Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“Holy shit,” Faith exclaims.
BioRoots had touted its comprehensive search engine’s ability to uncover links going back generations. I expected to find a great-grandparent maybe. A third or fourth cousin who’s vaguely related to another cousin. Someone who in turn might be able to point me in the direction of the biological parents who abandoned me at an orphanage.
The last thing I expected was a full biological brother.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHARLOTTE
Dirty, rotten traitor
MY BROTHER CALLS THE NEXT AFTERNOON.
My real brother.
Wait, but wouldn’t my new brother be the “real” one because of our biological connection?
Then what does that make Oliver?
Oliver is not a fake brother to me!
You’re spiraling, Charlotte!
Oh my God. I really am. I’ve been obsessing about this DNA bombshell since last night. The first thing I did when I woke up this morning was open the site to ensure the entry was still there and I didn’t hallucinate it. Sure enough, there it was. One biological brother found—and his location is the United States. Is he an international student from Korea? Was he adopted too and grew up here? Did he move to America on his own?
My mind has been spinning all day, plagued with questions. But only one question really matters.
Should I reach out to him?
I was about to run it by the Method, my laptop open and fingers poised over the keyboard, when my phone started vibrating.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair. It’s big and comfy. Swivels too, which my dad considers a major hazard. We argued about it in the furniture store, which led to an intense debate about whether a swivel chair is more or less likely to lead to someone’s death. Then Mom found a bunch of statistics about it, because that’s the kind of family we are.
“Hey,” I greet Oliver. “What’s up?”
“You tell me.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were acting weird yesterday. I figured I’d wait for you to get back to school, away from the watching eyes of Mom and Dad, so you can tell me why you were being weird.”
“I wasn’t being weird,” I protest.
“Yes, you were, and you’re still a terrible liar. What’s going on?”
Oh, nothing much. Just discovered I’ve got a biological brother out there somewhere roaming the same planet as me.
I swallow the words. I’m close with both my siblings, but probably not as close as we could be. I know either one of them would be there for me in a heartbeat if I called them to bail me out of jail or if I broke up with a boyfriend. But the deeper stuff? The insecurities and doubts that sometimes still nag at me in the night, like a dog working over an old bone? I don’t know if Oliver or Ava would be the first people I’d turn to for support.
It doesn’t help that they’re both older than me. By the time I was twelve, Oliver was already off at college, Ava gone when I was fourteen. They didn’t have to witness those years full of horrific things like puberty and crippling teenage angst, and I think because they missed all that, they’ve always treated me like a little adult. Strong and capable and entirely self-assured.
“Everything is fine,” I tell him. “I’m just stressed out with school. And then I was going over my grad school applications the other day and realized I’d been using the entry requirements from three years ago. A few of the programs require personal essays now.”
“A few as in more than two? I thought you were set on MIT with Cornell as the backup.”
Dad went to MIT. Mom was at Cornell. So of course, that’s where my family has been pushing me to apply. And yes, while it would be more convenient to stay on the East Coast, it would also be really nice to…go somewhere else. Maybe enjoy a different climate for a couple years. New England winters are the worst.
“I’m applying to a few others too,” I confess.
“Where? Yale? Brown?”
I love how he only lists places within spitting distance of our house. “Yeah, and some randoms.”
Random places like…you know…the University of Sydney. University of Melbourne. Oxford. An incredible program I found in Copenhagen.
Those are all a long shot, though. My GPA is exceptional, but biomed engineering is a highly competitive field. Those programs receive a ton of applicants.
“All right, well, if you need me to proof your essays, let me know. I’m happy to help.”
“Oh. For sure, I will. Thank you.”
“Of course. Love you, kid.”
“Love you.”
Guilt churns in my stomach as I open my laptop to resume my disloyal task.
I’m a traitor.
A dirty, rotten traitor.
Here I am telling my brother I love him, all the while trying to decide if I should reach out to another brother I didn’t know existed. It feels like a betrayal to my family.
I focus on the document in front of me, the familiar template and its headings soothing me like a cup of hot cocoa. I don’t care if it makes me obsessive. The Method works for me. It makes me feel better, more secure in my decisions.