Next of Kin (Next #1)

by Hannah Bonam-Young

“Constance has listed you as a possible caregiver. She’s willing to sign over her parental rights to you. If not, the baby, after making a full recovery, will be placed in foster care.”

I place my hands around the base of my neck, apply pressure with my forearms against my chest—as my adoptive parents taught me when I was experiencing anxiety, or what they affectionately called nerves.

My university roommates all left after graduation, leaving me a great big (but thankfully rent-controlled) apartment to myself. My adoptive parents went to live in Barcelona to care for my aging abuela, and the guy I was seeing ghosted me a few weeks back. On top of that, I freelance, so I don’t have co-workers.

There is no way they’re going to let me have her. Do I even want her? Her little hand twitches. Yes, yes, I do. I reach out to brush her fingertips. The way her hand curls around my pinkie finger spurs me on.

“Chloe, if this is what you want, you can do it. You will do it. But if it’s too much, if you aren’t ready to be a full-time caregiver…” “I can’t leave her. I can’t,”

My mind wanders to whomever is making marketing decisions for Child Protective Services. What a shitty gig and what terrible work they do. Every program I attended as a kid had an awful name. “Found Children,” my least favorite, was a support group for adopted kids.

“It sounds like you have someone in mind,” I say. Rachel’s mouth raises at one corner—she needs to work on her poker face. “I suppose I do, yes. Another one of my cases. Similar situation to yours—a sibling guardianship.”

“Warren is one year younger than you and trying to get legal custody of his fifteen-year-old brother. He has also passed all the evaluations other than housing. He has a one-bedroom apartment at the moment, and any child above the age of ten is required to have their own room. However, he’s a mechanic’s apprentice and has over two years of work at a consistent rate of pay.”

“Warren has been trying to locate housing but has struggled to find a two-bedroom apartment that would be close to his work and his brother’s school—which is a necessity.” “He can’t just change schools?” I ask abruptly. “The school is for Deaf children, and it’s the only one in this area.”

There’s a plea in Rachel’s tone, whether she intends it or not. Her job is to be an advocate, but it must be a tricky balance when she is representing both Willow and this older boy. They both need a win.

“Warren is looking for something immediate. The sooner the better. His brother is currently placed in a group home that is”—Rachel hesitates and shakes her head—“unfortunately unable to meet the needs of a Deaf child.”

They don’t know sign language? My heart drops. That must be so lonely. “And if I say yes…will I be approved to bring Willow home? As soon as she’s ready?” “Yes, if Warren agrees to the arran...

The car turns off and the door opens. I notice a buzz-cut first, and then the sheer height of the stranger as he shuts the car door and surveys the building. He moves toward me, paying me no mind. Not Warren, I suppose. I allow my eyes to follow him as he passes me. He has the face of a handsome movie villain—devastatingly sharp.

Oh, shit. Of-freaking-course…I silence my phone and let out a long sigh, lowering my hand to my jumpsuit’s pocket. “Warren, I take it?” A deep, brief laugh escapes him. “Chloe?”

“Why does that make you so mad?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “I think people should be on time? Like the normal societal expectation?” “Noted.” He blows out his mouth as if to say geez, and it only adds to the rage threatening to spill out of my mouth.

“I had two roommates for university. They both moved out in the spring, but I kept the lease. What I pay here is what a one-bedroom seems to be going for these days.”

The image is a vintage-style 2-D animation of a box of tampons surrounded by slogans and quotes as if it were plucked out of a 1940s housewife magazine. “Real men bleed on Tampax,” he reads and tilts his head at me. “This is what they teach you at university?”

“But here we are. Subjects of the CPS’s whim and approval.” I shift in my seat, responding to the annoyance in his voice as he continues. “Look, this is probably going to suck. I’ll clean up after Luke and myself. He’ll be in school most days. My work hours fit into his schedule. I’ll pay my half of the rent, and I’ll make our own food. I don’t expect help from you outside of letting us crash here.”

Warren studies me for a brief moment, and then speaks only in sign language. “He is mostly excited to live with a hot older girl.” I lean back in my seat and meet his stare. “Well, I hope he isn’t too disappointed,” I sign back. Warren laughs and raises a fist to wipe his expression away. I feel a sense of pride rising in my chest, having gotten a real reaction out of someone who seems very unwilling to give them away.

“Rachel didn’t mention you could sign. I—” “She didn’t ask,” I interrupt. His brows crease, waiting for an explanation. “My adoptive father is Deaf.”

I peek over, and he looks up as I look down. Our eyes meet for what I think may be the first time. I don’t immediately pull back. I might like viewing him from up here. Not so tall now, are you?

The side of his lip curls up slightly, but his eyes grow weary. I tire him, I think. The all-too-familiar feeling of embarrassment over being “too much” flares. My adoptive mom did that too—made me feel like I was being too much at all times.

“When did you start making your feelings smaller for other people’s benefit?”

On my bus ride home, most of the women my age are with a gaggle of friends. A few of them toward the back pass around a flask and giggle as they check to see if the driver is looking. Another group is scrolling on their phones and dressed to go dancing. None of them, it seems, are headed home at eleven on a Saturday night to sit by themselves and wallow.

A laugh escapes me, and he opens his eyes. He scans me briefly before giving me a polite upward nod and lying back down, his hands finding the rhythm again. Warren isn’t even a little embarrassed, and I’m a little disappointed. Where does all his confidence come from? Can I get some of it?

“We aren’t going to be friends, Chloe.” His voice is low and full of unadulterated arrogance as he tilts his head in confusion. I huff, making an effort to form a look of bemused shock that is totally unreflective of the rejection I’m feeling. “Well, damn. Okay.”

“We might have different definitions of friends, Warren. Usually, sitting on a couch next to someone doesn’t mean they’re looking for a BFF…unless you want to make friendship bracelets? I did that at summer camp once.”

“Girls like me?” I scoff. “Please, do tell me more about myself, Warren.” He drapes his arms over his knees. “You got the adopted, two parents, nice house, university, fancy-ass apartment experience. We don’t have anything in common.”

“You think you didn’t have it easier?” “Well, no…but…” I stop myself as Warren leans back to rest his arm along the back of the couch. “I’ll stay out of your way; you stay out of mine. That’s all I ask.”

He doesn’t know anything about me. He’s asking not to know more…. It actually feels a little freeing. I’ve had so many people expect so much of me for a long time.

“Hi, Luke. Nice to meet you. I’m Chloe.” I finger spell Luke, since Warren never taught me his name sign. I do show him the sign my father has given me for my name. Luke is about my height with thin brown hair that falls into his glasses. He’s the spitting image of his brother, piercing eyes with a sharp jaw and hollow cheeks, but there is a warmth to him that Warren is missing.

“Graphic design. Her work is all around the house. I’m so sorry.” “Prick,” I say as Luke faces the wall. Warren smiles over his shoulder. He’s teasing me. Huh, I’m pretty sure that’s what friends do, isn’t it? Trying to hurt my feelings is different from trying to rile me up. Maybe he’s in a good mood because of Luke’s arrival.

Frustration fills my chest, and I let the energy out through an exasperated sigh as I follow the rest of the steps to my room. Warren is such an asshole. Then again, most good-looking men tend to be. They’re granted the permission, apparently, when they hit the age of maturity.

“He doesn’t seem to like me very much.” “It isn’t you. I actually think he does like you. He hates that this is the only way I could live with him.” He shrugs and pushes the core of a pepper to the side of the cutting board. “Not a big fan of CPS or their rules.”

“If my brother hasn’t already said it—thank you.” “Don’t. Please don’t. I needed you guys just as much, probably more.”

Oh, he meant to give me his number, like, give me his number. I scroll through my Rolodex of memories with him over these past eleven weeks. He’s cute, around my age, and seems kind. Also, he knows the tiny, precious baggage I now carry fairly well. All right, I’m cool with it. I turn around and offer him a playful eye roll with a smile. “I’m not out of your league.”

Calvin receives more than a few suspicious smiles and widened eyes as he stands behind us in street clothes, holding Willow’s suitcase. I blush, wondering how far the other nurses’ imaginations are going.

“That guy,” I mimic his mocking tone, “is Calvin. Willow’s nurse and my…friend.” “Do nurses usually provide a door-to-door service, or is that reserved for the hotter single guardians?” His grin is teasing, but his voice is deadpan.

I stand and curl Willow into my chest. “Willow, meet Warren. Our grumpiest roommate.” Just then, Luke pops out of his room. His face beams as he steps quickly toward me. He signs hello a few times and reaches out for Willow’s hand. I look at Warren, who must literally be glued to the floor in order to resist taking a closer look at the world’s cutest baby.

A wave of anxiety passes through me as I realize that what was a team of nurses, pediatricians, cardiologists, and respiratory therapists is now only me. I’m incredibly unsupervised.

Looking back toward Willow, Warren and Luke are nowhere to be seen. My heart sinks. I can’t help but think humans aren’t meant to do this alone. Still, I won’t ask for help—not after Warren’s judgments and comments.

No, I tell myself, you can’t use formula in place of creamer. I bring both of our liquid breakfasts to the couch. Watching the sunrise may be the only perk of guardianship so far. And Willow too…obviously.

“You’re nice to look at—especially when you’re clean.” He winks, and somewhere, an angel gets its wings.

I still feel as unqualified to be a guardian as I did that day, but I haven’t questioned my decision once. I won’t. Willow should be with family. Everyone should be, if they have a choice.

I look down at her, still so small but growing every day. “I’m so proud of you, Will. You’re doing so well.” Strong brows, strong noses, strong bodies, strong hearts. Another woman born into this family—already proving our mother right with her ability to survive all she threw at her.

“Willow, don’t look now, but your friend Luke is over there. Do you know what a group of teenagers is called? Hooligans.”

I’m only one week into parenting, and I know I should allow myself more time for these feelings to pass, but I’m tired down to my bones. The loneliness that has been hanging over me for years threatens to swallow me up.

I miss a life I never got to live—the one with the found family and friends I didn’t get the chance to find. I grieve for it.

Maybe that’s why my adoptive parents don’t take kindly to the choices I’ve made. Namely, graphic design, self-employment, fostering Willow—I’m on a roll in recent years of messing up my mother’s vision for my life.

Warren interrupts, more flustered than before. “You don’t have any say over our lives.” His tone switches toward the end, sounding like someone reaching their breaking point—voice pitching higher and shaky. I step backward until the backs of my legs find a chair; I sit. Maybe if I show him I’m not a physical threat, he’ll relax, like a bear or something. “I know that, Warren.”