My jaw drops. “Huh?”
He smirks. “He wants to make amends with you,” he repeats, even though we both know I heard him the first time. “He feels bad about what he’s done, so he’s trying to make it right. I guess he thought bringing me here would help do that.”
Startled, I stagger back a step.
Ohmygod.
Dan feels bad?
He wants to make amends?
I scrub a hand across my brow.
I can’t believe this.
He wants to do right by me, so he confessed the truth to the one person I needed to hear it the most.
That’s why he was acting strange—why he seemed so off tonight.
He was putting my feelings before his own!
“Hey, are you okay?” Chavez reclaims my attention with a tug to my hand.
I shrug over a tepid laugh. “I don’t know. My head is sort of spinning right now.”
“Yeah, I bet. That’s a lot to take in.”
Our eyes meet, and that familiar flutter I’ve been craving returns to my chest, bringing with it all the things I’ve been wanting to say to him. The things I’ve been hoping to clarify but wasn’t sure I’d ever get the chance to. The things I didn’t know I’d be brave enough to say if I did get the chance.
I’m sorry was always first on my list, but what comes out is, “I’ve missed you.”
He smiles softly. “I’ve missed you too.”
The flutter expands from my chest through my entire body, snuffing out any flicker of fear I had about being rejected. “Really?”
“Nobody else wants to smash cars with me.”
I snort out an unexpected laugh, then, without thought, twine my fingers through his and say, “Maybe we can do that again sometime?”
“Yeah. I’d like that,” he says, then leans forward and presses a warm, soft kiss against my cheek—
“Mrs. Osborne?”
A deep, unsettlingly familiar voice cuts through the air, slicing our intimacy like a blade.
I jerk away from Chavez to find Mr. Hoffstra staring at me, his dark eyes wide in disbelief.
I gasp.
Oh no.
My stomach drops.
No.
No, no, no.
This isn’t what it looks like.
I quickly snatch my hand back from Chavez and hurry across the stage toward him, desperation fueling my movements.
My damn barefooted movements!
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I spit out, tucking my shoes behind my back.
Mr. Hoffstra blinks hard but doesn’t say anything.
Shit.
Agonized by the ramifications this will have, I press my free hand against my heart and in a panicked voice say, “Please, you have to believe me. This isn’t what it looks like. There’s more to this than you know—”
“Oh! Mr. Hoffstra! There you are! We thought we lost you.” Jackie Harriman suddenly appears, crowing like a rooster at dawn. “We need to get you in place so you’re ready to go on when he calls you.” Oblivious to the surrounding tension, she loops her arm through Mr. Hoffstra’s and quickly ushers him toward the “on-deck” area, where the other lookie-loos are spying on Dan from behind the curtain. “Jane, you and the detective can watch the announcement with me,” she calls out over her shoulder.
“Is that the money guy?” Chavez asks warily. A wave of bile swirls through my gut as I nod in response. “What do we do?”
I raise my palms, a desperate wail rising in my chest. “I don’t know. I—shit.” I press a palm against my forehead, desperate for a plan that will fix what I’ve just done, but there isn’t one. There isn’t one!
Nothing can fix what I’ve just done.
All these months spent pretending.
SPENT LYING!
They were all for nothing.
I just ruined everything!
“Jane!” Jackie whisper-yells, calling me onward with a wave of her hand.
SHIT!
Stomach reeling, I slide my shoes back onto my feet and, with Chavez following stoically behind, make my way up to the curtain area, where everyone is gathered and listening to Dan finish up his conversation with Mary Crosby before he transitions to the all-important Hoffstra announcement.
“. . . there just aren’t enough words to say how grateful I am for what you did for me,” Mary says, her voice wrought with emotion. “If not for you, I never would have seen my daughter get married,” she sniffles, “or have met my beautiful granddaughters. It’s all because of you. I owe my life to you, Dr. Osborne.”
My heart twists as the crowd erupts in applause, and even though I can’t see what’s happening onstage from our vantage point at the back of the little crowd, I have no doubt that Dan is hugging his grateful patient right now, because that’s the kind of doctor he is. He’s a gifted, loving surgeon who deserves to have this new hospital wing, but now because of my foolish, reckless behavior, he won’t get it.
At least, not from the Hoffstras.
Dear god, what have I done?
A fleeting thought suddenly crosses my mind: Maybe he’ll overlook what he just saw. Maybe Mr. Hoffstra has some tawdry experiences of his own that will make him turn a blind eye to what he just witnessed.
I cast a ridiculously hopeful glance toward the man in question—standing just a few feet in front of me—and wince when I take in the simple gold wedding band wrapped around his finger. The same band he’s worn for more than sixty years and undoubtedly has never forsaken.
He glances up and frowns in my direction. Tears well in my eyes as the reality of what’s about to happen settles in: Dan’s going to stand in front of this crowd of people and tell them how kind and generous Mr. Hoffstra and his wife are (and they are), and then he’ll invite Mr. Hoffstra to join him onstage, where Dan’ll be expectantly waiting for him to reveal his wonderful news. But he won’t. Of course he’ll donate something—twenty-five, fifty thousand, if we’re lucky—but it won’t come close to what we need. Certainly not the twenty-five million we were hoping for. And then Dan will be left to put on a brave face and pretend that his entire world hasn’t just crashed around him.
An hour ago, I would have called that karma.
Now, I just call it regret.
How could I have been so careless?
After everything we’ve done . . .
After all the effort Dan put into bringing Chavez here tonight, I turned his peace offering into a sacrificial lamb.
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Crosby—”
Dan’s deep voice once again emits through the microphone, but now it’s bogged down with a very distinct waver that to other people probably sounds like sentimentality, but I know better. That’s his nervous voice. And though I’ve heard it only a few times in my life, I’d know it anywhere.
Even on an “off” night, Dan is never nervous.
“It’s almost time,” Jackie chirps excitedly to Mr. Hoffstra.
I raise my fist up to my mouth and start nibbling on my knuckle.
“Hang in there,” Chavez mutters.
“I certainly do appreciate the praise,” Dan goes on, “but I’m sorry to say that I don’t deserve it.”
“He’s so modest,” Jackie titters to the staffer beside her.
“You see, while I may be a good surgeon, I’m afraid . . .” His voice trails off for a brief moment before he swallows so hard the microphone picks up the sound. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good man. Or a very good father. And I’m most certainly not a good husband . . .”
“What is he talking about?” Jackie mutters, casting a perplexed glance back at me.
My heart starts to beat harder.
What is he talking about?
“For the past few months, I’ve been asking my wife to lie about our relationship because I thought it would help us ensure the hospital gets the money it needs for the cardio wing—to ensure the stability of the hospital and all of our jobs—but the truth is, I’ve been asking her to lie be
cause I’ve been too scared to face who I really am, and I can’t ask her to do that anymore—”
His voice starts to crack with the nervousness I heard moments ago, prompting my chest to swell with an ache so deep I can feel my ribs starting to buckle.
I press my palm over my mouth, stifling the gasp that’s rising inside me.
He’s doing this.
He’s actually doing this . . .
“I can’t ask her to live her life as a lie because I’m too scared to live mine honestly,” he goes on, the presence of tears now evident in his tone. “And if that costs us the funding we need, then so be it, but I’m not about to accept any money that was earned under false pretenses—”
“What on earth is he talking about?” Jackie snips, clearly growing agitated.
Fighting back my own tears, I glance toward Mr. Hoffstra, curious if he’s feeling equally as perturbed, but his expression is unreadable.
Chavez squeezes my shoulder, a silent confirmation of his support.
“Contrary to what we’ve been telling all of you, my wife and I are not happily married. In fact, we’ll be filing for divorce very soon because I recently revealed to her that . . .” He stalls and clears his throat as I wrestle with the knot in my own. “I am gay. And while I’m hoping that won’t impact my career itself, it certainly has had a devastating impact on her, and our daughter, and for that I am truly sorry.”
A hush of disbelief falls over the crowd while tears begin to rain down my cheeks.
You did it, Dan.
You did it!
Overcome with unexpected pride, I skirt my way around the crowd and look out onto the stage. My heart wrenches when I find him standing alone beneath the spotlights—exposed and on display for everyone’s judgment—while a shell-shocked Mary Crosby looks on from just a few feet away.
As if sensing my presence, Dan turns, his blue eyes finding me in an instant.
My chin starts to quiver as a lifetime of memories and shared adventures pass between us. I offer him a broken smile. A smile that says I’m proud of you and In some way, I’ll always be your family. He nods in response, then sets the mic down on the stage and heads for Mr. Hoffstra.
Though understandably curious, Jackie and the rest of the lookie-loos are still respectful enough to back out of the way, offering the men a bit of privacy, though Dan urges Chavez and me closer with a wave of his hand.
Blotting at my eyes, we clear the distance between us just as a lone soul in the audience breaks the silence with a very slow and intentional clap.
“Sir, I need to apologize for misleading you.” Dan blinks back tears as he addresses Mr. Hoffstra. “You and your wife have been nothing but kind to us, and we betrayed that kindness—well, I did,” he clarifies, glancing at me. “It was wrong, and I’m terribly sorry. I completely understand if you want to leave now.”
“Leave?” Mr. Hoffstra snuffs. “I thought it was my turn to speak?”
Dan blinks hard. “Well, yes, sir, it is. But I just assumed after what I confessed—”
“Young man,” Mr. Hoffstra cuts him off while laying a hand on his shoulder. “Do you hear that person clapping out there?”
Dan nods, and so do I. Even though he wasn’t asking me the question.
“That’s my wife,” he says. I peek around Dan for a look. Just as I suspected earlier, you can’t make out one face in the crowd through all the lights. “I’d know that clap anywhere. That’s the same clap she gave when our daughter finally came out to us a few years ago. Of course, she did it at the dinner table and not in front of three hundred people.” He chuckles, eyes almost smiling. “But mark my words, that’s her. And by the time I get out on that stage and announce that you’re going to get your new wing, the rest of those people will be clapping too. They just need a few minutes for the dust to settle and to be reminded that your personal life has nothing to do with your excellent skills as a surgeon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a speech to give.”
He gives each of us a parting handshake—even Chavez—then sets off for the stage. And just as predicted, Mrs. Hoffstra’s solo support is soon drowned out by the rest of the crowd’s.
Jaw hanging, Dan turns to me. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
“Neither can I,” I chuckle while sniffling back tears.
He stares at me for a long beat, his amusement quickly settling into a sincerity I haven’t seen in a very, very long time.
“You know, it’s okay if you guys want to get out of here,” he says, shifting his gaze between me and Chavez. “You’ve been through enough tonight, and I imagine it’s going to get pretty intense around here.”
I know what my answer would have been thirty minutes ago, but everything’s different now. I turn to Chavez to make sure he’s on the same page.
He offers me one of his adorable smirks, then turns to Dan and says, “Nah. I think we’ll stick around. I’ve been trying to get a first dance with this one for almost thirty years. I think I better take advantage of the dance floor while I can.”
My cheeks flush beneath his playful banter, while Dan looks on with a glint of approval in his eye.
“I think a first dance sounds like a great idea,” he says. “I hope you have a good time.”
A flood of contentment washes over me as he heads off to deal with Jackie and the rest of the backstage audience, leaving me with Chavez.
“Shall we?” He extends his hand to me.
“Absolutely.” And even though I know his intent is to lead me to the dance floor, I can’t help but feel like I’m about to take the first step of my brand-new life.
I drop my hand in his, and we set off across the stage.
“You do know how to dance, don’t you?” I ask.
He offers me a sexy little smirk. “Almost as well as I can swing a bat.”
His reference to the salvage lot brings back a flood of delicious memories, inciting my own smirk to emerge.
Just a few steps in, and this new life is already looking very promising.
EPILOGUE
WHAT I AM MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO DOING AFTER THIS CLASS IS . . .
Living MY life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
All glory to God for steadily supplying me with fresh ideas, the tenacity to explore them, and most importantly the talents and support of the following folks, who have helped transform them into something worthwhile (and to whom I owe much more than a few kind words. Next round is on me):
My phenomenal editors, Maria Gomez and Selina McLemore. Your enthusiasm for my words is as delightfully overwhelming as your ability to make me laugh.
From cover design to copy edits, the entire team at Montlake and Amazon Publishing for your professionalism and timeliness. You’re this schedule-freak’s dream!
My very patient and wise agent, Amy Moore-Benson. Your confidence in my abilities is astounding.
Anita Howard, my incomparable critique partner. Your name should be on the cover of this book too. (Smaller, but still there.) Thank you for navigating the ledges with me.
Heather Love King and A. S. Youngless for faithfully retweeting, even when the GIFs are bad.
Bonnie Carnow for your thoughtful insights on the pain of loving someone with Alzheimer’s.
Kelly Grimando and Shelly Munson for always thinking I’m cool, even though you know the truth.
The Goat Posse for your endless support.
Terry, Gracie, and Becca for ensuring my humility.
My parents and sisters for the consistent reminders that I’m not in control, and that’s okay.
And to all the women hanging on by a thread, I hope Jane’s story brought you a momentary reprieve from the chaos. Or at the very least, that your grocery store is stocked with oranges.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 Stacy Bostrom
Bethany Crandell is the author of The Jake Ryan Complex. She lives in San Diego with her husband, teenage daughters, and two destructive puppies. Bethany loves guacamo
le, afternoon naps, and eye rolls. You can visit her online at www.bethanycrandell.com.
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