by Ellie Monago
So much that he doesn’t know about, but he needs to.
“Are you still seeing Wyatt?” he asks.
“I was never seeing him. I kissed him once because Andie tried to frame me. I’m not interested in Wyatt or anyone else.”
“I should have talked to you about everything. Is it too late for us? Can you forgive me?” he asks.
Layton was a monster. Doug’s my husband, a flawed person, who loves me. And I still love him.
Andie’s a monster, too. Well, she was.
“It’s not too late,” I say. His eyes fill with tears. “But I have to tell you something. The reason that I know Sadie’s safe is because the person who poisoned her is dead.” His eyes widen. “That person is Andie.”
He visibly startles. “Is that a joke?”
“No. She was shot tonight.”
I’d learned of her death from the police as they were questioning me. It took a long time for the police to take everyone’s statements, including Wyatt’s, which was the one that gave all the others credibility. The officers obviously had a great deal of respect for him. Enough to sweep any discrepancies under the rug? I have to hope so.
“Escalation of force,” Wyatt said grimly. “Nolan had no choice but to shoot her when she tried to grab the gun.” The rest of us told that same story.
Nolan hasn’t been arrested. Not yet, anyway. He was by Andie’s side when she died. I can’t even imagine what he was feeling. All I know is, it’s over, for all of us.
Despite all Andie’s done and how Doug told me he didn’t even like her, there he is, looking shattered. I feel myself shattering, too. He shouldn’t look like that.
Then he says, “What can I do? I’ll tell the police whatever you want.”
It dawns on me: he thinks I killed Andie. That’s why he looks like that. He’s not thinking of her; he’s thinking of me. He looks shattered because he thinks I might be guilty of murder, and he’s offering to tell whatever lie will protect me.
“I didn’t kill her. Nolan did.”
He exhales, his relief palpable in the room. “But why would Nolan . . . Because of . . . ?”
“No, it’s not because he thinks you slept with Andie.” There’s so much I need to tell him, including who Ellen is. Who Layton is. Who I am.
I can’t keep secrets anymore, for my own sanity. I want to live clean for Sadie, and for me.
I’m too exhausted to think, but I know this: we need to get out of this house that we never should have bought—not only because of Ellen but because we can’t afford it. We should never have taken something we didn’t earn, especially when it came with so many strings attached.
The AV is Ellen’s, and she can have it back.
“We need to get out of this house,” I say. “Have your parents buy you out, and then we’ll move into an apartment somewhere. We’ll do our best to get past what’s happened, and then we’ll buy a house within our means.”
Silence.
“You’re right,” he finally says. “We can’t stay here. I’ve been stupid, and I’ve been cruel, and I’ve tried to keep up with the Joneses, and in the process, I’ve hurt you and shattered your trust. But I promise you, we’ll get it back.”
I reach out my hand. “Let’s go to bed,” I say.
In the morning, I’ll tell him everything. Because he needs to know if we’re going to get the trust back. Because he deserves to know, as my husband. But most of all, because I deserve to be able to tell, without shame. I didn’t do anything wrong, and now Ellen knows it, too, and that makes all the difference.
CHAPTER 38
Moving out of the AV is pretty different from moving in. There’s no block party this time. The neighbors come by, two by two like on Noah’s ark: Raquel and Bart, Gina and Oliver, Tennyson and Vic. They tell me they understand and they hope we’ll stay in touch. I don’t know what it is they could possibly understand, but I hug them back anyway.
Brandon has a big bag of clothes and toys for me, and he asks if he can bring the next batch to wherever I’m living. I tell him absolutely.
I’m touched that Yolanda and Wyatt show up, and while there are no hugs from either of them, I appreciate that they wish me well. “I’m glad Wyatt got to be a hero,” Yolanda allows. They can spin it however they want. All I know is, I’m walking out of this neighborhood a free woman, an accessory to nothing.
I have no hard feelings, really, toward any of them. They’re just regular people struggling through, and they want a community that will make it easier. They want something egalitarian and democratic; their aspirations are noble. The AV is no throwback to a kinder, gentler time like I first thought. It’s incestuous and it’s fraught, but they’re all genuinely trying for their own strange kind of utopia. Trans-urban indeed.
They want to know each other’s secrets, sure, but they also truly want to know each other. There’s love between these people. Ties that bind (and gag—sometimes literally). It’s complicated, like family. I think they love June, though I don’t know how many of them know about Ellen.
It was never too good to be true. It was always exactly good enough (and bad enough) to be true.
Doug’s starting therapy, too. In a strange way, it’s nice to realize I’m not the only one with issues.
For Doug and me, openness was never going to work. I’d kept so much of my past from him that we couldn’t start from a place of transparency, which seems to be the prerequisite. Plus, I have so many issues I still need to figure out that there was no way I could give Doug, or myself, permission to be with anyone else.
The real surprise is that Doug is finally admitting he has issues, too. Now, whether they can be fixed, or whether they’ll fit together with mine—that’s an open question. But the fact that we’re about to wrestle with it makes me hopeful.
Neighbors-with-benefits is not the reason my marriage is in tumult. I don’t think it would have mattered if we’d opted in or opted out. It would all have come to light eventually. It seems like openness is just amplification. If you were happy, you’re happier; if you were unhappy, you’re unhappier. It doesn’t save you or destroy you. You do that yourselves. Cracks in the foundation will eventually be exposed, and openness is no quick fix. Relationships are work, however you play them.
The AV proves that generally, people are not good or bad; they’re simply warring with their own impulses, good and bad. I just need to surround myself with people who win that battle most of the time. And I have to engage in that fight myself, so that I can embody not just the mother I want to be but the person: kind and loving and open, when it’s warranted. My neighborhood will be a reflection of me, and vice versa.
Someday, I’m going to tell Sadie about my past. It’ll be an expurgated version, but enough for her to get the gist. I need her to learn that her body is her own and that any sex she has needs to be sex she truly wants. When it isn’t, she needs to be able to speak up and say that. I want her to discover her body herself first, in her own time, and make sure anyone who enters it is worthy. She’ll be the girl, and the woman, I never was but still hope to be.
The truck is loaded up, and Doug is chatting with the movers. Ellen is the last to show up. I hoped I’d see her. She wrote a letter and slid it under my door a week ago expressing, in great detail, her remorse and regret about not believing me all those years ago. It was a relief to see her handwriting on something other than a piece of cardboard. She also told me more about what she’s gone through all these years and why her denial was so powerful. She just wasn’t ready to lose her family or even the idea of her family; she was too scared to stop being angry, scared of what she’d feel and what she’d do.
“Can I apologize again,” she says, “in person?”
“You don’t need to. You were driven mad trying to protect your family.”
“The wrong family.”
“It was the only one you knew for a long time.”
She nods, with a small smile. “I can’t believe how forgiving you ar
e. I don’t know that I could do it.”
“None of us is innocent.” Sadie is in my arms, and she reaches out for Ellen. “Well, almost none of us.”
Ellen smiles at Sadie. “Such a beautiful girl. I hope she grows up safe and happy.”
“I’m going to do my best.” I tear my eyes from Sadie. “How’s Nolan?”
“He’s a mess. He’s actually been in a psychiatric hospital. I’ve had Fisher with me ever since . . . well, you know. He’s inside with Hope now. She’s actually really good with him.”
“I can believe that.”
“It’s good to see this side of her. But it’s terrible, how it came about.” She looks right at me. “Thank you for protecting Nolan. You didn’t owe him that. What you told the police, I mean. They’re not going to charge him.”
“Charging him wouldn’t help anyone.”
Ellen averts her eyes back to Sadie. “I’m still in shock. I can’t believe how out of control everything got, how far I was willing to go.”
“You thought I was the enemy. That’s what your dad wanted you to think.”
She takes a deep breath and finally looks at me. “So where do we go from here?”
“I have no idea. But I feel like something inside me has been exorcised, if that makes sense.”
“I feel that way, too.” She looks toward the now-empty house.
Then we turn to each other with uncertain smiles. There’s nothing and everything left to say. So much that no one else could ever understand, a bond deeper than perhaps any other I could ever make, forged in the trauma of misplaced loyalty, stronger than steel.
Layton tried to pull us apart, but it didn’t work. Somehow, we found our way back together.
Love is like that.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To start at the top: I want to thank my husband for his unwavering support, encouragement, and belief. And while I’m not Kat, I was able to summon up the experience of having a newborn—the terror that comes with loving a tiny being so very much—because of my own beautiful daughter, now six years old. So glad you’re you, kid.
Gratitude goes to Mary Jane Weatherbee, Natalie Kiff, and Tara Yudenfreund for being my beta readers, though there’s nothing beta about any of you. You’re all generous and astute, and I’m very appreciative of your contributions.
To the Lake Union team: What a godsend! Danielle Marshall, you’re a fount of enthusiasm and knowledge, and I’m so pleased that you chose me, and Neighborly. Alicia Clancy, when you said you were excited about the new book, you backed it up. What editor reads your draft overnight (when there’s no deadline in sight)? Alicia, that’s who. So glad to continue the journey with you. And Sarah Murphy, I’d never heard of a developmental editor until you came along, but you made me an absolute believer. You brought out the best in my manuscript. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
And finally, to my sterling agent, Elisabeth Weed. You’re a champion of each book and a fierce guardian of my career. What would I do without you? Please, let me never find out the answer to that question. To many more!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2013 Yanina Gotsulsky
Ellie Monago is the pen name of an acclaimed novelist and practicing therapist. She’s also a wife and mother, and when you add it all up, she doesn’t wind up with much time for hobbies. But she’s an avid tennis fan, a passionate reader of both fiction and nonfiction—especially memoir (nothing’s as juicy as the truth!)—and she relishes a good craft cocktail.