by Nina Lane
“Dammit, Liv, I have to stay at my parents’ house, and you know what a—”
“Dean, I can handle it.”
“I don’t want you to!” He stops in the middle of the room to glare at me, his fists clenching at his sides. “Why do you think I’ve gone to California alone since we got married? So you won’t have to deal with my fucked-up family.”
My chest constricts. It’s true that I haven’t protested before. He’s visited his family alone because he wanted to protect me, just like he does now, and I was happy to let him. For a long time, it felt good to let Dean shield me whenever he could and soothe me on the rare occasions when he couldn’t.
Except now, our lives have changed so much. I’ve changed. So has he, even if he doesn’t quite know it yet. There’s still a long path ahead of us, and I need to start on it by not being afraid.
“Dean, when things happen, we need to deal with them together.”
“When things happen with us, yeah.” His features tighten. “Not with my family.”
“Your family is part of you.” I put a pair of jeans in my suitcase. “It’s about time I accept that too.”
“Do you even remember what happened the last time you saw them?”
Oh, I remember.
I straighten to look at him. “You can’t protect me from everything. Least of all our marriage.”
I smother the urge to remind him that his need to protect me is what made him lie about his previous marriage. And then that became one of the things that broke us apart.
The phone rings. Dean swears and grabs the receiver. “Yeah, Paige.”
He stalks from the bedroom, his voice a tense rumble as he speaks to his sister again. I hurry to finish packing my things, then take some of Dean’s shirts from the closet and start to fold them.
“All the flights for the day are booked, so I’m going to have to fly standby,” he says into the phone as he returns to the bedroom. “Otherwise earliest is tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know. Call me if anything changes.”
He tosses the phone onto the bed. Tension stiffens his jaw.
I pause in the motion of putting his jeans into his suitcase. “What?”
“She says Archer is coming back.”
My stomach twists sharply at the mention of his younger brother. “Is he there yet?”
“He’s driving up from LA.” Bitterness cuts his voice. “Supposed to get in soon.”
“Any news about your father?”
“Same as before. Stable but critical. They expect he’ll need surgery.”
He rubs his face. Lines of exhaustion already bracket his mouth and eyes, and we haven’t even booked a flight yet.
I approach him and put my hand on his chest. His heartbeat races against my palm. I can sense all the emotions boiling inside him—the fear of failure, the guilt that he has spent his life battling.
“Dean, please don’t fight me on this.” After all we’ve been through in recent months, I have a lot to prove to both him and myself. “If it were the other way around, would you let me go alone?”
He doesn’t respond, his mouth compressing. I slide my hand down to rub his flat belly.
“You need me,” I say. “Let me be there for you.”
“I don’t want you to be there!” He strides to the other side of the room.
“They can’t hurt us, Dean.”
“No, they can’t hurt us, but they can still hurt you.”
“Not if I don’t let them.”
“You know what it’s like, Liv,” he snaps. “Look, it’s my fault you’re pregnant, and if—”
“Your fault?” Shock floods me. “It’s your fault that I’m pregnant?”
Dean turns to stare at me, a flare of guilt crossing his features. “I didn’t mean—”
I hold up both hands to stop his denial. It’s too late.
This is it—the confirmation of a horrible fear I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“You think this is a mistake.” I can hardly get the words past my tight throat. “And you’re blaming yourself.”
“We didn’t plan it, Liv!” Dean paces to the closet and back. “I didn’t put a condom on, so yeah, it’s my fault. I never forget to wear a condom.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed. A fiery memory shoves at me. “You did once. That last time at your parents’ house.”
He stops for a second, struck by the same intense recollection. He bites out a curse. “We were lucky that time.”
“But not this time.”
“Liv, that’s not what I meant! The night you got pregnant… I wasn’t thinking straight, and I forgot to put on a damn condom. It was an accident, not a mistake.”
Mistake. Mistake.
The word ricochets around my head. I hear my mother’s voice, disembodied, weary from living. “You were a mistake, Liv. I never should have had you.”
Old emotions churn inside me, snarled and messy. I stare at my hands. I can hear Dean’s breathing from across the room. His frustration is a black haze.
“I’m… there shouldn’t be any blame.” I struggle to put my thoughts into order. “A pregnancy… I mean, we have this child, and you… you’re going into this with this idea that it wasn’t supposed to happen…”
“Liv, I’m trying to buy a house because we’re having a baby. I’m thinking about our finances, investment and legal strategies. I’ve even looked into college savings programs. I’m going into this with the idea that we have to plan for the future.”
“But how do you feel about all that, Dean? If you think you somehow failed—”
“Liv.” Dean crosses the room and kneels in front of me. He puts his hands over mine. “Liv, look at me.”
I look up through the veil of hair that has fallen across either side of my face. His eyes blaze into mine, determination steeling his features. He grips my shoulders.
“I’ve never…” His voice is rough. “I’ve never felt that anything involving you was a failure. Believe me.”
I’m supposed to fall into his arms and let him hold me. I’m supposed to press my head against his chest and listen to his deep-voiced reassurances, feel them soothe all the doubts blistering in my head. I’m supposed to say yes, yes, of course I believe you…
An ache fills my heart. He’ll reassure me, I’ll feel better, then he’ll go to California alone while I stay in our cozy apartment, sheltered from all the cold hostility and anger winding through the West family.
That’s the way it works for the strong, protective man and the good girl who doesn’t cause trouble for anyone.
I stare into my husband’s eyes. Such a beautiful brown. The color of chocolate, mahogany, cinnamon. I can see him waiting for my surrender.
“I can’t believe you,” I whisper.
“What?” A shutter crashes over his expression. He lets go of me.
“We’ve spent the past four months failing miserably.” I force the words out, broken but clear. “We let each other down. We made mistakes. We hurt each other.”
He shoves to his feet and stalks away. “That’s over. We’re done with that.”
“Are we? Then you need to stop thinking that every time something doesn’t go according to plan, it’s a mistake. You need to stop thinking you failed me.”
“You just fucking told me that I did fail you!” Dean retorts. “You told me years ago that you didn’t want children. Birth control was my responsibility. I was the one using condoms.”
“Dean, for the love of God, birth control was both of our responsibilities. And I was the one who wanted to at least talk about the idea of children. To maybe reconsider. Just because we never came to an agreement doesn’t mean we totally screwed up. An unplanned pregnancy doesn’t equal failure.”
Does it?
“We’re in this together, Dean. Together. It’s no one’s fault. There’s no blame to throw around.” I take a hard breath, knowing he has to hear the unvarnished truth. “There is no way to protect me.”
He backs up, as if my words have hit him.
“I have to be there with you the entire time,” I persist. “I have to. I want to help your family, if I can. I want your parents to accept the fact that I’m your wife. I want them all to understand that we’re together.”
We need to understand that too, this new definition of together.
Dean drags a hand through his hair, his body corded with strain. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to stay here.” I spread my hands out. Time is running short. We need to get to the airport. He needs to get to California. My heart is pounding.
“If you leave without me, Dean, I’ll just get another flight tomorrow and follow you.” I snap my suitcase closed. “One way or another, I’m going.”
He curses sharply, then turns to go into the living room. A few seconds later, I hear him talking on the phone again.
I turn on my laptop and send emails to Allie, my supervisor Samantha at the Mirror Lake Historical Museum, and the head of circulation at the library where I volunteer. I tell them all I have a family emergency and will let them know as soon as possible when I expect to return.
I call Kelsey and leave a message asking her to collect our mail and water my plants. I take Liv’s Manifesto from my desk and put it into my satchel, then get my coat.
Dean is tense with anger and doesn’t speak to me as we head to the airport. It hasn’t snowed in a few days, so the roads are clear. Though there’s not much traffic, it takes almost an hour and a half to get to the airport. The motion of the car makes my stomach roll with queasiness. I inhale a few deep breaths and try to ignore the unpleasant sensation.
At the airport, Dean forks over way too much money for two available first-class seats, and we go through the process of boarding the plane. Before the plane leaves the gate, I take out my notebook and add to my manifesto:
Then I turn to a fresh page and draw a picture:
I tear the page off, fold it, and pass it to Dean. He opens it and gives me a sideways glance. He takes my pen, scribbles a response, and passes the note back:
“Why did you draw Michigan?” I ask.
He frowns. “It’s a mitten.”
“Oh.” I peer at the picture again. “Sure it is.”
“I’m about ready to spank you,” he mutters.
“Promises, promises.”
I smile at him, warmed by the heat flaring in his eyes. I put the note in my satchel and settle back, tucking my hand into his. His fingers close around mine.
Though takeoff is uneventful, the movement and altitude jolt my stomach again. Less than a quarter of the way into the flight, my nausea surges with a force that catches me off guard. I push past Dean and make it to the bathroom in time to retch into the toilet. My throat burns. I rinse out my mouth and wipe my face with a wet paper towel.
“You okay?” Dean is watching me with concern when I emerge.
“Must be motion sickness.” I sink into my seat again and close my eyes. I hear Dean speaking with the flight attendant, who then brings me some crackers and ginger ale.
I press a hand to my chest and breathe. The stale air worsens the sick feeling, and the smell of flowery perfume from one of the female passengers sticks in my nose. My stomach tumbles.
“What do you need?” Dean pushes my hair away from my damp forehead.
“Nothing. Just keep the barf bag handy.”
I spend the rest of the four-hour flight battling the nausea and reconsidering my insistence on coming along. When the plane begins to descend, the queasiness intensifies, but I’m so relieved at the idea of landing that I manage to withstand it.
When we get off the plane at San Jose airport, I go into the bathroom to splash water on my face and freshen up. After reassuring Dean that I feel better with my feet on the ground again, we collect our bags and get a rental car.
The brightness of the California sun is a shock after the winter cold of Mirror Lake. There’s a chill in the air, but everything is glassy and green. A haze hangs over the hills surrounding Silicon Valley. Traffic snakes over the multilane freeways.
The West family home is located between the wealthy suburbs of Saratoga and Los Gatos. A palatial Spanish-style house on a lot flourishing with palm and desert trees, it exudes status and money. The low-pitched, red-tile roof contrasts with stucco siding and arched windows, and lush, green plants grow along the front walkway.
Dean pulls the rental car next to a sedan parked on the circular drive.
“Don’t know whose car that is,” he says.
I try to quash a new wave of unease. I hope it’s not Archer West.
Not likely, I tell myself. I haven’t seen Dean’s younger brother in five years, but I know that a blue sedan is not his style.
Dean pushes the door open and dumps our suitcases in the foyer. The sound of running water comes from the kitchen. I follow him inside.
He stops abruptly in the kitchen doorway. Tension lances through him. I put my hand on his back and pause beside him. Cold silence vibrates in the air. He moves to block my view of the kitchen. I peer around his shoulder.
A tall, blond woman is standing by the sink.
My heart plummets to my toes. I know exactly who this woman is. She turns her head to meet my gaze, and I find myself staring at my husband’s ex-wife.
CHAPTER FOUR
Olivia
our months ago, I didn’t know Helen Morgan existed, much less that she’d once been married to my husband. She’s standing there now, this woman who shares something with Dean, a painful history I will never comprehend and didn’t even know was a part of him until our marriage began to crack from the inside out.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I’d asked him.
The answer clicks into place for me now, like a key turning in a lock. It’s the same reason he didn’t want me to come with him to California. Dean has never given me any of his dark places easily or willingly. He knows far too well the danger and consequences of telling secrets. He’d learned that lesson as a boy of thirteen and his family has never let him forget it.
I move closer to him, tightening my hand on his sleeve, my gaze on Helen Morgan.
Patrician is the word that comes to mind. Helen has fine, sharp features and is dressed in a knee-length skirt and tailored blouse. Her body is slender with narrow hips and small breasts. She wears her shiny, blond hair short in a casually sophisticated style that emphasizes her high cheekbones and blue eyes.
Just looking at her, I can see how Helen would fit into the West family. I can even see her with Dean—but not my Dean. Not the warm, sexy man who likes ear massages and boring foreign movies about the Huguenots.
Not Dean of the unshaven jaw and messy hair who always finishes crossword puzzles and gets crumbs on the table whenever he eats toast and peanut butter. Not Dean who can’t draw a recognizable picture to save his life, but knows all the geometrical proportions of cathedral architecture. Not Dean with his easy, hint-of-wicked smile that takes my breath away.
No.
I can see Helen with the renowned Professor West who wears tailored suits and lectures at European universities. The financier who can discuss the movement of the stock market, mutual funds, and expense ratios. The scholar who consults with museum curators around the world and oversees archeological digs of medieval treasures. Perfect Dean.
Not the real Dean.
I want to dislike Helen. She looks like she’s from the same circle as the girls who
once had a hand in my undoing—elegant, fashionable, secure in her elevated status. She’s successful in her field. She knows what hairstyle and clothes look best on her. She probably spent her childhood with a sense of entitlement.
Helen also had a plan for her life that broke apart in ways she couldn’t have anticipated. She suffered three miscarriages and a bitter divorce from the man with whom she expected to have a family. She once thought she would be married to Dean for the rest of her life, until her image of them as a perfect couple shattered.
I know all about plans that go horribly awry.
I know all about shattered images and dysfunctional families.
So does Dean. And even early on, he tried to shield me from it.
During the busy fall semester after Dean and I first met, we grabbed every spare moment we could find together. We had lunch and coffee between classes, he picked me up after my shifts at Jitter Beans, we went to the movies and spent weekends holed up in either his apartment or mine. Whenever we were together, I hoarded bits of information about him and added them to my store of knowledge.
His favorite food is pizza.
He wears a plain, analog watch with a leather strap.
In addition to the King Arthur tales, his favorite childhood book was about a boy detective named Encyclopedia Brown.
He doesn’t wear cologne, but uses shaving cream that smells deliciously woodsy.
He knows how to make intricate patterns with a loop of string.
He actually has an opinion about apocalyptic imagery in medieval Castilian poetry.
He likes it when I kiss the hollow of his throat.
I liked that too. I liked everything about kissing and touching him. With every moment Dean and I spent together in those early weeks, the more I wanted to do with him.
“No touching,” he said.
I turned from where I was tending the three plants I’d brought him over the past couple of months. With a braided ficus, a peperomia, and an English ivy (Groucho, Harpo, and Zeppo), plus a vase filled with dried eucalyptus, his utilitarian apartment both looked homey and smelled good.
