I take some time to let Denny’s advice sink in. As a semi-objective third party, he actually gave me a possible different ending to the one I’d kept coming to in my head. It’s the one where my mother goes after Emma and makes her life utterly miserable or the one where I dared to think we could be together and Emma would end up resenting me when Mom follows through on her threats.
But if I really love and respect Emma, if I have faith in her strength and her right to choose whether or not our relationship survives or not, don’t I owe her the full truth?
“I think you’re right,” I finally say, letting out a tight breath and feeling a wave of relief in doing so, letting Denny’s words sink in.
You and Emma have hope.
EMMA
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I saw him. I’d feared something would be rekindled when I laid my eyes on the teacher everyone loved, the teacher who paid particular attention to me, who made me feel safe and loved and special, who had confused and angered me greatly when I’d found out what he had done.
But as he enters the room I’m waiting for him in, I see a man who looks so much older than the Mr. Thatcher I remember, his hair beginning to gray at the temples and dark circles under his bloodshot eyes that may just be a symptom of a sleepless night or something more, of a man tired of life.
“There will be no touching,” Detective Marshall says, leading him to a chair opposite me.
My heart had been racing and my throat dry with anticipation, but when he sits down across from me, it all comes to a halt, slowing like a movie being fast-forwarded and then being eased back into regular speed. There is a calmness that overcomes me, finally facing the man that had altered my life in so many ways.
“Emma,” he says, swallowing and then sitting up straighter, his hands folded on the table between us. “You look as beautiful as I’d remembered you.”
“How are you?” I ask him, unsure of what else to say.
“I’m fine… I guess… but I’m better now… I’ve missed you.” One of his hands comes perilously close to mine before Detective Marshall snaps at him to keep it to himself.
“I saw the video you took,” I say, surprised at how little emotion I feel in saying it and in being around him.
“Yes,” he says, looking down for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “I was told you would. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to remember what we shared.”
“You never asked me. You just did it without me knowing, and I’ve been terrified of those videos for the last three years.” There is a sense of fearlessness in telling him these things, knowing this may be my only chance. “I imagined them being leaked and my life being over, people judging me and seeing me at my most vulnerable.”
“But that didn’t happen,” he says with a smile I find inappropriate.
“Yes, it did. Your wife saw it. The police saw it. People who had nothing to do with what you and I were meant to share in private.”
“I grant that it was a mistake, but surely we can get past that.”
“For what purpose?”
“For us, of course,” he says like it’s a foregone conclusion, like he and I are star-crossed lovers finally reuniting.
“No.” I slowly shake my head. “I’ll make myself a better person because of what happened between us, probably even fully forgive you, but that’s all. There isn’t a future for you and I together.”
“But you asked for this meeting,” he says, that look of confusion edged with a superiority that he’ll get his way with me. “Surely that means you see a future for us.”
I’d laugh if it weren’t so twisted. “I was sixteen when you had sex with me, Matthew,” I say, not having uttered his first name in so very long. “I loved you, but I would have grown up and realized it was a mistake. I would have moved on, maybe even forgiving you for it because I believed you loved me as much as I loved you. But a teacher, a grown man who is married, doesn’t sleep with a student he’s meant to protect. That’s not love… that’s control.”
His face contorts into that of another man, an angry one, one that I’d only caught sight of a few times during the trial. He’d always directed that look at someone other than me, to the prosecutor or to Mrs. Carrington who testified against him or to anyone else he blamed for his predicament. I hadn’t sought to punish him then or to write a victim impact statement that could have increased his sentencing, and so I’d evaded that look until now.
“This is not what I’d expected from you,” he says, his lips pushed into a thin line. “I’ve served my time for what I did. I thought you actually wanted this, to have a future with me.”
“I did… I did want this meeting,” I say. “But can you really believe there could be some kind of future for us?”
He stares at me for a few seconds too long. “Yes. I believed that. I’ll be labeled a sexual predator for the rest of my life because of what I did, and I accept that. My career as a teacher is over, and my wife pretty much can’t stand me, but I’d had a hope that there was a silver lining at the end of it all.”
“If you thought it was me, then you’re wrong. I don’t wish you ill will, Matthew, but even if I wanted to be with you, I could never trust you.”
“Then I think this meeting is over,” he says, his folded hands balled into fists, his anger palpable.
“There’s something else,” I say, pushing forward, not willing to let him go until he answers for the tie that still binds us.
He looks up, a brief moment of hope flashing across his eyes.
“Do you even think about them?” I begin, swallowing, never having an especially easy time talking about the children he and I created.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t want to discuss that.”
“But they’re your children too,” I say, speaking softly, not wanting him to pull away. “And you just signed away your parental rights, just like that, not one word, written or spoken to them since they’ve been alive. Don’t you think they’ll want to know about us someday?”
“They won’t want to know about me,” he responds with a tight voice. “And there’s no point in me being in their lives if you aren’t in mine.”
“But we owe it to them,” I argue. “Kids want to know where they came from, no matter how wonderful their adoptive families are.”
He perks his head up for a moment. “You can tell them and their new parents whatever you want, Emma. Tell them I’m their father… I don’t care… but I won’t be drawn into some kind of parenting role with them, not if you aren’t by my side to do it.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” I plead. “I only want them to know they’re loved by their biological parents.”
He shakes his head. “You think I’m cold, but I’m not. Signing away my rights wasn’t easy, but when you sent me that note during trial and said we could never be together, that you would never forgive me? I just felt dead after that. And if I had to be the real dad to those kids, I’d just die more every time I saw them, knowing I couldn’t be with you.”
“That’s frightening,” I say, “and unhealthy. In fact, it scares me a little.”
“What?” He lets out a cutting laugh. “You think I’m going to come after you? Try to hurt you? I may be many things, Emma, but I’m not violent. I won’t intrude in a life I’m not wanted in.”
I’m tempted to feel sorry for Mr. Thatcher—part of my heart wants to—but the children I carried for nine months, the babies he’d fathered, deserved to have him in their life in some way, even if it was just an acknowledgement that they were his and whatever presence in their lives they could someday choose to have him in. But the fact that he is still so willing to write them off tells me he really doesn’t even love me. Whatever he feels is about himself, about what he wants and can’t have.
“If that’s all, Emma,” he says after I don’t respond to him. “I should probably go.”
“I wish you’d reconsider… about the children…” I say, one last-ditch eff
ort that I know will go nowhere.
“No.” He shakes his head and then stands up, barely even looking at me.
Detective Marshall stands as well. “Until the order of no contact lapses, you’re to have no contact, physical or otherwise, with Emma after this brief meeting. Do you understand?”
He nods, then takes one last look at me before turning and leaving the room, taking the hope he’d acknowledge his children right along with him.
“I think it’s for the best,” Detective Marshall says, taking the seat Mr. Thatcher was just in. “I don’t think those kids would want a dad like that.”
I nod back quietly. “I’m not so sure. Sometimes we want our parents in our lives, no matter how dysfunctional or imperfect. I just wanted them to have that choice.”
“But they’re happy, aren’t they? Your children?”
“Yes. I really think they are. But they’ll have questions when they get older. Kids always have questions.”
“You’ve been given a gift here, Emma. It would be a lot worse if he was fighting for them and demanding rights to see them.”
I suppose she’s right, though I imagine I might concoct some story to be told to the children someday, one that would claim his love for them was so strong that he thought it best to be out of their lives. Hopefully they’d accept that and not chase after a man who is really just a shadow of what I once imagined him to be.
Detective Marshall goes on to explain the order of no contact with Mr. Thatcher, how it expires in eight months and how I’ll be just as liable if I’m the one to break it. I tell her there’s no chance of that, especially now.
“I know you didn’t get everything you wanted from your meeting with him,” she says as we’re about to get up and leave the room. “But, overall, how was it?”
I think for a moment, searching for the right word before I say, “Liberating.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
JOHN
“You still sure you want to witness this?” I ask Denny as we pull into the long driveway of my parents’ house.
“I told you I’d help you get back with Emma… so, yeah, I’m a hundred percent in.”
“Thanks, man.”
I’d called my mother earlier this morning, requesting an audience with her and my dad. She’d said yes without any hesitation but was sure to make me aware she’d be cancelling several important errands to do so. It’s not lost on me that she sees this meeting, and her willingness to participate in it, as a great favor to me, especially after I’d told her she’d been severed from my life.
“You ready for this?” Denny asks as we walk up to the front door I’d walked out of after the last confrontation with my mom, unsure if I’d ever darken it again.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Hell, I’d walk through fire if it meant I had any chance at all with Emma.
Mom opens the door, something she never does unless she’s dressed in attire she wouldn’t mind her worst enemy seeing her in. “Always look flawless when you present yourself to the world, even if it’s to the UPS driver,” I’d overheard her telling Madison years ago, and even then I’d considered Mom was priming my ex-girlfriend to be just like her. A brief smile crosses her face as she moves toward me, and she stretches her arms out like she’s ready to give me a hug. But she must realize it’s a bad idea by the coldness I know she sees in my eyes. Her smile stiffens, and she stops cold.
Dad is beside her, a united front. He puts his hand out to shake mine, but I decline the offer. Doing so would be a sign of respect, and right now I don’t respect either one of my parents.
“I must say we weren’t expecting you as well, Denny,” Dad says once we’ve gotten past the awkward scene at the door and are all settled in the living room, Denny and I declining the offer of drinks or food.
“John’s my best friend,” he says. “I figure it’s time I started acting like his again.”
“Well, it’s always nice to see you boys together,” Mom replies like this is just another social visit. “I know that Madison would love to—”
“Please stop talking about her,” I interrupt.
“It’s just that—”
“Dear,” Dad says firmly, shaking his head. “It’s time to let that go.”
Mom tightens her expression, obviously annoyed with my dad while also bracing herself for what’s about to come from me.
In the firmest, strongest voice I can muster, I say, “I don’t want to drag this out, so I’ll just come out with it. I didn’t take breaking up with Madison lightly, no matter what you think. I was suffocating in that relationship, but with Emma I finally understood what it was like to really breathe.”
Mom tilts her head, and I know she’s dying to say something, but I won’t let her… not quite yet.
“I let her go because I was terrified of what you might do to her. I thought I was protecting her, but Denny reminded me I was just lying, making her believe I didn’t love her and that I didn’t want to marry her. And that’s not fair, so what I’m going to do now is tell her just what the two of you have threatened. I’ll let her decide what she can and can’t handle… and if you try something… if you cross a line, I might not be able to fight you legally, but I sure as hell can let all of your precious high society friends know just what you’re capable of.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jonathan,” Mom says. “We are talking about a girl who slept with her teacher! Should she be surprised a man who’d do that would also record them having sex?”
“Let him finish,” Dad interjects, looking resigned, maybe even a little embarrassed.
Mom is looking at him like he’s just driven a knife into her when I say, “I know you’re smart enough not to do anything blatantly illegal, but if those videos were to leak, then you should both know I won’t rest until you pay for it.”
Mom gasps.
Dad just looks on.
“That’s all I came here to say. If Emma will find a way to understand what I did and take me back, then we’ll be together, and if you can accept that someday, maybe she’ll forgive you too. If not, then it’s your loss, and I won’t mourn you not being in my life.”
“I suppose it’s good your father is a lawyer then,” Mom snaps out in a cold, unmoved voice.
Shaking my head in disgust, I get up with Denny following. We’re almost to the door when Dad comes up behind us.
“I’m sorry for how this all played out,” he says. “We were only trying to protect you, son. You’ll understand that when you’re a father.”
“No, Dad, this isn’t how you protect your children. This is how you drive them away,” I reply, opening the door and walking out into the grayness of a January day that is as bleak and dark as any that the Pacific Northwest can throw at you.
“You did good in there,” Denny says, patting me on the back. “You’re worthy of Emma. You stood up for her.”
“I just hope she sees it that way,” I say, knowing I still have to convince her to take me back.
EMMA
He has sent half a dozen texts, left just as many voicemails, and sent three emails.
John is certainly persistent.
I didn’t reply to that first batch for a week, not that I hadn’t struggled with the temptation to do so at least once every hour—I wasn’t sure I was prepared for what might happen if I did. Most of his messages said something along the lines of, “Please allow me to explain myself,” or “I made a mistake,” or “I still love you so much, Emma.”
But if John had loved me, why did he break up with me? And would he do it again if I let him back into my heart? It was a confusing blur. It had all been too much.
John. I got your messages. It’s not a good time for me. Please give me some space.
That was the message I texted him several days ago, having written and then reformulated it many times before I actually hit send. I hadn’t wanted to sound harsh or unkind nor did I want him to believe I never wanted to speak to him again because I did… I do. But there
are only so many things I can deal with at once. I’ve almost fully resolved what happened at my meeting with Mr. Thatcher while also trying to be present for something else that could do a great deal for my future.
New York is big and loud and overwhelming in so many ways. Even with my group from school and our two chaperones, one of them being my instructor, I’m a little afraid of getting lost in this city. The trip had been last minute, for me at least. Most of the design students I shared the plane ride with signed up last spring, but a spot had opened up, one that I drained my savings to join but took without hesitation, in part hoping it would clear John from my mind.
So far, we’ve visited two design schools, had a session with a couple of up and coming designers, attended one major fashion show—plus two pop up ones—and participated in some workshops.
“I’m still waiting to see the sweat shops,” one of the girls in my group says to me sarcastically.
“They do exist,” I reply, having researched the darker side of the industry, a darkness I don’t want to contribute to if I make a real go at being a part of it.
“I’m sure they do,” she says with a shrug, “but am I a horrible person if I don’t want to know about them?”
“No, not horrible, but sometimes we have to face things we don’t want to in life,” I say, thinking of more than a few I’d had to face head on pretty recently.
She quietly shakes her head, thus ending our conversation.
When we have a couple of hours free one afternoon, I wander, not all that far from the hotel we’re staying at, but far enough that I’m sure to look at the street signs and landmarks so that I’d be able to easily make it back without depending on my phone for navigation. I find a café full of overstuffed furniture and warm lighting, a comforting destination when it’s been snowing on and off outside, a full on blizzard threatened for later this evening according to the weather app on my phone.
After getting my coffee, I settle into a comfy chair and look at my phone, rereading the text John had sent in response to mine.
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