“What? What was it, Mom? Because you never fell in love and made a single impulsive decision?”
“Jesus, Easton. Do you think I ever anticipated this? There’s no fucking handbook for this. I’m sorry. The very last thing I ever wanted was for you to marry the daughter of my ex-fiancé.”
“And why is that?” I vent. “It’s not like I ever had the full story. I asked you months ago, and you skirted it. You couldn’t even say his name. I asked Dad the same. He did the same shit. Turns out, it wasn’t just me. You lied to the world, letting them think you and Dad lived out some romantic rock and roll fairytale. You totally omitted Nate. No wonder he hates you both.”
She clamps her hand over her mouth and speaks through it. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
“He shaped you as a writer, did he not?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “So, you’re blaming me for his reaction, but not your own actions?”
I grip the leather of the couch, my gaze dropping. “I blame myself for thinking our parents give enough of a fuck about our happiness to act like mature adults.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” I swallow back my drink. “But I don’t see what’s so damned impossible that the four of you can’t get over it, so my wife and I can move on with our lives.”
She drops her head and sighs before opening her purse, pulling out a large bound script, and tossing it on my lap.
“I omitted Nate because my agent reached out, and he wanted no part of it.”
I lift it to see the title. Drive.
My mom did write the fucking book, and you weren’t in it.
Only the version you know of.
“You really wrote a book about them both? It wasn’t just you and Dad?”
She nods.
“And Dad read this?” I hold it up.
“Yes, he did. He wanted to.”
“Jesus.”
“Son, I love you more than any soul on earth. I carried you in my body for nine grueling months. Your father and I gave you everything we could as parents. I’ll freely admit that you’re wise well beyond your years, and while you can write and sing a thousand songs about your perception of things, that’s all it is right now—your perception. Until you’ve actually lived through it, that’s all it will ever be. All I’m hearing right now is a rant about your perception of a person’s life to the person who actually fucking lived it. Experience is what truly shapes the soul, your own experience, and you haven’t gained enough or lived enough yet to fully form yours. So don’t tell me what I lived through and what you think you fucking know. I don’t give a damn about your perception of one of the hardest trials of my life. But if you want insight into what can never be fully experienced through words alone, that’s the full story. You want the truth. It’s all there. There’s your option to know exactly why the three of us—Nate included—have reacted the way we have and why we don’t mention the other in passing. It’s not because we hate each other, and it’s not because of one thing that happened. It’s a culmination of things that fucking hurt.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “So before you preach another word to me, know what the hell you’re talking about. Now you can invade my privacy the way Natalie did and no longer blame me for keeping my fucking personal life my own.”
She furiously wipes a tear from her face as I sit stunned, and shame sets in.
“Do you think I’m not sorry for hurting you and Dad? Because I am, but this,” I pick up the book, “is your past.”
“My past turned into your future. Jesus, you told me your own wife tried desperately to warn you, but you’re still dismissive. You aren’t this selfish, Easton. You’re just too wrapped inside your pain to realize what a shit you’re becoming. Look at me, son,” she orders, and I lift my eyes to hers.
“Twenty or thirty years from now, let’s say Natalie isn’t a part of your life anymore. Do you think, for one second, your experiences and love for her, your recollection of the way you’re feeling right now, the bitterness, the ache, won’t be bittersweet? Especially if you’re forced away from each other permanently with as much as you love her right now? You’re living the love story that will help shape your soul, Easton.”
“So why choose Dad?” I seethe. “If you harbor so much lingering love for another man?”
“Stop,” she says. “That’s enough. You want an explanation?” She gestures toward the manuscript. “There it is. That book is a product of the peace I made letting Nate go, along with an affirmation of all our decisions. Which were the right ones. I have never, not once, regretted it.”