It was 9:38 at night. I know that because I couldn’t look at my mom, so I stared at the clock on the VCR. Nine thirty-eight on a Tuesday night, ten years old. That’s when my life carved into a before and an after.
JAMIE: You never told me.
SHAY: Imagine meaning so little to your dad that he left and never came back. Not once, even to see who you grew into.
JAMIE: I can’t.
SHAY: My mom called Mrs. Carroll, and I don’t know what she said to her, but I got to go to the lock-in. I spent the whole night in my sleeping bag with my book, watching the chaperones with their kids. Rolling their eyes, shouting after them, laughing. And I thought, What makes some people worth loving, but not others?
JAMIE: I remember now. You wouldn’t leave your sleeping bag, even for the scavenger hunt.
SHAY: After they turned out the lights, you and I lay in the dark, listening to kids giggling, and you whispered, “What’s wrong?”
JAMIE: You said you were sad because your dad had to leave. But it was okay because he was on some secret mission. Practically a hero.
SHAY: I invented a story that he left because he had to do something important. It was a stupid lie.
JAMIE: You could’ve told me the truth.
SHAY: I wasn’t lying for you. It was the only thing I could think of to keep my heart in one piece.
（Rustling.）
JAMIE: I have to ask. Do you think your dad leaving had anything to do with the pull you felt toward Don?
（Silence.）
SHAY: You’re the journalist, Jamie. You tell me.
JAMIE: Okay. I don’t see how it couldn’t have.
SHAY: Yeah, well. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Everything tied in a neat little bow.
End of transcript.
Chapter Twenty
Two nights later, the hotel restaurant was near closing when I rested my elbows on the edge of the bar. A bartender was with me in seconds.
“Manhattan.” I handed him my card and turned to watch the servers close up, glancing at the front door and remembering what Jamie had looked like stepping through it. So different, yet so much the same. Maybe I was, too.
“Ma’am.”
I turned to find the bartender frowning. “Your card’s been declined.” He slid it over the countertop. “Do you have another?”
Cal, that motherfucker—he’d actually done it.
I picked up the card and dropped it in my purse. “No, I don’t.” I’d let my husband hold all the power like a fool.
The bartender shot me a pitying look and slid over the manhattan, the crystal glass catching like a diamond in the light. “Here. Either you’re drinking it, or I am. You look like you need it more.” His eyes ran down me. “Nice dress, by the way. Don’t see that every day. Old school.”
“Thanks.” I slugged the drink, wiping my mouth. “I mean it.”
When he turned away, I called Jamie, who answered breathlessly. “I’m just finishing a run.”
“Now?” It was nearly eleven at night. Add running in the dark to the list of things Jamie could do that I couldn’t.
“Yeah, well…my producer called.” He exhaled. “He’s not exactly thrilled I’ve spent so long up here. Thinks I’m devoting too much time to one story.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“To trust me that it was important. I’m just blowing off steam. Need me to come over earlier?”