She passes me a pamphlet. In a line-up photo of guides, I spot Nash instantly. Dirty blond hair, cocky smile on his face, and a ridiculous postage stamp-patterned button-up shirt that stands out against the golden tan on his skin and sleeve oftattoos covering one arm. Eight years older but still very much the same, his coffee eyes stare right at me. Thirsty for History is printed in a bold font and the coincidence of those three words alone nearly knocks me over.
All these years I’ve never let myself look him up and now here he is, a few hours’ drive and a single state away. The same city as the dad who doesn’t know about me. Irony is a down and dirty bitch.
She hands me the most recent postcard, note-side up, my eyes instantly all over the words:
Eight years this summer. What do you think, Rue Conway? I’m still in Charleston. Same address. Same job. Is it time I give you up?
—N
“I know why you did what you did,” Mom says as I poke myself—literally poke myself—to make sure this isn’t some twisted dream. “But I also know you spent years waiting for him to come back. This was the only thing I could think of doing. He was good for you, and you’re still married. To him.”
“Good for me?” I shuffle through the postcards again, my annoyance skyrocketing with each picturesque skyline and scribble of letters. Every note showcases how incapable of taking things seriously he still is. Every cityscape of the many cities he told me that very first day he wanted to live in a reminder of the fact he told me who he was, and I refused to listen.
“He was the furthest from good.” I slap the postcards on the desk. “He was arrogant. He was-was-was unpredictable. A slob.”
“But he would have been,” she challenges. Like she has any idea what hewould have beenready for. “He would have stepped up.”
“Would ha—” I cut myself off, forcing myself to breathe. “Did Jeane Dixon’s crystal ball tell you that?”
“You need to face this or you’ll never be happy.”
“I need toforgetthis to be happy,” I say through gritted teeth, back pedaling with, “which I already have. And already am.”
She ignores me. “Well, you can’t get married if you’re already married.”
I massage my temples. “Please stop talking.”
This is bad.
This is so, so bad.
“And Bennie deserves to know.”
“No.”
“Because I see now how the choices I made impacted you. The same way all mothers impact their daughters. Telling Bennie he’s dead. Marrying Jonathan.” I open my mouth only to find no words available. “You’re playing it safe.”
She’s not wrong, not entirely. I barely survived that loss of Nash and I nevereverwanted to put myself through that again. And I love Jonathan—I do—but a big part of what drew me to him was that he’s the antithesis of the first man I married.
“I don’t care what you think. I’m happy.”
“Whether you are or aren’t,” she says, “it doesn’t change the truth. You’re still married. To Nash.”
I’m.
Still.
Married.
To.
Nash.
I know it’s sunk in because I want to pass out, and in an abrupt and frantic motion, I’m standing and shoving all the papers in the box.
How will I tell Jonathan?
Or Bennie?
