He held the phone behind his back. “It’s not going to help you forget whatever’s bugging you. And whatever’s bugging you is important. So we’re going to talk about that.”

I looked at him. “You always do the right thing, don’t you?”

“I’m pretty sure I spend most of my life not doing the right thing.”

“That isn’t what I mean.” I shifted onto my knees, my face rising to his. “With me. You know the right thing to do. Always.”

“That’s because I know you. Always.”

I leaned forward and kissed him, and when our lips met, I smelled forest and rain, I felt the delicious chill of a night wind and heard the pounding of hooves. I felt a boy lifting me onto a horse, swinging me up behind him, me huddling against his back, basking in the warmth of him, hearing his laugh and grinning in return, holding him tight, never wanting to let go. Feeling loved and understood and at peace, that perfect bond with someone who knew me, always.

I kissed Ricky, and I whispered, “I love you,” and he said, “That’s all I want,” and in my mind I heard All I ever wanted as he lowered me onto the bed.

—

Afterward, lying in bed, catching our breath, I told Ricky about the medical records mix-up.

“Okay,” he said. “Excuse my ignorance, because it’s not a condition I’m familiar with, but there’s no way you could have been this girl, right? That you got adopted by your parents and, with their money, they were able to get it fixed? Maybe quietly, so no one knew you ever had it?”

“According to the doctor, no. I’m not familiar with spina bifida, either, so . . .”

He already had his phone in hand, searching on a browser.

“So, I could have done that,” I said.

“No reason to at the time,” he said. “But now it seems like you want to know more.”

He skimmed the page, then passed it to me. It said that spina bifida is a congenital defect in which the neural tube covering the spinal cord doesn’t fully form in utero. The girl with my alleged medical records had a severe form, which would have led to lifelong mobility issues. If I were that girl, I’d be in a wheelchair.

Something twigged in the back of my brain, something someone had said a few weeks ago, but the thought wouldn’t take form.

“No amount of money would have cured it,” I said. “Not today, and definitely not twenty years ago.”

“Okay, so you’re thinking—” He stopped short and rolled from the bed. “Time for a field trip.”

“Um, no, pretty sure that wasn’t what I was thinking.”