“She told me that she fell out of love with him. That it wouldn’t work. But I—I’m starting to think that’s not true.”
Why else would he have been so worried about what my Mom would think of him going to this Mondrakes place?
“Are you sure I’m the person you want to ask about this?”
“I’m sure that you’ll tell me the truth, even if it’s not what you think I want to hear.”
A brief silence. “If we do this, it’s probably best that we keep this conversation between ourselves.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“When I met Emily, she was very much still in love with your father.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes, the beginnings of a stress headache. I squeeze them shut, trying to stave it off, but it just keeps building.
“I knew that she loved him, but I pursued her anyway,” Jack continues. “How could I let someone so warm, humble, and generous get away? It took her a while to come around to the idea of letting your father go. Eventually, though, she figured out it was the right thing.”
“What if you hadn’t?” I blurt out. “If you hadn’t pursued her, do you think my parents would have gotten back together?”
“No.” His answer is firm, but not unkind.
“Why not?”
Another silent moment. “Your mother didn’t tell you because she wanted to protectyourrelationship with your father.”
“What didn’t she tell me?”
Jack sighs. “Peter was addicted to gambling. His problems started long before you were born, maybe before he and Emily ever met. She didn’t know when she married him. She didn’t know when he started.”
A cold stone drops in my stomach. I guessed as much from what Dad said, but hearing it confirmed by Jack’s cool, detached voice makes it real and indisputable.
“Eventually, Emily started to notice there were stretches of time he couldn’t account for. She found credit card bills in the trash, racking up thousands of dollars. She confronted him, but he reassured her it was temporary—a bad decision he made on a night out with his business partner. She hoped they could get through it, but it came to a head.”
I don’t want to know. The truth can’t do anything but hurt me. At the same time, I know it’ll torture me if I don’t ask. “What happened?”
“I really don’t think I’m the right person to be?—”
“Just tell me.”
A long sigh, and then, “Alright. One night, your mother came back from a late shift at the hospital. This was back when she was still a nurse, before she was promoted to administrator. She found you in the kitchen with a bloody paper towel on your finger. You must have been eight or so, and your father had left to go to the casino after you went to sleep. You woke up hungry and came down to get a snack. When you couldn’t find your father, you tried to make yourself a sandwich. You cut your hand trying to slice a tomato.”
I clutch the laminate edge of the dining table, trying to find some kind of anchor to the world. My memory conjures up hazy shapes—Mom in our old kitchen, crying. Mom cleaning up a cuton my hand and putting a Band-Aid on it. Me lying in bed, a pillow over my head while I tried not to hear Mom and Dad yelling at each other. I don’t think those are real memories of that night, just stitches of time that could line up into something real.
But one thing I do know for sure as I lift my shaky hand to the light. I still have the scar.
“She ended things with him then,” Jack says finally. “It would be years before we met and got married, but she still carried a torch even then.”
“I see.” The coffee in my mug looks like a cold, dark pond. I twist the mug in my hand. “Thank you, Jack.”
“I—of course.”
There are no more questions for me to ask him. What I’ve learned is already more than I ever wanted to know. I hang up before he can say anything more.
Jacob pushesthrough a dense throng of beautiful women in sparkling dresses, their smooth hair blown out to glassy perfection. Impressively, he manages to keep from spilling both my glass of red wine and holding up his own glass of champagne.
“I made it!” he says when he finally makes it to the tall, round table I commandeered near the windows.
“Thanks for braving the line at the bar,” I say as he hands me the glass.
