“I don’t know. I mean, she’s pretty, and she’s actually a big fan of yours—she stopped by earlier today hoping to chat with you. She bought a few of the finger puppets.”
“Wow.That’s nice,” I say. But I have this image in my head of Jane, in all her curvaceous glory, cuddled up against Brendan, and I feel sick. “I don’t know, her and Brendan? It doesn’t seem . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
Emily purses her lips. “Okay, it was just a thought.” She gives me a look that seems all too knowing, and my cheeks heat up. Jane’s the kind of girl I’ve spent so much of life wishing I was, even as I would loudly proclaim how proud I was of being a goofy Chinese girl who had to rely on humor instead of big boobs—as if a girl couldn’t have both. Jane certainly does.
And I can’t help but think she’d make Brendan feel that zing, as well as not be a total bitch to him like Candace. He could have both.
When, selfishly, I want him to haveme.
I realize I’m staring off into space, and Emily’s still watching me. “But yeah, things are going well with our plan.”
Emily does a solid job faking being impressed, and I tell her I need to get supplies for the party and head off.
So many things run through my mind as I head out to the car: the panel today, the feeling of Brendan’s hand in mine, that image of him and Jane, that haunted look he got when he talked about his dad.
It was different, him bringing up his dad out of nowhere like that. He must be worried, which makes sense with what his dad did to him and how he’s been in prison now for over twenty years and . . .
My thoughts snag on that in a way they never have before. Isn’t twenty years—with a much longer full sentence—a long time for domestic abuse? I mean, not that him beating his wife and his child doesn’t make him a total monster, but it occurs to me that I’ve never heard of someone going away for that long on that charge. But that’s definitely what Brendan said he went away for, though I guess there might have been other things he was charged with as well.
I pause in one of the hallways of the convention center and pull out my phone, ducking behind a big column so I don’t get interrupted. I stare at the screen of my phone—a pic of Ruby andTerrence sharing a sweet kiss—my heart somewhere up my throat. I know I should be asking Brendan about this and not looking it up on the internet, but I don’t want to upset him.
I Google Brendan’s dad’s name.
An article from a local paper twenty-one years ago pops up, with a pic of a guy who looks a lot like Brendan—the same jawline, the same slim nose. But he doesn’t have the light Brendan carries with him. It’s like some wrong version of my best friend. Below it is this sentence:Pike was sentenced to forty years on sixty counts of criminal sexual assault of a minor.
I think my heart stops; I sink down to the floor, leaning against the wall.
Sexual assault. I try to think back on what Brendan said.That his father abused him, definitely, and that his mother had him put away. I scan down the article, but there’s no other charges listed, just that this charge had several victims. It doesn’t name Brendan, but if what Brendan said is true, then . . .
Brendan was sexually abused by his own father.
I just assumed all along that it was domestic abuse, that he’d hit both Brendan and his mom. Maybe lots of times. Which is horrific enough, but this—
This feels worse.
All those years of therapy growing up, all his anxiety and trust issues and panic—it all makes even more horrible sense now.
I want to throw my arms around Brendan and cry and tell him how sorry I am this happened to him. But there must be a reason he didn’t tell me. I’m hoping it’s not because he thought I couldn’t handle it.
It doesn’t really matter what his reason is, though. He didn’t want me to know, and now I feel super guilty that I pried like this. As much as I want to tell him I’m willing to listen if he ever wants to talk about it, I don’t want to bring it up and risk making him relive it.
I won’t do that to him. I can’t. Not until he wants to tell me himself.
But even as I make this determination, I worry about having to hide this—hide anything, really—from Brendan, who knows me better than anyone else.
I resort to my usual tactic: Be Su-Lin, always happy and perky and smiley.
It’s the only way I know to make things better.
Eight
Brendan
Su-Lin hosts a room party every year, and this year is no exception. She’s set up a group invitation online and invited all the professionals she knows, plus anyone who might hear about it from any of them. We turn our beds against the wall sideways for seating, push the chairs against the wall by the couch, stow our luggage and valuables in my car for safe keeping, and fill the table with pretzels, beer, and several bottles of cherry vodka and hard lemonade, plus disposable plastic wine cups. I go downstairs to get ice and return to find Su-Lin laying aTwister mat in the center of the floor.
“It’s going to be packed in here, isn’t it?” I ask. “Do you really think there’s going to be room to playTwister?”
Su-Lin smiles mischievously. “We’ll find a way.”
