East Coast hurricanes had in recent years either swerved into the open waters of the Atlantic or died over Long Island Sound. In the wee hours of Sunday morning, Hurricane Ida, for some newscasters, became a wet dream realized. The Category 2 storm had rocketed along the coast, flooded the estuary and smacked waves of boats onto harborside streets. Humidity and a broken air-conditioner forced my hand; in the suffocating, damp darkness I'd popped my window. 3AM this morning sideways downpours destroyed all hope of selling back this semester's books.

After blow-drying my calc homework, I decided Logan and I would grab lunch when classes resumed Tuesday or Wednesday. In lieu of wading through downtown to find an open McDonald's, I relayed Friday's debacle to Becky over stale garlic bread and pizza so oily fifteen minutes in the oven hadn't crisped the crust. I shouldn't have split a beef lo mein with Charles last night. Logan's roommate had no concept of leftovers.

"So he's not ready? That's it?"

I nodded, lifting my slice of pepperoni. Globs of cheese loosened from the crust and slithered into my paper towel plate.

"I understand protecting privacy, but shit, 'Not right now' isn't much of an excuse. Tell me you didn't throw the thing away."

"Well, not in the dumpster."

The waiver sprouted from the trash like a tender, crinkled shoot. Beside the can sat the shipping box and samples, homeless due to our lack of a recycling bin. Becky and I adamantly believed weekends were for relaxing. Mid-week, when homework and exams crowded the agenda, we engaged in menial chores. After hours of physics and calculus, sometimes a person needed to recharge through a mindless activity like shaking out toaster crumbs.

Becky uprooted the waiver and dumped the box beside her iced coffee. "So this company is a spit collection service?"

"Genetic samples."

"Tomayto, tomahto." She reviewed the info over several long, savoring sips of caffeine. Her last cup for nine months, she'd declared.

The empty carton by the fridge drained the appeal of my filtered tap water. An improperly budgeted present was a mistake, but no way in hell would I ask Mom and Dad for money. They could spare a couple hundred to keep their daughter fed, but I needed to show them they'd raised a capable daughter. Since losing my chance at a full-ride scholarship, Mom's perception of me had spiraled downward. This wasn't the time to ask for money, especially if I was going to turn around and tell her, "BTW, your incapable, unmarried daughter is moving in with the man you hate."

Becky folded the instructions. "So this kit isn't halfway to their Minnesota headquarters because . . . ?"

"Logan's happier not knowing." I pressed a grease-stained paper towel into pepperoni slivers. "How'd Darcy handle your announcement?"

"Kid'll have the father I didn't." She slid lower in her chair. "But he's from fucking Australia, Al. What if his family wants custody?"

"It's difficult to convince courts to separate a mother from her children."

Becky snorted. "Tell that to mine."

"You're a hardworking, soon-to-be college grad. Police lifted your car seat off a crack house floor. Totally different. And hey, Logan's dads are from Estonia. They understand what it's like to have family in two countries."

"So?" she snapped, stabbing at ice cubes with her straw. Exhaustion and anxiety cycled through the soft hazel gaze she tried hiding. She'd run sobbing out of Planned Parenthood last week, saying she couldn't do that, but she couldn't do this, either. All of her options felt like traps.

I steadied her hand. "So, if you'd let me tell Logan, he could-"

"I'm still wrapping my head around the fact that there's this bean sprout undergoing preparations to compress my kidneys. Give me some time."

"Sure."

One by one she yanked socks over her calves. "Logan's afraid, you know. He's your man, so he doesn't want to say it. He'd rather bullshit you with 'not right now.' No one wants to discover they've got a deadbeat dad and a mom in and out of rehab." Her voice broke on the last word.

"Not every parent who surrenders a child is like that."

"One way or another, reality's gonna disappoint. It's easier to rip the Band-Aid off, see the gnarly gross shit underneath, and move on."

"That's his choice."

Becky wound her hair into a low sunset bun. "Imagine your parents were sick, coffin-on-standby sick. If you don't see them, all you get is an obituary and maybe a headstone to talk to. You'd wanna know before they're gone, right? You'd have questions, stuff you always wanted to get off your chest. I would. He does, too."

A potent clump of oregano cut my mulling short. I shrugged. "It's up to him."

She framed her face with stray wisps of red hair, glancing at her phone for guidance. "Trust me, Al, he's freaking out. It'll pass. Did with me. And what's to stop his real parents from finding him?"

"Your circumstances were different." I bit into semi-solid mozzarella and reached for the waiver with my ungreased hand.

"Seven years ago I'd have done the same as him," Becky said. "Logan won't instantly get a new family. These kits show people who might share a twice-removed great great great great second uncle. If that uncle participated in this specific experiment. If. Logan'd have to hire people to track this guy and locating birthparents can take years. Even if his aunt and uncle live two blocks away he's got zero obligation to visit, not even on Christmas."

"He loves his current family."

Her eyebrows rose. "Whom he'll still have."

"A page of data isn't worth kicking a hornet's nest."

"You can't possibly think a drone like Logan carries a sting. Dude's sweeter than honey."

"Becky, he said no."

"Loose lips sink ships," she continued. "Mine are sealed tight."

"You're the one who suggested I tell him, which was clearly the right move, by the way."

"Yeah, but a lot's happened since I said that and your money's spent." She shrugged. "So he buzzes a bit. Who cares?"

"I do."

"Fine. Cultivate your boring happy life without juicy secrets."

"Good thing I've got you to live vicariously through."

"Forbidden fruit's not overly sweet, you know. Don't believe those lies your momma told you about your teeth rotting out. You'd survive a nibble. Might even do you good." She slipped on a trench coat, then unraveled the velcro around a flowery umbrella. Outside, rain fell in thick, gray lines. Mist shrouded parked cars and pavement alike.

"Did you check your email?" I asked. "Pentworth's closed. Heavy storms through midnight."

"Horses don't hold shit for a nice day." The daisy canopy engulfed her in drooping wire tentacles. She rested the plastic stem against her shoulder and grabbed the kit and trash bag. "After mucking stalls, I'm crashing at Clara's. You want me to toss this garbage in the bin on my way?"

"Please."

"Really? Fine."

The squeal of wellies on polished tile hadn't faded before I stood at the sink, dumping her abandoned coffee. Chocolate swirls circled the drain like zeros off my checking account.

Monday morning, on my jog along the river's swollen banks, I splashed past the post office. A son helped his aging mother down debris-strewn steps. Humidity had pulled her curls loose. Her fingers strained the stitches in the arm of his suit coat. She looked so fragile. He seemed so strong. For just a moment, I wondered if I should've mailed the test after all.

*

Days raced by in lab report deadlines and exams. With each date torn from my desk calendar the leaves went, too, until trees became inert sculptures and Saturday mornings were filled with the rustle of rakes filling disposable jack o' lantern leaf bags.

Logan never mentioned the kit again except to insist I needn't buy another present. So I bought him a card and a jumbo box of chocolate chip granola bars. He'd been skipping more and more meals. Every time I saw him his clothes hung looser. The muscles I admired, only a few weeks removed from an admirable college swim career, had already lost tone. Even his enduring smile struggled to brighten the pockets of shadows beneath his eyes. It had reached the point where I'd stopped by the health clinic for tips in case his gym shorts fell any further below his boxers.

As fresh pumpkins and faux spider webs closed in on city stoops, so too did October 29th close in on me. I didn't have much money for a new dress, so I pinched bagels from the dining hall to avoid paying three meals a day. A glance at my student loan balance-$15,000 and climbing-diminished my sticky-fingered guilt.

After hearing my plight, Clara's aunt paid me to de-popcorn her kitchen and living room ceilings. With the extra cash I paid my half of the rent and still had enough for a dress and my first set of lingerie meant to be seen. The latter I bought straight off the rack. The woman asking if I needed a measurement had a graying beehive and narrow blue eyes like Mom. Suddenly super self-conscious about the cyan lace bustier draped over my arm, I quit browsing.

Bikinis and underwear were two sides of the same coin. Lingerie, however, was intimate. Feelings, desires, physical contact: all stitched into alluring fabric. Flash a silk panty and everyone knows what's in your future. I wasn't in trouble, but with that woman standing behind the register, looking dubiously from the lacy bra to my nervous smile, I felt caught.

"I'm engaged," I told her dumbly, like she couldn't check my hand, like I had to preserve this idea of being good.

Lingerie was to Becky what sweatpants and an old tee were to me. Her bedroom was a Victorian boutique: panties, bras, and vintage corsets strung about the room, her more prized pieces and jewelry displayed on pristine dress forms. We kept her door locked when my parents visited.

To me, gaudy intimates seemed as cozy as a breakout. I couldn't stop staring, had to fidget with the ribbons, and was afraid it'd be so distracting Logan wouldn't notice me underneath.

"Distracting him's the point," Becky had said upon catching me modeling my purchase in the hall mirror. "He'll stay blind to every stupid flaw your mind conjures up."

I hoped so.

Anniversary morning, Becky and Clara accompanied me to Macy's as my personal fashion advisers on the assurance that I had great taste-when it came to dressing for baptisms and funerals.

The three of us stood crammed in a dressing room stall. The clock hadn't yet struck ten am and several dresses had been heaped on the returns desk. Halloween was upon us. If I wasn't dead set on a mummified Cleopatra, I'd have bought a costume here. My goal was confident and sexy, not network TV murder victim.

Unfortunately, cute dresses never stocked in medium unless you were either browsing or broke. On the sales rack, the fashion-forward clothes were available in XL and XS, leaving behind a mottled assortment of leftover fall styles fit for chicken shoot bingo with Gram. The one potential dress I'd liked had no room for boobs larger than a pair of wadded tissues.

The next dress was a bluebird's egg turquoise, a jumper frisky enough to land a date with one of the living. Clara stared at the wall while I yanked the zipper. We shared height and shoe size, but where I was a clear-cut pear, the dark-haired chem major was the perfect hourglass.

Holding my breath, I tapped Clara's shoulder. "Verdict?"

Her lips parted in a glossy smile. "We have a winner," she announced, gently fingering my blonde hair. "This plus curls ought to do the trick."

"Washes her out." Becky nixed my choice without glancing from her phone.

"A dab of bronzer pardons that."

"In summer, sure. Miss I'm-Freezing's arms haven't seen daylight since September."

Clara pursed her lips. "But blue and blonde-"

My phone vibrated across the changing room seat. Two texts from Logan flashed across the screen. The first was a picture of a giant pumpkin on his well-newspapered table. The second read: Dinner 7PM @ Cava. Meet out front. Excited to see you.

Clara gasped. "Cava? How the hell did he get a reservation?"

"Been planning for months." Becky leaned over my shoulder. "Like I said."

"Well shit," I said with a dubious glance hipward. Cava wasn't the place to get engaged-or opt to maintain the status quo-wearing the springtime finery of a baby bluebird.

Fancy for me was our usual fare: dinner at the Union Oyster House and a stroll along the deserted Esplanade underneath gold and dark umber leaves. Fancy for me was a twenty minute arm workout by curling iron, then resisting the urge to pull my hair into a ponytail at the first gust of wind.

I wanted nothing more than to grab a bite to eat, go for a walk, then return home for our annual pumpkin carving. Simple. Quiet. Up to our elbows in pumpkin guts. That was my style.

Not anymore, I decided, feeling for the zipper. At long last I was breaking out of the shell.

Just not dressed as a baby bluebird.