I was confused. “I’m trying not to project anyone, remember?”
“I don’t mean that. I mean the moral compass thing. Josh?”
“What about him?” I said, although I knew what she meant.
“Intimacy isn’t always about love. You’ve got to talk to him.”
“We’re not sleeping together! I—” I clamped my mouth shut. I never blurt that out, because no one would understand why we aren’t.
“That’s good.”
Now Hannah shocked me. No one else has said that.
“You think so?” I tried to act casual, but I desperately wanted to know her thoughts.
“Absolutely. It complicates everything, changes everything. I believe if you’re not married to the guy, that shouldn’t be happening.”
“That’s not very forward thinking of you, Hannah.” I wanted to push her. I wanted answers.
“Put it in your terms. Take all those Austen and Brontë characters who went astray. They weren’t villains, but they paid a price. Natural consequences for making poor choices. Those consequences still exist today. You’re always saying that’s what makes Austen so good, right? That she portrayed human nature accurately, and that human nature hasn’t changed.”
“Yes?”
“Then look at Lydia Bennet, Maria Bertram, Marianne Dashwood—”
“Marianne?” I never told her about my musings that Josh and I are a modern Colonel Brandon and Marianne.
“Yes, Marianne. She lost her sense of right and wrong. She thought that because loving Willoughby felt good, it had to be right. Later she knew her mistake and she regretted it.”
We didn’t talk much after that. I was too confused. Hannah knew she had dropped a bomb on me.
“Sam, I’m thrilled about the article. Call if you need me. I’m always here.” She paused again. “Sam, I love you. You know that, right?”
My eyes teared. “Thanks, Hannah.” I hung up the phone. Hannah’s known the real me and stood by me for five years. I think she does love me. And although I have only recently come to see her clearly, I trust her. I haven’t given her enough credit.
Now I don’t know what to think, Mr. Knightley. I thought I was backward about this whole intimacy thing, and now I wonder. Every time Josh pushes, I back away. I want to talk to him about it, but I know it’s not a discussion he’ll like, and I don’t know what to say. He still gets silent when I leave dinners to head north. Maybe I’m making this too complicated. Maybe I should address it head on. The new me is supposed to be filled with courage, right?
And I’d better get some because between this and my article . . . there’s a lot of talking to do.
Love,
Sam
FEBRUARY 11
Dear Mr. Knightley,
TheTribunebought my piece. I can’t decide if I should jump for joy or throw up. They will publish it as a Sunday feature next month. There are so many people to talk to now—and there’s a deadline. What have I gotten myself into?
There is one person I won’t have to tell, though, and I thought I’d feel good about that—now I’m not so sure. As I told the Muirs about the article and the internship interview (Susan Ellis, theTrib’s Deputy Editor, called to schedule it), Alex came to mind, and my heart jumped to my throat. I don’t want him to know my past. Call me a coward, but in this case I don’t care. He doesn’t need to know. So I extracted a promise from the Muirs not to tell him.
The professor wasn’t pleased. “Why? Do you think he’ll use it against you? Put it in a book?”
“Of course not.” Those thoughts hadn’t even occurred to me.
“Then why the subterfuge?”
Subterfuge?“He doesn’t need to know. It’s not important to him, and I don’t want any more drama.” I hoped the professor might believe my oh-so-casual approach. He didn’t.
