“I’ll get the wine,” I say, because I need to occupy my hands before I do something stupid like reach for her. “Should we trust Jo’s taste?”
“Jo once described a wine as ‘angry but in a romantic way,’ so honestly, it could go either way.”
We eat on the screen porch as the sun starts its slow descent toward the marsh.
The food is perfect. The wine is surprisingly good—Jo described it on a Post-it as “complicated, like you two fools”—and the view is what it’s always been: endless grass and water and sky, the kind of beauty that makes you forget anything else exists.
Jessica has kicked off her shoes. Her feet are tucked underneath her on the old wicker settee, and she’s on hersecond glass of wine, and some of the tension has finally left her shoulders.
“I could live on this porch.”
“Vera practically did, in the summers. She had a bed out here for years and always said the movement of the water was better than any sleeping pill.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She was.” I lean back in my chair as a great blue heron picks its way through the shallows. “She was the only person who ever made me feel like being soft wasn’t a weakness.”
Jessica is quiet for a moment. “What do you mean?”
I should deflect. But we’re here and she’s asking, and I’m so tired of hiding.
“My father had opinions about how men should be. Strong. Practical. Dismissive of anything that couldn’t be measured or monetized.” I take a sip of wine. “He thought my mother ruined me with her books. Called me ‘your mother’s son’ like it was an insult.”
“That’s awful.”
“He wasn’t wrong about everything. I did learn to hide. I just got very good at it.”
Jessica sets down her wine glass. “Is that why you became V. Langley? To hide the soft parts?”
“Partly. And partly because I couldn’t stop writing even when I was supposed to be someone who didn’t believe in love stories.”
“Vera knew?”
“She was one of the only ones.” I look at Jessica. “Until you.”
Something shifts in her expression. I can’t read it—hope? Fear? Both?
She stands abruptly. “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Down the hall, second door on the?—”
“I’ll find it.”
She disappears inside, and I let out a breath.
Too much. Too fast. I pushed too hard.
But then her voice comes from inside the house. “Scott.”
“Yeah?”
“Why do you have a framed photo of yourself with a bowl cut and a Backstreet Boys shirt?”
I close my eyes. “We’re not discussing that.”
“This is incredible.” Her voice moves closer. She appears in the doorway, holding the photo, grinning like she’s discovered buried treasure. “Is this from a school dance? Are you wearing a vest?”
“It was 1998. Everyone wore vests.”
