Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,60
down on me now if I am married to him. I wouldn’t be a Wake anymore. I’m somebody, you know?” She takes a slow, measured sip of her coffee followed by a sour eye roll.
“I thought you—”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“What does a seventeen-year-old know about anything?”
I fell in love with Everett when we were in kindergarten. Was I just in love with him because he was something I could point to and say, “See? I’m somebody. I’m a Coburn now.” Am I any different from Merry Carole and Wes McKay?
“So Wes is the only man you’ve ever been with,” I say. It’s not a question.
“Can’t you?” Merry Carole’s face is hard and focused.
“What?”
“You were going to say that you can’t believe I’ve only been with one man, right?”
“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing that that was exactly what I was going to say, word for word. Merry Carole just looks at me. I continue, “Fine. Maybe I was going to point out the tragedy of One-minute Wes being your only sexual experience. I mean, what kind of whore are you?”
“You tell me,” Merry Carole says, her laughter subsiding.
“Not a very good one,” I say.
“But it’s not like it’s something you can’t identify with, right?” Merry Carole’s tone is strong. Her eyes are laser focused on mine. Her hands are tight around her steaming mug of coffee. She continues, “I mean, if we’re going to do this . . .” I don’t understand what . . . Oh my God. I can feel the blood leave my face. I can feel my mouth drop open. I am quiet, stunned. Speechless.
“How long have you known?” I ask, my words barely a whisper.
“Twenty years,” Merry Carole says, her voice quiet.
“Of course you did,” I say.
“Of course I did,” she repeats.
“What . . .” I don’t even know what to ask her first. I can’t breathe. First Piggy Peggy and now Merry Carole. Who else knew? Everyone? My voice crackles as I speak, “Did everyone know?”
“Yes.” One word. Simple.
“Oh.”
We fall silent.
“How did my dramatic Spanish Inquisition of you turn into your Spanish Inquisition of me?” I ask. I walk over to the counter with the coffeemaker, open one of the cabinets, and try to find a mug.
“Because I’m your older sister and that’s how this works. Take the yellow one with the flower on it. It’s an extra,” she says, guiding me through the mugs in the cabinet. I obey. I pour coffee into the little yellow mug.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I say as I open the fridge to find the creamer. I can’t look at Merry Carole. I can’t face her. I’ve essentially been lying to her for twenty years. I’ve been lying to everyone.
“Well, that’s just silly,” Merry Carole says and yawns. She takes a sip of her coffee as I pour creamer into mine.
“Is it, though?” I stir my coffee.
“You were eleven. You thought no one would understand. It’s actually quite . . . romantic,” she says, her voice downright wistful.
“Romantic,” I repeat. I think of our last time together. My face flushes as my body remembers Everett’s touch. I sigh. The same yearning, ridiculous sigh I’ve been heaving for twenty years.
“It’s not like he ever loved Laurel. Everyone could see that. Even Laurel, unfortunately,” Merry Carole says, leaning forward into her gossiping position.
“How much do you know?” I ask, maybe not wanting to take in the horror or truly understand how transparent my entire covert life has been. I guess those shadows weren’t as dark as I thought. As we thought.
“Everything,” Merry Carole says, almost offended that I’d insinuate any less.
“Everything,” I repeat. Jesus. Merry Carole’s phone buzzes. She checks it and laughs. She turns the phone around so I can see it. It’s from Fawn.
Dee says she won the bet. She texted first about y’all’s little exchange at the Hall of Fame.
“For heaven’s sake. There was a bet?” I ask, standing and opening the door to the kitchenette. Fawn and Dee are just outside the door. Fawn is still busily texting, unaware the jig is up.
“Oh, well . . . look at that, Fawn. There’s no customers back here,” Dee says, her entire face alight. Why didn’t I ever feel as though I could share this with anyone, regardless of what they might think or feel? Why did I feel I had to be so alone with my secret?