Chapter 1: Ancestry Test / Leo and Lyanna (POV)

Mira was across the bar, lowering chairs from the tops of tables. Since it was Friday, I appreciated the extra help getting everything ready for the evening crowd. Doing it alone would’ve taken me at least an hour.

“Hey, Lyanna? Do you want these tables spaced out more?” Mira asked.

I paused while cleaning the bar and looked over at her. “No, you can keep them where they are. It’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” She turned the final chair upright, placed it properly, and slid it under the table. I had moved behind the bar to begin polishing wine glasses when she walked over and slapped her palms against the counter. “Holy shit, did I tell you I got my results back?” she asked.

I froze halfway through polishing and lifted an eyebrow at her. “Results? What kind? STD? Pregnancy? SAT? What are we talking about?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a jerk. No, the DNA ancestry test I sent in a few weeks ago. You remember, right?”

I did remember. What stood out most was how she nearly hyperventilated before swabbing her cheek. We’d done it at her place, and I honestly thought she might pass out when she saw the blood.

“Yeah, I remember. What did it say?”

“Well, I know this will totally shock you, but I’m seventy percent Irish.”

I glanced up at her fiery red hair braided down her back and her bright green eyes sparkling with excitement, then shrugged. “No way. I really thought you’d be Argentinian, or maybe Japanese.”

“Ha, very funny. But there was a little surprise there. I’m one percent West African.”

“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “I really hope that doesn’t mean you had some awful slave-owning ancestor who took advantage of the people he enslaved.”

Mira’s expression dropped, and she tilted her head. “Wow. I didn’t even think of that. I was kind of hoping my great-great-great grandma fell in love with a handsome, mysterious man while traveling on a ship or something.”

“Let’s stick with that version. Way less depressing.”

“You should try it too,” Mira said.

“What? Sail the world and fall for a mysterious man? I’m in.”

“No, the ancestry test. We can order a kit today, and it’ll arrive fast. It doesn’t just tell you where you come from; it also shows what illnesses you might be prone to. It’s actually really interesting. Apparently, I’m twenty percent more likely to develop rheumatoid arthritis than the average person. Lucky me. And I discovered three cousins I didn’t even know existed. I already added one of them on social media.”

The idea made my chest flutter with a little wave of anxiety. Learning about genetic information did interest me. Since I was adopted, it would be helpful to know if I had an increased risk of things like diabetes or heart disease, it could give me a head start on preventing issues like that. But discovering information about my biological family? That part was far more unsettling.

When my parents had finally told me I was adopted, I’d gone straight into a full-blown identity crisis. Who was I, really? Has my whole life been a lie? Why had my biological parents given me up? All the questions a young teenager would completely lose their mind over. It took nearly a year before I came to terms with it. My mom and dad were the ones who had raised me from the moment I was born, and that was all that truly mattered. I’d stopped thinking about my birth parents a long time ago, and the idea of digging all of that up again was deeply uncomfortable.

“I honestly don’t care that much about where I come from,” I said.

“Okay, fine, but what about knowing if you’re more likely to develop breast cancer, or if any kids you might have someday could have cystic fibrosis? Doesn’t that matter to you?” she asked.

It did, and I couldn’t deny it. I stood there for several seconds, thinking, as I finished polishing the final wine glass and moved on to the beer mugs. I already dealt with chronic anemia and had to take supplements for it. Who knew what else could be hiding in my DNA? I wasn’t planning on having children anytime soon, but finding out about possible genetic conditions before getting pregnant was definitely better than learning about them at the last minute.

“Alright, if I decided to do it,” I said, “how would I get one of those kits?”

Mira clapped excitedly. “Yes! I’m so excited. What if we end up being cousins or something?”

“The kit, Mira. How do I get one?” I asked, deliberately ignoring her comment.

“Hold on.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll send you the link.”

A few seconds later, my phone vibrated, but I didn’t open the message. There was too much to do to get ready for the night. We finished setting up the bar just before the first customers started coming in, mostly regulars fresh off their shifts. The night ended up being much busier than I expected, but I didn’t mind. People had teased me for earning a business degree only to turn around and open a bar instead of heading into corporate America, but I was pretty sure I made more money than many people my age. Twenty-eight years old and earning well over six figures? I’d gladly accept the long, hectic nights. It was a damn good trade-off.

Last call came at two in the morning, and by three-thirty, everything was cleaned, locked up, and shut down. By four, I was home, completely wiped out and sleeping like a rock.

The next day, I rolled over in bed and reached for my phone, the screen showing it was already noon. I saw Mira’s message with the link to the ancestry website and stared at it for a few moments, torn. I was still uneasy about what I might uncover. The possibility of discovering health risks didn’t scare me nearly as much as learning about the people I came from. I’d never been able to find any information about my biological parents. What if I discovered they were serial killers? I worried about my lip, lost in thought.

“Screw it,” I muttered, tapping the link.