Chapter Sixteen

Waverly

I wake up the next morning feeling so many unfamiliar sensations that they seem to pull my mind in multiple directions at once.

First, there’s the feeling of having gotten a full night’s sleep. Even in the rare instances when I’m not working long hours on a project, I tend to sleep like a spasming crash test dummy, waking up every hour or so to toss and turn – and ultimately, giving up on rest entirely after three or four hours and returning to my computer.

I generally don’t admit this even to myself, but these habits tend to keep me wound pretty tightly. They’re probably a big part of what makes me edgier, more defensive and impatient, less forgiving. I’m not used to actually feeling recharged when I wake up, and now that I do, I feel like a whole new person...calmer, more relaxed, more in control of my own thoughts and emotions. Rationality is something I could get used to.

The feeling of having slept in an actual bed is even stranger. I have one because, well, that’s what people are supposed to get when they move into a place of their own – but I can’t remember ever using it. I always end up crashing on my couch with something mindless playing on the TV or putting my head down on my desk and waking up stiff and sore an hour later. I search my memory for the last time I spent a night in a bed, and all I can come up with are faded recollections of being a kid.

Then there’s the ache between my legs, faint but undeniable.

Since last night was only the second time I’ve had sex, my inexperienced pussy was still extremely tight, and its tender lips were stretched a bit in the throes of our desperate lovemaking. I wonder how many more times it will take before it stops making me sore. I don’t know, but I’m very eager to find out.

And there’s the feeling of waking up with someone’s arm around me, their body pressed against mine. I’ve never slept with anyone as an adult, even platonically. To be honest, it always seemed like a stupid idea to me. How are we supposed to get any decent sleep with a heavy arm draped over us, or some big, hairy, clumsy, smelly body tossing and turning and snoring just inches away? Getting good sleep is hard enough without adding some other person’s weird sleep habits to our own. But now that I’ve actually done it, it doesn’t seem so bad. It’s oddly comforting to wake up nestled up against someone I...

Love?

Nope. Too early in the morning for thoughts like that. I tell myself the words I’m searching for are admire coupled with fierce attraction and leave it at that.

But deep down, I know that’s the most bizarre feeling of all, the one that’s tugging on my brain the hardest. It’s the most difficult to ignore because I have no frame of reference for it. I’ve literally never felt this way about anyone before, and frankly, I’d never really considered it as something that ever could or would happen to me. I always saw fantasizing about some imaginary eventual love of my life or “the one” as a bunch of girly bullshit, a meaningless distraction, a waste of time. Now here I am in the grip of it, and it’s as sudden and surreal as finding myself riding a unicorn. How am I supposed to process these feelings when I can’t even name them?

It feels like all the estrogen in my body has been released and is rioting within me, creating a woman where a girl once stood. And I’m not quite sure how to understand it.

Before I can keep twisting myself in knots, Hawk stirs next to me, waking up. His arm tightens around me, and his touch fills me with warmth. He opens his eyes and smiles, and all at once I’m certain that this whole scenario is probably as crazy and unfamiliar to him as it is to me. His whole face seems to have changed since the first time I met him – it’s softer somehow, more open.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he asks.

Again, it feels like he’s reading my mind. “Which part?”

He lifts his bare shoulders in a faint shrug. “All of it, I guess. Mostly, it’s strange to wake up knowing we’re not going to immediately hop back on our computers for hours on end since we finished the damn thing. Usually, the day after I complete a long and difficult project, I go out and treat myself to a massive breakfast. Eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, waffles, big stack of pancakes...interested?”

I laugh. “As tempting as that carb-fest sounds, we should probably still hold off on going out together and leaving the work unprotected, at least until we turn it over to Nixon Caldwell. After that, it’ll be his problem, and we can do whatever we want.”

“You’ve got a point.” He grins even wider as he runs a hand up my naked thigh. “Guess we’d better just stay here in bed together all day instead, huh?”

Oh my god, does that sound tempting. But my mind keeps stubbornly returning to the idea of finding Hawk’s birth mother, like a dog that refuses to let go of a bone. I told myself I’d do it when I had time, and now that I do, I don’t feel like I can fully relax with him until I at least try. If I manage to find this information, I can offer it to him and let him make the choice himself. If I can’t, then he never needs to know I tried, and I can just let it go and concentrate on being with him.

What does that even mean? What does being with him look like? Is it short-term? Long-term? How long until we have a real disagreement and end up hating each other. I’ve never been in a real relationship before or even had a brief fling. What am I supposed to do? Now that I’ve somehow found myself in one, how am I going to make it work? I feel like I’m about to try building a nuclear reactor with no blueprints, some leftover IKEA parts, and one hand tied behind my back.

Well, one thing at a time. First, I’ll try to find Hawk’s mother, and then I can freak out about my lack of relationship experience. Instead of trying to control everything like I do with my work, I’ll go with the flow. Let things unfold naturally.

Yeah, right.

“That does sound like an amazing way to spend a day,” I admit. “Or maybe even a week. But unfortunately, I can’t do it today. I have to go out for a bit.”

Hawk raises himself up onto his elbows, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. “Yeah? Where?”

Shit. I should have expected that question and had a convincing answer prepared. Instead, I’ve been twisting my mind into a pretzel with all these doubts and anxieties. I scramble to come up with something, but all I can come up with is, “I, ah...just...I mean, it’s nothing serious, or anything like that...I just need to head back to my own place for a few hours. It’s been a full week, so I just feel like I should poke my head in, make sure everything’s where I left it. Maybe make a Target run on the way.” It’s a lame and half-baked excuse, and I feel like a moron for saying it.

“Are you sure? Even God took the seventh day to rest, if you believe what you read in the papers.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s a tempting offer, though. Hey, while I’m gone, you can tell Nixon we’ve finished working on it so he can arrange to pick it up. Since you two go way back and all. Like I said, once it’s out of our hands, we can go anywhere we want, whenever we want, for however long we want.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Hawk says with a wink. “Six whole months of Disneyworld, here we come!”

I burst out laughing. I don’t have time for any frivolous princess themed shit. “Okay, almost anywhere.” With difficulty, I tear myself away from his arms and start putting my clothes back on, starting with my glasses.

“Hey. Waverly.”

I pause, turning back to look at him. His eyes are serious now, his smile gone.

“Yeah?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, blinks, then takes a deep breath and opens it again. Whatever he’s trying to say, it’s clearly difficult for him.

“This is...I mean, this whole thing, you know, between us...it’s new for both of us, obviously. I know neither of us is very good at...being with people. Or at least, we haven’t had a lot of practice. So, I just, I want you to know...if you’re leaving because you need some space or whatever to, um, process all of this, or just take a few deep breaths...I totally understand that, and there’s no need to be mysterious about it. You can just say it, and I won’t get weird about it or be offended.”

And the thing is, I probably should want that, shouldn’t I? That seems like something a normal person would need in a situation like this. But instead, I’m reluctant to go. I want to hop right back into bed with him and disappear into him completely.

But like it or not, I don’t have the kind of mind that can just let go of an idea once I’ve had it. I have to see it through, or it’ll just keep gnawing at me, refusing to let me enjoy anything else. And that goes for my plan to find Hawk’s mother.

His face is still solemn as he waits for me to answer. I try to ease the tension.

“Nah, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that while you were doing all the work, I was spending a good two-thirds of my time on sex and dating sites. Yep, now that I’ve fucked, it turns out I really like it a lot and want to do it with as many other people as possible. I’ve got, like, twelve other dudes lined up outside my place right now, waiting for their turn. Unless...” I lift a shoulder and study my nails, trying hard not to smile. “Should I just have them come over here instead? Then I wouldn’t even have to go anywhere. Yeah, that makes sense. Would you mind? What am I saying, of course, you won’t mind. I’ll call them now.”

Hawk laughs and his eyes flash fire at me. “Well, easy come, easy go. Just make sure you shower and brush your teeth before coming back over. Or, just spit a couple times and wipe yourself off with a damp rag...whatever, I’m not that particular.”

“See? Who says romance is dead?” I zip up my jeans and lean over, kissing him. His hand finds the back of my neck, and it takes every last scrap of willpower I’ve got to finally pull away instead of surrendering. “I’ll be back soon, I promise. Should I grab anything while I’m out?”

“Nope, we can order in when you get back. Hey, what’s your favorite movie?”

The question catches me off guard. “Hackers. So bad it’s good. Why, what’s yours?”

“Sneakers.” His voice shifts into a passable impression of Ben Kingsley’s New England accent in the film. “‘The world changed on us, Mahhhhh-ty...and without our help.’”

I chuckle. “Why did you ask?”

“I figured we could do a double-feature when you get back. Just kick back, veg out, and enjoy ourselves after all that frantic work. Maybe eat something that wasn’t genetically altered in a lab.”

“You mean unwind from six days in a row of staring at screens together...by staring at a screen together? Sounds perfect. I’ll bring the popcorn.”

I lean in for one last kiss and sashay out of the bedroom, more determined than ever to help Hawk find happiness by learning his mother’s identity. I feel like if I can help him with this, it will be like I have a connection to his past.

Stepping back into my own place after such a long time away feels pretty damned odd. Sure enough, everything’s located just so, just like I left it. The stuffy air full of dust motes assaults my nostrils, so I open some windows to let a breeze in. Part of me wonders why I wasn’t more concerned about the idea of Dante torching my place or something as a warning while I’ve been gone. But that wouldn’t have accomplished much for him, and even though his obnoxious attitude and brazen threats yank my chain in a way I’ve never experienced before, he seems like someone who’d be too careful to risk associating himself with unnecessary crimes – especially one as flashy and attention-grabbing as arson.

If he knew I’d been gone this long, then he probably also realized that nothing too valuable gets left behind in this house, and certainly nothing related to the SkyEye project. There’s all of my customized gear, sure, but it wouldn’t be difficult for me to rebuild and replace most of it.

Besides, I’ve been extremely distracted these past few days, and not just by the work on the project, either.

My labia throbs once as if to give me the vaginal thumbs up.

As I sit at my computer and switch it on, I think about Hawk’s earlier Disneyworld joke. Now that we’re done with SkyEye, why not take a little vacay? Maybe not Disney and definitely not for six months, but there’s a whole world to explore, and I’ve seen almost none of it except for weekend trips to tech conferences. For me, getting away has always meant escaping into my private world of bits and bytes and pixels, and if I had to guess, I’d say the same is probably true for Hawk.

We haven’t been together long. In fact, we’ve barely connected like a couple while we’ve been together, with all the focus on the software – and it would be a big step. But maybe that would be a good way to test our relationship and see if we’re still as into each other when we’re in different contexts and locations. Traveling can bring people closer together.

Or further apart.

I sweep that negative thought away since it doesn’t fit well inside my fantasy. So where should we go? Paris? Rome? Tokyo? Montauk? Hell, maybe we could even have a few ironic laughs if we go to Disney after all. It’s not like money’s ever been a problem for me...not that he knows that yet. I know I’ll have to tell him about my father’s immense wealth at some point, and it’s not like it’s some big, dark secret that I should be afraid of disclosing. Judging from the size of his place, it’s not for him either which means my financial status won’t intimidate him or cause friction between us.

Still, one of the main lessons my childhood taught me is that when people find out you’re from a super-rich family, the look in their eyes changes and they start to treat you differently. It’s hard to explain – it’s like they expect less from you, and they become more hostile and dismissive, as though you’ve somehow managed to disappoint them before you’ve even done anything. Or worse, they start trying to be your friend just so they can ask you for a bunch of stuff, like they’ve found their own personal fucking genie and they’re just waiting for the right moment to rub the lamp.

I don’t think Hawk would act that way toward me. In fact, I’m sure he wouldn’t. I’ll get around to telling him.

Eventually.

I stare at my screen, my hands poised over the keyboard like a concert pianist. Where should I begin?

Based on what Hawk told me a week ago, I know he already tried the basic stuff, like searching the Alabama hospital records for birth certificates. He said they were lost in a fire, and I have no reason not to believe him – but I’m still too OCD to take anything for granted, so I check again anyway, like someone checking her pockets for her lost keys for the second time.

Sure enough, nothing useful. There’s the huge gap in birth certificates and a bunch of news articles from the end of 1988 about the fire that consumed them. No surprises there.

The next logical step seems to be searching the computer files of social services and foster care organizations around that time period. The parts I’d need to check out are kept classified with encryptions, firewalls, and password protection – it takes me all of twenty-five seconds to hack my way past each of them, one by one.

It’s extremely illegal to access this information, of course, but hey, that’s only a problem for people who get caught. And by the time I’m done, they’ll never have any idea I was snooping around in their system. Besides, I’m doing this for a man’s highest good and not for something nefarious. No one gets hurt in this security breach.

But that’s not the problem. The problem is that we’re talking 1988. Hardly the “dawn of the digital age.” Official records weren’t automatically created and stored for things like this until much, much later. Generally, they’d be compiled in towering file cabinets stuffed with a whole rainforest’s worth of paper, and eventually, maybe, possibly, someone would get around to building a database and entering all of this stuff manually.

But this is social services, not to mention a bunch of understaffed and underfunded foster programs. They probably never had the time or resources to do anything but jam paper files into drawers and then promptly forget about them. And who knows how many of those foster programs are still around twenty years later? The ones that closed down or were absorbed by other agencies probably hired a shredding company to cart the files off and turn them into confetti – that way, they wouldn’t be liable for any sensitive information accidentally being released, and they wouldn’t have to cart around enough boxes of paperwork to build a house from.

And what’s more, Hawk probably figured all of this out long ago during his own search.

This is bullshit. A goddamn dead end. I’m smarter than this.

Come on, Waverly. I berate myself with my inner mean girl. Think.

As I try to come up with new ideas and approaches, I think about what it would be like to give a child up for adoption. Was Hawk’s mother too young to take care of him? Had she been assaulted, or was the father someone she’d been dating? If so, had he forced her to give the baby up against her will? Had her parents? Or maybe she was mentally ill or physically challenged somehow, and she wouldn’t have been able to take care of...

I shake my head, irritated. There could be a zillion different reasons why a woman would give up her baby, and it seems impossible for me to connect firmly with any of them. The more I try to come up with these scenarios and walk my way through them in search of clues, the more they feel like melodramas, thin plots on daytime soap operas – even though rationally, I know that these things happen every day.

But what do I know about motherhood, anyway? Not a damn thing. I could come up with endless backstories and try to pursue them to their logical conclusions, but in the end, the thing that baffles me most is the concept of a baby growing inside a woman to begin with. I’ve never given it much thought before, but now that I’ve had sex – now that I have a boyfriend or whatever he is, even those thoughts suddenly don’t seem so remote.

Do I want to have kids someday? Most women do, right? Even ones like Hawk’s mother who aren’t prepared for it at first probably eventually end up getting married, having more kids later on in life, and keeping them.

But Jesus, how weird would that whole process be? Having something live and grow inside you and feeling all the changes to your body that go along with it. Weight gain, swollen feet, raging hormones, insane cravings, not to mention all those trips to the...

I gasp.

The trips to the doctor.

That’s it. I’ve got it. I’ve found the answer.

Because unless Hawk’s birth mom was some crazy, off-the-grid hillbilly chick who lived in a cabin in the Alabama woods and visited a damn midwife, she’d have to have received treatment from an OB-GYN during her pregnancy, wouldn’t she?

The trick is to comb through the medical records of OB-GYNs based in Alabama from that time period, and then cross-reference them with the hospital records I’ve already looked at to determine which ones don’t have corresponding birth certificates. These offices are probably in a better position to convert all outdated paper files to digital ones for easier reference. They’ll be kept confidential too, and probably with better security software than social services and the foster agencies had. Still, hacking into them won’t be too much trouble. I’ve hacked national defense databases on a dare, so these should be fairly easy by comparison.

I take a deep breath.

Okay. It’s a good idea, but it’s still not perfect.

First of all, going back and forth between the two databases to compare records would probably take months, at least.

And taking a little sneak peek at restricted files is one thing but shuffling around in them for prolonged periods is a good way to get caught and arrested.

And there might also have been a lot of cases where the baby didn’t make it, which would also mean no birth certificate.

And, and, and...

All right. One thing at a time, Waverly.

It’s not difficult to quickly cobble together an algorithm that will go through the two databases and find the files I’m looking for. That will reduce the search time from months to minutes.

Plugging into both databases to cross-reference them without being detected is a bit more of a challenge. I come up with a list of OB-GYN offices in Alabama that have been around since 1988 or have merged with ones who have, and hack past their slick security measures effortlessly, disguising my efforts with a couple of prototype stealth encryption protocols I once found while fucking around in the NSA system on a bored and rainy afternoon. If anyone happens to access the systems while I’m in them, it’ll look like their networks are running automatic disk defrag and cleanup programs – off-schedule, sure, but the average medical office secretary will probably ignore that.

The death issue isn’t a problem if I specifically program the algorithm to exclude records which show something like that. This gives me an idea, and I also program it to look for files which mention “adoption” and/or “social services” in case the patient told the doctor her thoughts. Who knows? She might have asked him for additional information about her options, or the physician might have suggested counseling to deal with the related psychological issues. I can even program it to exclude files that indicate infant wellness visits.

I sit back and watch the results populate on the screen. When the algorithm stops working, I’m left with about a dozen names. A quick search online shows that four of them are deceased, so I delete them. If she’s dead, and he’ll never be able to connect with her, there’s no point in relaying that information to him. No, this is only a gift if I can give him a chance of reuniting with her. Otherwise, it’s just shitty news.

But hadn’t he also said he moved to Vegas because he’d received information that she was out here too?

I find a people-searching website, consider hacking it, and enter my credit card information instead. Professional courtesy, right? Whoever programmed this site is trying to make a living, and it’s not like I can’t afford to pay for the service. There’s nothing sillier than a millionaire cheapskate, after all.

The results come back almost immediately. Only one of these women moved to Las Vegas, a Dixie Pendergrass.

Wait... Dixie? Haven’t I heard that name somewhere recently?

I dig around social media sites for a few minutes until I find her. Again, it doesn’t take long. It’s not exactly a common name. When I see the photos of her, it takes me a few moments to place her.

The sous chef. The one who served us tableside Caesar salad at that restaurant when we were...what? On our “first date?” It’s strange to think of it like that, since we started the evening wanting to rip each other’s throats out.

Anyway, we can figure out a proper first date soon. But meanwhile, my mouth hangs open in disbelief, looking at the middle-aged woman smiling in the pictures. Could this really be Hawk’s birth mother? How many times has he eaten in that place? All his searching, all his despair – and she’s been right in front of his face the whole time? That can’t be true, can it? It’s insane. It’s unbelievable. It’s like something out of a Lifetime movie.

I smile and waves of relief flow over me. Well, if the past week has taught me anything, it’s that just because something’s implausible, that doesn’t mean it’s not true. And Hawk might feel gobsmacked by this revelation when he hears it, but ultimately, at least he’ll be happy to finally learn his mother’s identity.

I try to imagine what it will be like when he tells her, and honestly, I can’t. I can only hope it goes well and promise myself that I’ll be there for him if it doesn’t. She certainly seems like a warm, friendly, open woman based on my brief interaction with her, and her social media posts.

Still, I’m sure it will be a shock to her, this sudden and unlooked-for blast from her past. A quick glance at her medical file doesn’t reveal anything about the circumstances that made her give her child up – it just says that she asked her doctor about the process and that he gave the teenager some adoption information and suggested counseling for her, which she refused. Then the records say she had a healthy baby, went through with her plans to give it up, and then...nothing.

No matter how Dixie reacts to it – if Hawk even decides to confront her about it – at least I’ve accomplished my goal. I’ve helped him. I’ve managed to give him something he’s been searching for almost since he was born, information, and a choice. Hopefully, handing this over to him will show him how much I care about him and want him to be happy.

Suddenly, I start to laugh until my belly shakes. I try to stifle it, then give up and throw my head back, cackling to the empty room around me until tears stream down my face.

Holy jackpot, Batman, can you imagine looking for your mother your whole life...and finding out that her name is Dixie Pendergrass from bumfuck Alabama?

You just can’t make this shit up.