There’s a beat of silence, and the shame in his face softens, replaced by a wild, feral joy. He shakes his head, a little stunned, but then suddenly remembers there’s another item on the list, and his face drops.
“That’s not the worst of it,” he says, and suddenly the air is cold again.
I brace myself, fingers wrapping tight around the edge of the table.
He’s slow, surgical, like he’s peeling back a dressing. “My marriage to your mother has been on the rocks for a while. For a long time, actually. If we’re being honest, since the very beginning.”
This, I wasn’t expecting and I stare at him with confusion.
“What?”
Kent nods, his expression stolid but also ashamed at the same time.
“When I married Jeannine, it wasn’t for love. I didn’t even want a wife. What I wanted was you.”
This is going too fast for me to compute. “What are you talking about?”
Again, that shame-faced expression on his face. Yet he swallows and presses ahead.
“I saw your picture on Jeannine’s desk at the country club the first time we talked,” he says, and the words come out fast, unstoppable. “You were gorgeous, baby, and probably not a day over sixteen. You were dressed in a plaid skirt, white shirt, Mary Janes, with long, golden legs. You looked like an angel, and I couldn’t get you out of my head. I know it’s fucked up, and I felt bad even feeling the things that I felt. But I asked Jeannine about you, and she said you were her daughter.”
The world tilts a little. I remember that picture. I remember how embarrassed I was when Mom made me pose for it, the way my hair wouldn’t stay put and the way my chest looked huge and ridiculous in the starched white shirt. I remember how she used to brag about me to anyone who would listen.
“I thought the attraction would go away,” he says. “You were only a girl! I was a grown man, divorced already. But it didn’t, and I started going by the nurse’s office for all sorts of bullshit. To get my tennis elbow looked at, which isn’t even a medical condition. Because I was feeling faint from the heat. Sick from food poisoning in the cafe. And Jeannine was nice. She always took care of me, and soon, we were so-called dating, except thatthere was never any pretense. Your mother’s a smart cookie, and she knew what I was really after.”
I stare at him, flummoxed. “Which was?”
He pauses a moment, and then says, “You. I wanted access to you, sweetheart. It’s fucked up and wrong because you were so young, but I was a desperate man.”
My heart’s practically pounding out of my chest now.
“So what happened?”
Kent shrugs.
“So I proposed to your mother. She needed a provider, someone who was stable with loads of money. I wanted access to her daughter. We both got what we wanted.”
He’s trembling now, the words spilling out in a rush. “It was a deal, Mary Kate. She got life in the lap of luxury, with unlimited credit cards, glamorous international travel, and private jets. I got you. But Jeannine was smart. She wanted to wait until you were a little older, so I agreed to wait until you turned eighteen. I signed a prenup, even, so she’d get everything if I crossed the line.”
My mind spins, cycling through the years of fake holidays, fake family dinners, the way Mom would leave for “girls’ trips” and not come back for weeks. How my handsome stepfather was always there, always watching, always just a little too careful. Suddenly, everything clicks. The world rearranges itself, and I’m standing outside my own life, looking in.
“So you’re a pedo,” I state in a flat voice.
“Sort of,” he acknowledges. “I looked a lot when you were underage, but I didn’t touch.”
“Why wait until I was twenty-one then?” I ask, my voice almost a whisper. “Why not just go for it, if you already had an agreement with my mother?”
He looks at the ceiling, then back at me. “I know this sounds crazy, but Jeannine intervened. Your mom said you weren’t ready at eighteen, that you were still too immature and naive. You were still sleeping with a stuffed animal at night and singing K-Pop songs, even though you were at college already. So Jeannine begged me to hold off for a little. She said you needed to grow up more, and to get through a few more years before I approached. So I did. I waited, biding my time.”
The last three years unspool in my head: the way Kent would text me from the hospital, the birthday checks, the small gifts. The way his gaze would sear me at Thanksgiving, like my curves were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
The room is spinning a little. I grip the table harder.
He speaks again, softer this time. “I know it’s fucked up. I know you deserve better.”
I breathe. Once, twice, three times.
My voice is calm when I finally answer. “You planned for this to happen,” I say. “You wanted me so bad you married my mother.”
