Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  The implication being that I will be responsible for what happens and how everyone reacts to that. If it weren’t for Dr. Grant, I might take on that responsibility. But I’m learning. We are all responsible for the way we respond to hardships.

  “My son, Tony, thinks he’s the next Picasso,” Andrew teases with a pleasant roll of his eyes.

  “Anne knows all about those dreams, don’t you?” She hasn’t changed much at all since those days when she tormented me at the pool.

  Ignoring her, I focus on Andrew. “Maybe he is. You never know.”

  “That’s the problem.” Andrew thrusts one hand upward. “It’s so subjective. There’s no security in it.”

  “No,” I concede. “But art feeds the soul, so at the very least it’s a great hobby.”

  Looking back, I can’t believe I got so swept up in Richard’s and Katy’s needs that I set it completely aside.

  Andrew taps the side of his nose twice before pointing his finger at me. “Good point. I’ll remember that the next time he leaves a mess in the basement.”

  Tori looks like she’s swallowed a lemon, and I can’t pretend I’m sorry.

  “Honey, let’s grab a table before I pass out from hunger.” Andrew lays his hand on Tori’s back. “Nice to meet you, Anne. Dan.”

  He nudges Tori to go to the table where the maître d’ has been patiently waiting.

  My face sags the instant they leave, aching from holding a phony smile in place. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Dan, of course, ate his rollatini while we’d all been chatting. “Don’t give her that kind of power.”

  So blunt, like my daughter. “If it were only me, I’d be fine, but Katy is still in a fragile state.”

  Dan rests his chin on his palm. “Bubble Wrap protects things, but it never makes them less fragile.”

  “I know.” I push my empty wineglass away and toy with the silverware, back to talking about motherhood, despite my intentions. “I want to teach Katy to stand up to bullies, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I’m sure I sound completely overprotective, but when you have kids, nothing hurts more than when they’re in pain.”

  “None of us gets through without cuts of one kind or another.”

  His casual reference to her cutting causes my sharp inhale. “And not everyone gets stronger from the struggle. Some crumble.”

  He shakes his head, waving that concern away. “Katy won’t crumble completely.”

  “How can you be sure?” I narrow my gaze.

  He turns over a hand in a matter-of-fact gesture. “Because she’s had your love and support her whole life. You’ve already given her everything she needs to dig deep and move forward.”

  Tears form, but these are grateful ones. “I hope you’re right.” I chuckle as I dab at my tears. “You remind me of her—always saying exactly what you think.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. After my mom died, my dad withdrew a lot. My mom’s parents lived in Florida, so I barely saw them, and Gram and Grandpa did their best in the summers, but I knew they were older and tired. I tried not to complain or argue much because everyone had a lot on their plates.”

  “That takes a lot of strength, especially as a kid.”

  I grimace. “Says the man who never keeps his opinions to himself.”

  “When you say it like that, I sound awful.” He hesitates with a half shrug. “But I’d hate to have left things unsaid if I suddenly dropped dead, you know?”

  “That’s bleak.” I would laugh if those words didn’t strike a chord. “I honestly never thought of it that way.”

  Dan points at me. “From the look on your face, you’ve left some things unsaid.”

  To Richard. To Katy. To Gram. To my dad. Yep. Plenty of things, yet none I’ll admit to here. I’m definitely still a work in progress. “I admire your approach to things.”

  “I’m a lucky guy.”

  I doubt most infertile, divorced men would use the word “lucky” to describe the hand life dealt them. “You certainly appreciate the little things.”

  “It’s been a conscious effort since this.” He points at his facial scar.

  A reminder of a dark time, much like the scar on Katy’s arm will be for her. Maybe she, like Dan, can turn it into something positive. “What are you most grateful for?”

  “My freedom.”

  I chuckle. “Spoken like a true bachelor.”

  “No.” He leans forward, fingers interlaced. “Freedom to choose. There’s a worldful of people who don’t get to choose anything. Not their spouse. Not their leaders. Nothing. But I can, so even when I’m dealing with something crappy, I try to choose the best reaction.”

  “So the secret to happiness is as easy as choosing it?” I tease, mentally testing being happy for Richard and Lauren. It’ll take lots of practice, but it is easier when sitting across the table from Dan.

  “Maybe.” There’s a little twinkle in his eye when he tosses a few dollars’ tip on the table. “Let’s head out of here. Maybe we can avoid dealing with Tori again if we keep moving.”

  Good plan, although, truthfully, I’d forgotten all about her. “What’s next on the list?”

  “Thai.”

  Two hours and many meals later, we leave the last restaurant—a French place called Bistro Henri. Dan stopped drinking four stops earlier, but I’ve enjoyed the wine at each venue. At first, to help settle my nerves and ease me into the kind of banter that makes for pleasant dates. But then Dan made it all so easy—effortless—to talk I was drinking without even realizing it. Now I’m a little tipsy—maybe a lot—but it’s kind of nice to float down the sidewalk. Until I trip.

  Dan catches me. “Whoa there.”

  His arms are solid and warm, so I lean against his side for the last twenty yards to the car. “I drank too much.”

  “It’s fine.” He keeps an arm around me while he opens my car door and gets me settled.

  I let my head fall back against the headrest, my thoughts a jumble, my body pleasantly warm and tingly. When Dan gets behind the wheel, I reach out and touch his arm. “Thank you for the nondate date night. I agree with you—Bistro Henri was the best meal.”

  He laughs. “Not sure you can call crème brûlée a meal, but it’s a nice spot.”

  “Very.” A romantic one, with candlelight and French jazz and the aroma of browned butter filtering through the air.

  I have a great view of Dan’s profile from this angle. He’d look good bald, although he still has a shock of thick hair along with a strong nose and chin, a defined jawline, and thick brows. His few wrinkles are like a patina, improving the looks of his boyhood self.

  My stomach is fizzy with anticipation. I haven’t kissed anyone other than Richard in forever, and toward the end there were so few to speak of I might have forgotten how.

  When we pull into the driveway, I panic because Katy’s car is missing. Then I remember that she’s with Richard. That must be going well, because no one has called me tonight. As soon as jealousy bites down, I choose to be happy for my daughter and her father. It’s hard to do when Richard hurt me so much. But what’s done is done, and now I’m sitting beside a handsome man who likes me.

  “Let me walk you up, Anne.”

  “Thanks.” He’s at my door before I’ve gathered my purse. Good thing, because I’m unsteady on my feet.

  He holds my arm as we stroll up the walkway. I fumble for my keys at the front door. Once it’s open, I turn to face Dan. He’s so close. He smells good. “Would you like some coffee . . . or decaf?”

  He hesitates. “Not tonight. You should drink some water, take an aspirin, and get some rest.”

  Again with the chivalry. I’d argue, but he’s right, and I’m not ready for anything more physical than a simple good-night kiss.

  “Guess I’ll say good night, then.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Before he turns to go, I catch his shoulder, lean in, and plant a kiss on his mouth. Just a brief brush of our l
ips, yet it sends a delicious shock through me.

  Dan thumbs my jaw, his eyes searching mine. His jaw tenses before he cups my face and kisses me—one deep, hot kiss—then he drops his hands and steps back. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  Through my daze, I manage, “Okay. Thanks for a lovely evening.”

  “My pleasure.” With a tip of his head, he turns and goes to his car.

  When he revs his engine, I close the door, thinking the pleasure is all mine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  KATY

  Lauren has been kissing up to me all day to impress my dad. Worse, he’s totally buying it. Seriously. I always thought he was a genius, but lately I’m not so sure. As if she’s actually my superfan just a month after she thought I was bringing drugs into “her” house. On the upside, I’ve snapped the rubber band only seven times today, which is better than I expected.

  The one decent thing about this new family is Zoe. She’s actually kind of funny, and not a ding-dong. Poor Brody will be brain-dead by ten if no one takes away his iPad. I don’t get that at all. My dad didn’t let me have a phone until seventh grade, yet this kid is constantly watching movies and playing video games. He had zero interest in the art project I tried to get him and Zoe to do with me earlier. Neither the scissors nor sparkle glue or anything else tempted him for more than two seconds.

  Zoe made a decent collage for someone her age. She cut a ton of hearts in different-colored construction paper and layered them before smearing them with glitter. It was going well until she dumped glitter in her hair.

  Lauren got a little annoyed at the mess, but she didn’t say a word because my dad praised me for trying to be nice. Not that he was around much this afternoon. Something bad must be happening on a deal, because he stayed in his office behind closed doors for a good part of the day. Lauren didn’t seem too happy about that. His work always consumes most of his time, so maybe she’ll get bored and call off the wedding. #goals

  Lauren and Dad are putting the kids to bed, so I’ve cleared the dining table and put all the crayons and glue and construction paper mess in a box so I can spread out my family tree collage and the rest of my supplies.

  The trunk looks awesome, if I say so myself. My hobby knife lets me shred the pictures in interesting and intricate shapes, so I’ve got varied thicknesses and textures throughout, like a real tree—with deep and shallow ridges and cool peelings. The branches will be trickier, as I figured out with the lowest set, because their shapes vary greatly. All in all, it’s looking pretty cool. Definitely different from what other kids in my photography class are working on for the art show. Mine’s not a pure photography project, but I prefer mixed-media work.

  I hear Dad jogging down the steps, so it’s not a surprise when he comes up behind me and lays his hands on my shoulders. He kisses the back of my head. At first all my muscles relax, but then my chest hurts because we hardly ever get time alone.

  “Sorry I had to duck into my office today, but it couldn’t be helped.”

  “It’s fine.” Not like I’m not used to it.

  “How’s everything going—at school, at home?” His eyes flick to the X-Acto blade.

  “Fine, Dad.” My cheeks burn. “No cutting.”

  “I’m glad.” His jaw relaxes. “Anything new?”

  I think about Gram’s past but decide not to share it. Not like that’s part of his family anymore, anyway. “Mom and I got to use the studio this week.”

  “What studio?”

  “She had Dan turn the old shed into this awesome art studio. He did a great job. Bought her some special paints and me some photo gels. They’re on a date tonight, actually.” I watch for his reaction to see if he’s a little jealous, but he’s unreadable. “Mom’s painting again. There’s a local artist show before Christmas, so she’s hoping to submit something.”

  “She is?” His gaze grows fuzzy, then he gives a little shake of the head. “Good for her. So what’s all this?”

  Gotta hand it to him for pretending to care, because he’s never been that into my art. Mom says he used to be proud of her back in college, but I’ve never heard him brag about her paintings. In our old house they were hung mostly upstairs in the bedrooms, except for the two displayed in the foyer, where everyone could see them.

  “This is my family tree—for the school art show.” I fan my fingers while explaining my vision for the end product. He listens as I sift through the stack of photos to find the one of him that will hang from my parents’ branch. “This will be you.”

  He studies it like he can’t remember when it was taken, which shocks me. June 5, two years ago. His and Mom’s fifteenth anniversary. They’d both gotten dressed up to go on a big date to Plume in DC. There’s no way he can look at his twinkling eyes now and not have some doubt or regret. “I look pretty good here.”

  I nod and say nothing, although a little part of me wants to remind him that he looked that nice because they were out celebrating their marriage. Instead, I hold up a beautiful picture of my mother from when we were all on their friend’s sailboat—her hair is blowing and she’s laughing at something. “I’m using this one of Mom.”

  Dad takes it for a second. He’s staring at it almost like he’s forgotten how fun she can be when she’s not heartbroken and stressed out. When tears coat my eyes, I blink fast to clear them.

  Lauren appears, ruining the moment. Dad hands the photo back to me. “Good choice.”

  “What’s all this?” Lauren’s voice is way too bright.

  I’m twisting my hair around my finger pretty tight, but I release it and think about Dr. Grant. With as much politeness as possible, I explain my project. A little thrill whips through me when I catch her eyeing the photograph of my mother. Take that!

  “Very original,” she finally says, then pats my dad’s arm. “Maybe Katy would like us to leave her alone while she works.”

  While I hadn’t minded my dad’s company, I definitely don’t want to hang out with Lauren any longer than necessary. “Thanks.”

  Dad squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll check back in on you in a bit. Do you need anything to eat?”

  I shake my head. “All good.”

  Within a minute I hear the TV come on, so I get back to work. I hum a made-up melody while cutting all the little pieces and gluing them together, making each branch as realistic as possible by varying the thickness and size and shape of the cuts and torn pieces to mimic bark. Mom had helped me map out the base sketch of the family tree going back four generations so I’d have a plan to follow.

  Around ten my dad and Lauren breeze past the dining room on their way upstairs. “You still at it?” he asks.

  I nod. The deadline for submissions is not far off, and I want to make it perfect. I doubt they’re giving out ribbons, but if they do, I want a shot at winning something. Some things have changed, but I’m still my father’s daughter.

  “Turn off the lights when you come up.” Dad kisses me good night. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night.” I wave him and Lauren off. It’s weird to see him go to bed with someone other than Mom. Dad doesn’t seem uncomfortable, which kind of makes me want to smear glue over that nice picture of him. I swig some water to rinse my pasty mouth.

  Eventually my mom will be doing the same thing . . . probably with Dan. Soon I’ll have no place to hide from my parents’ midlife crises. Ugh. But at least Dan is a decent guy, unlike the phony liar my dad picked.

  Not even ten minutes later, the roller-coaster ride of my feelings from the day catches up to me and makes me yawn. My back is stiff from sitting so long, so I leave everything spread out to continue working in the morning.

  My dad’s bedroom door is closed. This whole situation still sucks. I doubt I’ll ever like being here. The awkward dinners and uncomfortable holidays of my future bear down, making my body ache so much that brushing my teeth feels like a weightlifting challenge. I snap the rubber band twice, and then am practically asleep be
fore my head hits the pillow.

  My eyes are so dry it hurts to open them, and I might have bruises from this ultrafirm mattress. Last night I woke up at least four times, maybe more. Sunlight slants through the drapes. I grab my phone. Eight o’clock.

  A quick scroll through Insta shows Jen and Kelly at a party with Maisy—532 likes and two dozen comments. I haven’t been to a single party this year, which is strange but not actually terrible. I pause on Tomás’s post—a crazy close-up shot of dew on a petal—less than 100 likes. I like it and scroll on, then decide to go back to my own project since I’m up.

  After braiding my hair and pulling on a sweatshirt, I tromp downstairs. It sounds like my dad and Lauren are moving around the kitchen, talking about something. I avoid them and turn into the dining room, then come to a dead stop.

  My body breaks out into a cold sweat and my heart pounds.

  “Zoe!” I stumble to the table, where she’s added glitter and cutout hearts to my collage. “What did you do?”

  “Collage like you showed me.” She’s got her hands on the table and is bouncing on her toes. “It’s pretty now.”

  “This was my project,” I bark, but then restrain myself when her little brows pucker and fear crosses her face.

  She slides off the chair, teary, and runs into the kitchen, calling for her mom.

  I’m shaking. My thoughts skip around with no ability to figure out how to salvage my work. Oh God. The hours and care destroyed in mere seconds.

  I pull at my hair and squeeze my temples with my palms, trying not to let the scream explode from my chest. My throat hurts so bad.

  My dad rushes in. “What’s happened?” Then he sees the mess Zoe made of my work. Without a thought, he asks, “Why did you leave this out, Katy?”

  I whip my head around. “What?”

  Please take my side. Please take my side.

  He gestures to the table. “Zoe’s little. She didn’t know this was important. You should’ve protected your work.”

  “How was I to know that? It’s not like I’m around little kids a lot. I thought it was safe in here. You never let me play alone in our dining room when I was little.” My voice cracks midaccusation.