“Me.”
“She didn’t measure up.” Before I can make an evasive maneuver, he is pressing his face to the back of my neck.
“Jack.”
He inhales as he pulls away, and eyes me with expectance.
“What was that for?” I can’t be angry, not after what he just said. But I’m curious.
“Remembering,” he says with a sad smile. “It was good, Mal.”
“Uh-huh, until it wasn’t. Do you remember why we broke up?”
“I remember why you ran away.”
“I didn’t run—”
“You did. You didn’t stay to talk it through. A few bad words—”
“Afew?” I cry. It was more than a few. It had been a torrent, coming from the person I most trusted in the world, and it had sent me into a downward spiral of loneliness and doubt. I spent months trying to recover from that argument. The memory of it, even now, is painful. “You called my father a murderer and my mother a coward.You called Margo a ball-buster and Anne stupid. You called me a basket case who couldn’t make up her mind what she wanted. You called me spineless. You said I was crippled by my father. You said I was damaged—permanentlydamaged, you said, if memory stands—and you said it when you knew I was falling apart, knew my family was falling apart, knew I wascrushed.Do you know the meaning of love, Jack? Love means you put another’s pain even above your own. I was in pain, and you were too obsessed with yourself to see it.You’re abandoning me,you said. Well, no, Jack.Youabandonedme.For you, it was only about the Sabathians, but I had family, too. I had issues and fears, and you were blind to everything but—” I stop. “What is thatsmileabout?” It is triumphant.
“I love it when you’re passionate.”
I gape at him. “You do not. That’s what set us off twenty years ago.”
“No,” he says, still smiling, “what set us off was shock. We’d never argued before. We threw words at each other, and at the worst possible time. But now? Now is deliberate and rational. You never did it like this back before that night, but I wanted you to. Has living in New York given you balls?”
Rational? Hah! If I were another type of person, I’d have hit him. It might be the resurgence of those memories and my need to lash back for those ugly words. It might be his smugness. Or the fact that this man has the ability to so quickly strip me raw.
But I’m no hitter. Physical violence gives me a panic attack. Words—now, words are another thing entirely. I don’t even bother to move away, because what I have to say can be said inches from his gorgeous face.
“Listen, bud,” fury keeps my voice low, “living in New York gave me nothing that I didn’t work my tail off for. And I sure as hell didn’t do it for you. I’ve been with men who are kinder than you. I’ve been with men who are smarter and more successful. I’ve been with atonof men.”
“But you didn’t want any of them.”
“And I don’t want you. You are not why I came back, Jack. My family is. So call me crippled or damaged or spineless, if calling me names gives you a rush, but I’d wager I’m a lot happier than you are right now.”
My phone dings. His phone dings. We both reach, raise, read.
Where r u?Joy texts.
Almost there,I text back and slide off the table at the same time as Jack. “My daughter calls,” I say. “Gotta run.”
“Me, too. My cat calls.”
I might mock the fact of daughter versus cat, or say,See, it’s always about you,if it weren’t for the concern in his voice, which I do hear precisely because I loved him once. But no more.
Without another word, we walk off in opposite directions, which is a metaphor if ever there was one.
Chapter 10
The interior of Sunny Side Up is as yellow as its name implies—yellow walls, yellow tables, yellow art. Still annoyed at Jack, I would have preferred a calmer blue or green, even my New York black. I’m not feeling terribly sunny.
Then I see Joy, and my mood lifts. She is a rainbow of color, with a short bar apron tied around her waist, and moves from table to table with carafes of coffee in each hand, one regular, one decaf, all the while chatting and smiling and topping off cups with aplomb. She is underage. She is inexperienced. But she is adorably happy.
My father sits alone in the front right corner of the shop. A newspaper lies open before him, and he does look to be reading, to judge from his glasses and the movement of the eyes behind them. I know that once I sit with him, all hope of anonymity is gone. But if I’d wanted to be anonymous, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?
Besides, connecting with my father is preferable to dwelling on Jack.
