The Secret of You and Me - Melissa Lenhardt Page 0,91

Charlie twirled his keys around his forefinger and left without looking at me.

The garage door went up and back down before Logan spoke.

“Why did you lie? I know Nora’s gay.”

“How could you possibly know? Did she tell you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s none of your business.” I took my plate to the kitchen and dumped my uneaten salad in the trash. I squirted dish soap on the plate and washed it.

“I know you were at her house today.”

The plate slipped from my hand. I glanced up at Logan, who was watching me like a hawk. I picked the plate back up and continued cleaning it. “What makes you think that?”

“Find My iPhone. What were you doing over there?”

“I stopped by after my meeting to visit. Nora’s leaving soon, and I want to spend as much time with her as possible.” I hated the shaking in my voice and hoped the sound of running water covered it.

“Why did you tell Dad you were going to breakfast?”

I put the plate in the dishwasher. “I was afraid your dad might decide to come by.”

“Why would that be bad?”

“I know it’s been a long time, but it’s weird for me to be in the same room with them, you know?”

“Because you stole Dad from Nora?”

I sighed, the relief of being almost honest with my daughter dissipating with my breath. It seemed in the past, present and future, I was always going to be viewed as the villain. Everything came down to me, to my decisions or indecision, my courage or cowardice.

“Yep, Logan. You’ve figured me out.” I threw the sponge in the sink and went to bed to crawl under the covers, and never come out.

twenty-four

nora

“Come here, Nora. Look at this one.”

Mary and Emmadean sat on Ray’s sofa, a cardboard box of photos at their feet, rifling through what my unsentimental father had shoved in the back of his closet after my mother died. Since I’d avoided touching Ray’s room out of disgust or fear, I wasn’t sure which, I’d never seen the box before Mary had dragged it from its hiding place. Even in childhood. A quick glance at the visible contents—a dozen or so school photo envelopes—and I knew how much the box, and the memories it contained, meant to my father. It was easy to envision him tossing my and Mary’s latest leftover school photos in the back of the closet and forgetting about them. Thinking back, I realized it had always been Mary and I who had asked for money for the photos, and Emmadean had always been the one with the camera at our significant life events. The photos on the wall had been put there by me and Mary and Emmadean.

All those years I’d been alienated from Ray, I’d never given much thought to how unique our relationship had been or realized that after my mother had died my father had always been more bystander than a participant in our lives. He met our basic needs and left the parenting up to his sister. Instead, I’d focused on the unfairness of Ray’s reaction, his refusal to talk to me, to let me explain. I’d picked at that scab off and on for years, letting it heal over before worrying it again, but never moving on to a different wound. That one had been enough. Life defining. But, there had been so much more that might have helped explain everything, help me move on emotionally. Allow me to open myself to people in a way I’ve never been able to. Or wanted to. I’d never considered how easy it must have been for Ray to cut ties with me. He’d effectively done it when my mother died.

I was jittery with the urge to leave Lynchfield, to run far away from Ray’s memory, Mary’s judgment (I’d caught her staring at me with amazement a few times), Emmadean’s secret and Sophie’s emotional baggage, and to set fire to the world before I escaped. I didn’t need the drama.

I was afraid I’d already opened myself up too much to Sophie. I love you. You’ve always had my heart. What was I thinking? You don’t tell anyone that until you are sure of their commitment, their trust. I’d never told anyone that, not even Alima. Maybe that was what had held me back from accepting Alima, the knowledge deep down that I couldn’t tell her those two things, that as much as I loved her and desired her, it wasn’t the same sort of love I