I swallow hard, my vision blurring as the pieces click into place.
He changed his number. Forwarded his old one. Made sure everyone else could reach him.
Everyone except me.
For the next few days, I let the truth settle in my bones.
Yes, I ignored his calls because I was drowning in shame. Because my father was being dragged through the courts as I was through the mud. Because in the middle of all thatshitstorm, I still had to work, pay bills, get through finals and graduate.
And Jordan, what did he do?
He turned his back on me the day I needed him most. He kept none of his promises to help my father.
And somewhere between begging me to speak to him and "I love you," he built a wall, shut me out and moved on.
Epilogue
Eight Years Later
I stand by the living room window, watching as Drew ambles up our cracked drive, his arms hooked around his suspender belt in typical Drew fashion.
I told him last night I had some news for him. Drew probably knows what it is. That I'm about to leave Henderson for good. There's not much tying me to this town anymore.
It's been four weeks since Mom's funeral, and she was the reason I moved back in the first place.
Drew can be difficult, so I can only pray Drew takes the news well. I'm the only family he has, and I can't afford to part on sour terms. Still, whatever his opinion on where I'm going, my bags are packed. My ticket printed. My flight leaves in four hours.
Although I've printed a copy out for Drew, I opened the email app just to read through the job offer again. It came through a week ago.
Congratulations, Ms. Wells. We are pleased to offer you the position of Lead Curator at the prestigious Century Gallery at Hudson Valley...
New York.
I suppress the quiver of anxiety in my belly.
I can do this. I'm a grown woman. A successful art curator with a career I built with my own hands. It's been almost a decade. And time, as they say, heals all—
Bullshit.
Actually, time doesn’t heal wounds. Time only teaches you how to carry pain without letting it crush you.
Still, I've carried mine well, considering.
For a long time, I believed the worst thing that ever happened to me was Jordan walking out on me on the day my life collapsed.
I was wrong. The worst thing was what that came after.
After Dad's arrest, the legal nightmare dragged on for another six months. Six months of neighbors whispering behind curtains. Six months of Mom aging a decade every time we had another court date. Six months of bail hearings and pre-trial motions and meetings with lawyers who kept telling us to "be realistic."
The prosecution had evidence. Bank statements. Digital signatures. Timestamped transfers. Mountains of documentation that would be impossible to fight in front of a jury.
Dad was advised to plead guilty in exchange for a light sentence than if he went to trial and lost. I begged him not to, but he took the deal.
The judge sentenced him to five years without parole.
Five years. Five years for something he didn't do. Daddy wouldn't look at me. Likely because he was ashamed. He knew he should have fought hard for his innocence instead of trusting a corrupt system.
I swallowed my rage and disappointment and visited him a month into his sentence. Waited for him across the glasspartition. Dad shuffled in, his orange overalls hanging off his frame. He'd lost a shocking amount of weight. But it was the bruises that made my stomach drop. One eye was swollen shut, the purple-green spreading down his cheekbone. His knuckles were split and scabbed over.
