by Cecilia Lyra
“I get it,” I say. “And I’m sorry I said you were superficial.”
“It was more of an implication.”
“I’m sorry for implying, then. In fact, I’d like to apologize for the way I’ve been treating you. I was holding on to my anger. I guess I felt I had to. Or I’d crack.”
“I know,” she says. And I can tell that she really does. “I’m glad you cracked.”
I am, too.
Forty-Five
Julie
Thursday, July 19th
We’ve reached a compromise: catching up first, confronting Craig second.
I feel relieved—and not just because I’m bubbling with curiosity about her life. I’m hoping that by the time we’re done sharing, Craig will have given us the other letters. If they exist at all. I’m not looking forward to an argument between him and Cassie. I pity anyone who has to go up against my sister.
“I called her back,” Cassie tells me. “Claudia.”
I now know who Claudia is—her publicist. Minutes ago, I didn’t have this information. It feels exhilarating, being on the inside again. A little odd, too. Especially given the setting. We’re sunbathing on the stretch of beach in front of Nana’s house. Well, I’m sunbathing. Cassie is hidden under the yellow umbrella. We’re on the exact spot we used to come to as kids, closer to the beach grass that surrounds the property.
“What did she want?” Claudia had called Cassie. This, apparently, was unusual. Claudia much prefers emails or the occasional text.
“To discuss a timeline for ‘the reveal’. That’s what she’s calling it. ‘The reveal’.” Cassie flicks her sunglasses to the top of her head. She’s squinting, even though she’s under the shade. “I told her someone at Posh knows. That they’re investigating.”
I feel a knot at the pit of my stomach. I wish I could help. Wish I could convince Sophie to back off. But I don’t have that kind of power. Sophie will do whatever she wants—she always has. I just hope she never finds out the whole truth: that Daniel used to be Cassie’s patient. That would give more fuel to the story.
“She thinks we should negotiate an exclusive with them,” Cassie says. “Sooner rather than later.”
This is something I hadn’t expected. “Are you considering it?”
“Absolutely not. It would be like giving into blackmail. Besides, we’re not ready to come out with the news yet. Daniel needs to talk to Angie. His situation is complicated.”
Affairs are always complicated. Especially when there are children involved.
“And did you decide on a timeline?” I ask.
She shrugs, then sits up on the towel, propping herself up by her elbows.
I glance at her ankle. It’s still bruised, though it’s a lot less swollen than yesterday. I’ll remind her to rub some more gel on later.
“What’s wrong?” I get up and move closer to her, under the shade.
“It’s something Claudia said. She asked me if I was sure he’s really leaving her.”
“Hasn’t he told Tatiana already?”
“But he hasn’t packed up and left.” She meets my gaze. There’s a shadow of sorts passing through her face. Not sadness, not exactly. But concern. Real concern.
Inside the Fire Princess was a deep, dark well. A reservoir where she kept her emotions safely hidden from the outside world. Outsiders assumed the Fire Princess maintained the well because she was cold-hearted. But the Sky Princess knew the truth: the Fire Princess hid her emotions out of fear.
“I didn’t know that was bothering you,” I say.
“It wasn’t. At least it wasn’t until now.” She pauses. “Claudia kept saying I had to be sure he is committed to me. She says people will forgive anything if it’s in the name of true love. But if Daniel goes back to Tatiana—or worse, doesn’t even leave her in the first place—then my career is over.”
“It’s her job to ask these questions, though, right?”
“I guess. It still got me thinking though. It’s been weeks since Daniel told Tatiana, but he hasn’t moved out.”
“Have you asked him why?”
“No,” she says. She doesn’t say that it’s because she’s too scared to hear his answer. She doesn’t have to. “I wish she’d leave.”
“Maybe she will.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. At this point, I think it’s a game to her.”
This could be true. Some people are messed up in the head like that. But it’s not likely. “In my experience, people struggle with divorce for one simple reason: it’s an admission of failure. Marriage is supposed to be forever.”
“Is that why you’re still with Patrick?”
I consider her question for a moment. The silence between us feels comfortable, safe. Cassie has always been a good listener. Why am I still with Patrick? Whenever I try to answer that question, my mind takes me back to our first date. To him telling me about his childhood. About his dad.
“I felt a connection to Patrick from the start,” I begin. “His mom was kind of like my mom. His dad had another family, only Patrick had it a lot worse than I did. He only met them at his dad’s funeral.”
A quiet nod from Cassie. She understands. It’s what defines us, our shared paternal experience. Shared, yet entirely different. Like a book that was split in half and we each got a chunk.
“I used to think that because we had this huge thing in common we’d automatically work, you know? We complemented each other—or at least I thought we did. I was younger, I was more comfortable letting him take the lead. We’ve never had a partnership, not in the sense of being equals. It didn’t use to bother me, though.” A thought occurs to me, one I hadn’t been able to articulate until recently. “In fact, I liked it.”
Cassie nods like she’s already figured this out. Which she probably has—she analyzes couples for a living, after all. Counsels them.
“It’s not like I harbored some secret desire to be controlled,” I continue. “But it was a relief. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had this sense of being on the outside, like everyone around me got an instruction manual for life, but I didn’t. Which meant that I had to watch people to figure out what was expected of me. And with Patrick I didn’t have to do any of the work. He’d tell me. How to dress, what to eat, how to behave myself. He had an answer for everything.”
“So what changed?”
“I don’t know exactly. Something happened to me at that party.” I’ve told her about the benefit, about my fainting spell. “I’ve always known how much he cared about what people thought. He embarrasses easily. But that day, I felt scared.” I blink back tears. “And there’s the bigger issue. He doesn’t want to have kids with me.”
Cassie bites her lower lip. “Did you talk about starting a family before you got married?”
“Not really. I just assumed, which is pretty dumb, I guess.” I feel the blood rising to my face. I remember I didn’t bring up the subject of kids when we were dating because I didn’t want to seem too eager. Sophie had taught me that men perceive eagerness as desperation. “Anyway, two days before our wedding I actually made a comment about our future child, something small, I can’t remember what, and he just casually corrected me. Said he wasn’t going to have any more kids.”
Cassie scrunches up her face. “Feels like something he could’ve told you sooner.”
“It’s why I decided not to change my name. I told him that if we ever had kids I would happily become Julie Smith. But until then, I was keeping Meyers. I thought it would piss him off, but he didn’t seem to mind. All of his friends refer to me as Julie Smith, anyway. When we get invitations, they read Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Smith.” I brush a stray hair from my face, exhaling slowly. “And in a sense it’s what I’ve always wanted, to be a Mrs., to be official.”
Silence falls between us again. I watch as Cassie’s mind turns. She’s used to this, used to hearing about people’s marriages. Though this must feel different, more intimate.
“I have to ask,”
Cassie begins, slowly. “Are there daddy issues at play here?”
Coming from Cassie, it’s a loaded question.
“Do you miss him?” I ask.
“Our father?” She scoffs. “Not at all.”
“Dad has his flaws,” I say. “But he’s still our dad, Cass.”
“He’s a bully.” There’s a finality to her tone. It’s always struck me as both impressive and frightening, how easily she passes judgment on him.
“You’re harder on him than you are on anyone else.” I pause, looking at the horizon in front of us. “We’ve all made mistakes. Even Nana. She kept the truth about you having a sister for nine years. Your mom—and I’m sorry to bring her up because she’s in heaven and all—but, she drank and, well, she wasn’t much of a mom. But it’s like you save all your rage for Dad. I get that he wasn’t the dad you wanted. But he’s the dad we have.”
“I never understood that logic. So he has a monopoly on being our father. Does that mean I’m supposed to settle for whatever I can get?” She says this quickly, like it’s a counterpoint she’s offered before. But then she stops, like she’s turning something over in her mind, her eyes glued to a seagull that’s close to the water. “And it’s not about him being the father I wanted. It’s about respect. Our father has never respected me. Not when I was a child, and not now. He was different with you.”
I was also different with him. But of course I won’t say this. It wouldn’t be a fair comment, anyway. Our family—families, depending on how you look at it—is too nuanced, too complex.
“Do you feel like you have daddy issues?” I ask.
She seems to consider this for a moment. “I have issues with our father. But not daddy issues, no. That’s not what my relationship with Daniel is about. He’s…my person.” She pauses, a smile forming on her lips. It’s like she’s glowing. “I love him. So, so much.”
I nod. This must be true, or else she wouldn’t be considering breaking her no-marriage rule for him. I just hope he actually leaves his wife.
“I’m happy you found him,” I say.
“Me, too,” she says.
“How did that happen, by the way?” I turn on my side, propping my head on my elbow. “How did you two meet? The second time.”
And then she tells me.
Forty-Six
Cassie
Thursday, July 19th
My story with Daniel is complicated. And not just for the obvious reasons.
“Daniel was a good thing, a great thing, that came from something terrible,” I say. “Do you know how you use your fairy tales as coping mechanisms?”
Julie nods, smiling. I catch something else in her expression, too. A slight wince. Probably, she’s thinking of how I invaded her privacy and read so many of her stories. I know she’s forgiven me—my sister isn’t the sort to hold a grudge—but she’s still hurting. Every once in a while, when she thinks I’m not paying attention, she’ll steal a glance in my direction, and I see it: the shame dancing behind her eyes. It pains me to see that my invasion of her privacy has affected her so much. I wish I could take it back. Or maybe I don’t—if I hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t be here now.
“I had my own coping mechanisms,” I continue. “Except mine were destructive. When my mom died, the pain was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. Sharp and twisted, like someone was ripping me from the inside out. I had trouble breathing. Literally. My chest ached like there was something physically weighing down on it. It’s all I felt, too. All my other senses were numb. I wasn’t hungry or even sleepy. I had no energy, no will to do anything.”
“I’m so sorry, Cassie,” she says. Her voice is a whisper. She’s giving me the look again—pure agony, almost as if she blames herself for my pain. A ludicrous notion. She isn’t responsible for her mother’s actions any more than I am responsible for our father’s.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. She needs to know that I don’t blame her for what her mother did. Even when I shunned her from my life, it was never about blaming her. That wouldn’t be fair.
I turn on my side, meeting her gaze. I’m surprised at how much I want to tell her this story. All of it. She might be the only one who’ll understand, especially now that we’ve both lost Nana.
“All I felt was loss. It’s like I became loss. Became empty. But after a few weeks, the pain began to change. It didn’t hurt any less, but it became familiar to me. My body learned to handle it and soon I began craving normal things. Eating out with my friends, chocolate. A glass of wine.”
“You’re the only teenager who loved wine.”
“All thanks to Nana’s unorthodox ways,” I say. On the summer we turned fifteen, Nana began to occasionally allow us one glass of wine with dinner. People are often horrified when I point this out. Personally, I’m all for it—it’s not like I was binge drinking.
“So you started feeling better.”
“But feeling better felt disloyal. I wanted to hold on to the pain. It was the only thing I had left of hers.” I feel my eyes well up with tears. There’s a reason I don’t often talk about my mom: it’s too messy, too emotional. It throws me off balance, makes me lose control.
“You felt guilty?”
“It was more than that. It was about needing the pain. It made me feel in control. Gave me power. Think about it. After she died, I was finally able to tell our father to get the hell away from me. I stopped trying to please him.” I pause when I see the confusion in her eyes. “You’re not the only one who wanted to please him, believe me. I put up a tough front, but I just wanted him to love me. I wanted him to want to be with Mom and me like he wanted to be with you and Sophie.”
She nods, quietly. She looks surprised. She shouldn’t be. All children have a primal desire to please their parents. Even the ones who pretend not to care. Especially the ones who pretend not to care.
“After my mom died, I decided I’d had enough of his behavior. He was still doing it, too. Breaking things around the house. Cursing. Raging against my mother for not being there. He’d actually call out her name as if she could hear him. It was almost like he needed her to still be afraid of him, even in death because that was power to him: fear.” I wince, thinking of those dark days right after my mother’s suicide. Looking back, I can see that my father was hurting. That he was trapped in a cycle of abuse—one where he was the abuser. He is a sick man. I’ve been aware of this for quite some time. But it’s not my job to cure him. “I decided I wouldn’t put up with it anymore. I’d no longer be an audience to his displays of rage. But it wasn’t easy. It hurt, telling him I didn’t want him in my life. But the pain, it made me feel…” I pause, searching for the right word.
“Relieved?” she asks softly.
“Alive,” I say. “I started equating pain with life, which sounds so messed up, I know. But after a while that pain receded, too. Or calcified. And then I felt empty again. I felt like something was missing. So I began finding ways to hurt myself.”
“What did you do?” Her lips part ever so slightly, fear written across her face.
“Not in the way you’re thinking,” I say. “I began depriving myself of things. Food, for example. I’d barely eat, and I when I did eat, it would only be things I hated. Sleep, too. I’d set up my alarm for four in the morning and force myself to stay awake. Smaller things as well, like shows I liked or books I wanted to read. I wouldn’t allow myself to do any of it. I had to do it in such a way that it wouldn’t affect school and eventually work. I was still functioning. Highly functioning, actually. I look back and I’m not sure how I pulled it off for so many years: on the outside, I had a normal life, I hit milestones like everyone else. But secretly I was creating a sort of living death for myself, finding ways to keep the pain alive. People would look at me and they’d see that I had lost weight, that I had dark circles under my eyes. They assumed it was from stress. They had no idea it was deliberate.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’m so sorry you had to go through tha
t.”
“I finally went to therapy,” I say, thinking of Mia. Christina and Rachel were instrumental in getting me to seek help. They were the only ones who knew that something was seriously wrong with me—that it wasn’t just a case of being busy or stressed. I’d been to therapy before, with a counselor with a leveled voice and earnest eyebrows. It hadn’t been by choice: therapists need to go to therapy as a part of their training. But I never let my guard down on those sessions. It wasn’t until Mia that I truly opened up to another professional. “And my therapist helped me understand what I was doing. And how to stop.”
“Did you ever date?” she asks. “During this time?”
“A little,” I say. “But none of my relationships lasted. You’d think that not wanting to get married would attract men, at least the ones who are afraid of commitment, but all my exes actually hated that—”
“Which just proves that people only want what they can’t have.”
“Or maybe it’s because they could tell I was broken.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, letting my words sink in. I’m not exaggerating—I did feel broken. Like an integral part of me was missing. I take in the sounds around us. The squawk of a seagull. The roar of the ocean. The low hum of cars on the highway. There is something comforting about this place, a cocoon-like element to it. Maybe it’s the sea air with its medicinal properties. Maybe it’s the isolation that comes with being on an island. Or maybe it’s the connection to my childhood, to Nana and to Julie.
“But it was different with Daniel?” Julie asks.
“I was in a better place when we ran into each other. It had been a year since I had last seen him and Tatiana. I was taking a wine course.” It’s something my therapist had suggested. She thought I was ready for an indulgence.
“Let me guess: he was in your class?” She’s now grinning, her face lit up. Love stories are like catnip for Julie. They were for Nana, too.