beach Island—wasn’t?
Gabe stood and shoved his phone back in his pocket. The sweat-dampened sheaf of applications crinkled under his arm. He tossed the stack onto his desk—his dad’s desk—the desk—and didn’t even worry that some of them fluttered to the floor. He flung open the door and strode past Darlene.
“Gabe, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
He snatched his coat off the rack and flung it over his shoulders, not bothering to change into his boots. He stomped out into the gray January afternoon, past the back of the arcade to the corrugated metal machine shop. Ramirez looked up, but when he saw Gabe’s expression, he stared back down into the guts of the Mystery Mountain car he was working on.
Gabe crossed the room to the far corner, where a heavy chain suspended one of the cars from Twister of Terror from a steel beam overhead. He grabbed a wrench from the tool chest and cranked one of the exterior bolts. He didn’t need any power tools. His anger would provide the torque he needed.
But even the whine of Ramirez’s drill and the hiss of the welder working on the other end of the garage couldn’t drown out the doubt that roared in Gabe’s ears.
If he wasn’t who he thought he was, did he even belong here?
© Michelle McCraw, 2024