My throat closes up.
No one’s ever said anything like that to me before. Not Art, who carries his own guilt like a cross. Not my siblings, who don’t know the truth. Not Beverly, who saw more than anyone and chose to betray us anyway.
But this woman looks at me like she actually believes I’m worth something.
“Whatever they’ve made you do,” she says, quieter now. “That’s not who you are. That’s what they turned you into. There’s a difference.”
“You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I am.”
She leans against the bench, and her shoulder brushes my arm. I’ve got it stretched along the back. Not around her, but close enough that from the outside it might look like it is.
It would only take a fraction of an inch to make it true.
And maybe I should move it, but it’s comfortable in a way that feels illicit. Like stealing something small and convincing yourself it doesn’t count as theft.
“Okay, your turn.” She settles deeper into the bench, her hair grazing my arm where it rests behind her. “I used to play this game with my dad. People watching. You make up stories about strangers.”
“You did what now?”
“Oh, come on. You’ve never done that?”
I stare at her. “That’s unhinged.”
“A lot of people do it.”
“People with too much imagination.”
“You’re just boring.”
I chuckle before I can stop myself.
Her head snaps toward me, and for a second she just stares. Then her mouth curves into a slow, surprised grin, like she’s won something she didn’t expect to.
My fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and grip a strand of her hair. I flex them against the bench and keep myself in check.
“There.” She points to a couple across the square who are clearly arguing, hands animated, voices too low to hear. “I bet he forgot their anniversary.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” She pops the “p” and takes a sip of cider, and my eyes drop to her mouth without permission. The way her lips curve around the rim. The faint sheen left behind.
I drag my gaze back to the couple like my life depends on it.
“He does this every year,” she continues. “When they first got married, everything was amazing. He showered herwith gifts, celebrating who they were. But then he got a big promotion. Probably one of your family’s minions at Calloway Enterprises.”
“Please.”
“Fine. A Montgomery.”
“More like a Voltaire,” I chime in.
“Anyway, he got a taste of money. Maybe a wandering eye for his assistant.”
“That sucks.”
“It happens. That’s why they’re fighting. Third year in a row he’s forgotten. She feels alone. Unseen. And she’s done putting up with it.”
