A scar. Puckered, darker than the surrounding skin. It almost looked like a zipper in how neatly it followed the curve of his spine, right in the center of his back. The longer I looked at that neat, serrated scar, the more surreal the whole thing was. I was hungover enough that understanding felt just out of my grasp. Tom had always known so much about me, interior and exterior, my history, my baby photos, and he’d been keeping a secret from me. It was a surgery scar. Something in him had been corrected and then re-stitched.
Something like—
I stood up from the bed, heart slamming.
Tom was awake. He realized that the sheets were pooled low on his body. He turned all the way around and sat up. I couldn’t even look at him: it was like I was in the room with a stranger. Or … not a stranger, never a stranger. We’d known each other all along.
“Which one are you?” I asked.
A tremor of recognition. He reached a hand around his body with a practiced gesture. I knew he must’ve touched his scar sometimes, angled himself in the foggy bathroom mirror to look at it. I did the same thing with my skin-graft scar.
“Josie—” he began, and I couldn’t tell whether he was defensive or bargaining, his voice shifting between the two. “This isn’t—it’s not—”
“Which one?” I pressed, angrier now.
We stared at each other, the possibility of fury and shame and violence tightening the space between us, not decided yet. “Tell me the truth,” I said. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me who you are.”
I didn’t think it would work. I didn’t feel the dizziness this time, just a clean snap of electricity, unthinking as a clenched fist. But he reacted at once, flinching back, and I was gratified to detect the fear in him. His face was touched with both reverence and terror.
“I’m Junior,” he said. He pronounced it like a joke. Not even a real name. “It was supposed to be an honor, getting named after my father, but nobody ever used Joseph or Joe for me. Just Junior. Even after my father died.”
“I don’t know where to start, Junior.”
“You can keep calling me Tom.”
“I’ll call you whatever I want.” I ignored his quick hurt. “Why have you been lying?” When he hesitated, I locked eyes with him and began to form a command.
“Please,” Junior said, half rising. “Don’t. I’ll tell you the truth, I promise. Just—just let me do it myself.”
I held his gaze, not sure whether to grant this one small request or give in to the anger that was thrumming through me. “Don’t lie to me again.”
Junior nodded, took a deep breath. “The thing is, I never meant to lie to you.”
“You’ve been with me for over two weeks, learning about my past. Our past. And you never said a word. You’re a liar. That’s the definition of a liar.” Something occurred to me. “The book. Is it even real, or was it just some stupid excuse?”
“It’s real,” Junior said quickly. “Of course it is. I’ve wanted to write it for a long time. There’s been some interest from publishers. A book about the Homestead by Bellanger’s own son could be big. But they all want it to be a cheesy exposé. I don’t want that. If I’m going to write about my father’s work, I’m going to bring a new perspective.”
“You’ve got one now,” I said, stomach dropping as I remembered everything he’d found out.
Junior smiled, quick and miserable.
“You could’ve told us who you really are. We would’ve talked to you.” I began pacing in front of the bed, making the circuit of the same lineup of standard cheap-motel-room supplies. Table, upholstered chair, defunct coffee maker, TV Guide, Gideon Bible.
“You wouldn’t have,” Junior said. “The way you’re looking at me right now, Josie—Jesus. It would’ve been even worse with some of the others. Knowing that I was connected would’ve changed everything.”
I stopped in my tracks. “My mother knew that you were Bellanger’s son, didn’t she? That’s exactly why she got in touch with you. You were never just some random journalist.” I half laughed, buried my face in my hands. “God, I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I see it?”
I hadn’t seen it because I wasn’t used to giving my mother that much credit.
“She knew who I was, yeah,” Junior said. “She always was closer to my dad than the others. She knew my mother’s maiden name is Abbott and that I preferred any name other than Junior. The phone call was weird. Your mom was threatening me, almost. She said she wanted me to break this story about—about my father. So that I could learn who he really was. But then we started reminiscing and she got friendlier. Like she felt bad for calling me up. And then she never got back in touch with me. Until…”