Beau is still sitting dumbfounded on my bed. He probably wants emotional support, but I cannot give that. His realization is my realization too. But he has no idea.

My head spins.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “I should get going.”

He walks over and kisses me, which I deftly convert into a hug.

“I’m sorry about the ChromoZone stuff,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’m kind of numb, to be honest.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” I say. “There is nothing worse than having family members.” Then I pick up my Juicy shorts off the floor and start folding them so he gets the hint.

He walks over to the door. “I’ll talk to you later,” he says.

“Bye,” I say.

As soon as the door shuts, I flip open my laptop and begin googling. My first search: “How accurate is ChromoZone?” It might be a mistake. It has to be a mistake. My life was finally turning around. It was just starting. I was being born.

And now I am dying.

Dead.

I gulp some Gatorade.

It HAS to be a mistake. First off, Beau is French. I am Irish. And Beau is from somewhere chic. I am from Riverside. If his dad is my dad, that would mean my dad had been to the East Coast or France. But my dad never travels. As far as I know he hasn’t left California since his honeymoon. Beau’s mom is too sophisticated for my dad. She has to be.

I return my focus to my search results, most of which tend to vow for ChromoZone’s accuracy.

My phone lights up with a text from Cinnamon: Last night was so good.

I want to tell her what is happening, but I am too embarrassed, so I absentmindedly heart the text. I am in shock. I think about calling my old therapist. I go into my email to find her contact information. Sandwiched in between reading requests and emails from editors there is a new message in my inbox from ChromoZone: “You have new DNA relatives on ChromoZone.” I click it. May as well double-check.

And in fact, it says I have a brother. Named Bo Webster.

Bo Webster? Beau Rubidoux lied about his name just like I did. I click the profile. Bo Webster is from Riverside, California.

And we share a father.

Part III

EMILY.

I call my therapist three times. She doesn’t answer. I leave a frantic voice mail. And then another one.

I can’t sit alone with my thoughts. I can tell Lydia is stressed out by my energy. Cats mate with their siblings all the time, so she probably wouldn’t be able to understand why I am so upset even if I could explain it to her.

So I call the person I always call when things are shit.

Thomas answers on the first ring.