Free The Other Half of Me by Emily Franklin Page B

there’s…” I stop talking when the site appears in front of me.
    “Whenever you’re ready,” Tate says, putting his hand on my knee.
    “Okay.” I take a deep breath and hold the mouse. “I’m ready.”

ELEVEN
    Scrolling around the site isn’t as scary as I thought it would be. No one ambushes me and announces they’re related, which is a little bit of a relief. It’s funny how Tate seems more anxious than I am. He’s tapping his sneaker-clad feet on the chair rung. I fire an irritated look at him and he winces.
    “Sorry, this is nerve-racking. Can’t you just type something in and get a match?”
    “If it were that simple, I would’ve done it already.” I bite my top lip. “I’m going to do a search of the bank my mom used.” Note how I left out the word
sperm.
I just don’t feel the need to mention that in front of my new boyfriend. If that’s what he actually is.
    Tate watches intently, his arms crossed over his chest like this is the championship cup or match. “Isn’t California Reproductive Center one of the biggest in the country?”
    “I think so.” I squint at the screen as I continue to type. Afterward, I click the mouse. “Oh my God.” I rub my hands together, unsure what to do.
    “What? What is it?”
    “I don’t know. There are a couple of postings here.” I frantically scan the screen for important details. I read the first posting to Tate, my voice wavering slightly. “This one’s color-coded blue, which means…” I quickly check the color key. “It was posted by the donor.”
    Tate scoots closer to me. “Maybe it’s your father.”
    For some reason, I’m overcome with emotion and tears well up in my eyes. “My dad’s at home, digesting a pile of mashed potatoes and watching Sierra and Sage practice their dance moves.”
    “Of course. You’re right. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
    I pat his thigh, my hand on his bare leg. “It’s okay.” I click on the posting. “This man says he’s of Scottish descent. Hey, maybe I’m Scottish!” An image of me in a kilt appears in my head and then fades as I read. “He started donating in the early nineties. Wow, that’s pretty close, time-wise.” I keep reading. “He’s six feet, two inches tall.” My hopes rise and then fall way down when I read the rest of the entry. “Forget it. He’s African American.”
    Tate points to the screen. “What about that one?”
    I read carefully. “Interesting. It’s a different color posting, one that means it’s from parents who are searching on behalf of their child.”
    “And?”
    “They have a daughter who was born the same year I was.” My eyes travel the length of the short entry, reading the name of the clinic they went to. Then I shout, “One-four-two! That’s my donor father’s number! And it’s her father’s number, too.” The world seems to collapse and get smaller, then just as quickly unfold and expand, stretching like a blot of oil paint dripped on a canvas. “I think I found a sister.”
    “Holy shit,” Tate says. Then he puts his hand to his mouth. “Sorry.”
    I laugh. “Don’t be sorry. I think that reaction was completely appropriate.”
    “So now what?”
    I sigh and sit back in the chair. There are so many answers to this question. I could wait. I could let all this info sink in and think on it tonight or tomorrow while trying to paint. I could call my parents, or I could walk around not knowing. But that’s cowardly, isn’t it? I’m so mixed up inside that all I can say is, “I don’t know.”
    “Do you want me to leave you alone for a minute?” Tate asks. He so gets it, gets me. I nod.
    “Thanks.”
    “I’ll go make us some dessert. I’m known for creating strange but delicious milkshakes.”
    “Sounds good.” I watch him exit into the kitchen, and although he does leave me alone, I feel connected to a presence elsewhere, kind of like how twins often say that they can feel when their twin is hurt or happy.
    I register