Madoc and Fallon say nothing, but I can see their heavy breathing as if they’re struggling for air.
I know Fallon and how she thinks.
She’ll get the boys home. Talk to them. Everything will calm down and all of this will pass. Hunter will see reason.
Madoc, on the other hand, has a plan for every contingency, but if he’s silent, then this was a twist he didn’t plan for. He was bluffing about switching schools, and Hunter called him on it. He’s not sure what to do, or how to fix it. Not yet.
As we leave the police station, I finally understand how hard it is to be a parent. To watch your kids make mistakes.
They won’t learn until they learn, and I know Madoc is struggling. But maybe sometimes the hardest part isn’t what to say and when, but rather, when to say nothing at all.
And how to know when it’s that time.
I reach down and clutch the bottom of my bag, feeling the book and diary inside.
Talking isn’t always the answer.
There are many other ways to teach your kids their lessons, after all.
• • •
I’m making my way through house, toward the kitchen, when I hear the clock chime midnight, and my eyes burn with exhaustion. Today’s soccer game feels like so long ago.
Passing the photos in the hallway, I see the ones from my parents’ wedding—a charming, small, and candlelit ceremony in a rustic barn north of here—Jared and Tate’s wedding—which seems even more special to me now that I know more about their past—Fallon and Madoc—who have no photos from their wedding but instead a great shot of her on his shoulders at the top of Mount Fuji on their honeymoon, arms spread wide and smiles on their faces with the clouds below them . . .
And Jax and Juliet, who finally gave my mother the big family wedding she’d wanted for at least one of her kids.
I hear voices coming from the kitchen, and I head there, knowing I’ll find my mother.
“We spent how much in New York?” my father asks, sounding shocked. “Jesus, we didn’t go to Paris! What the hell?”
I snort, seeing him leaning over my mother as she sits in her little desk along the wall, both of them studying the screen of the laptop. She’s no doubt doing the family bookkeeping, and I hear my dad having the same meltdown every month.
“Don’t look at me,” my mom says. “I bought one pair of shoes. You spend more money on Fifth Avenue than I do, Pretty Boy.”
“Pretty Boy?” he blurts outs. And then he reaches for her, squeezing her cheeks as he leans in and kisses her.
She laughs, trying to twist away from him. “Stop it!”
I take a minute to lean my shoulder into the door frame, watching them.
And I see it. I see Jase and Kat, their playfulness and flirting, the ease and comfort they have in each other. My father and how much he loves her and my mother and how she resembles that girl in the garage, working on his car. The way they complement each other and know when to bend. All of these things I never noticed before.
My dad releases her and starts studying the spreadsheet again. “Well, can we deduct some of this? We talked about work while we were there, right? Just claim the trip as a business expense.”
“No!” she protests and swats his hand away from the mouse. “Go away. I don’t mess with your case files. Stay away from my numbers. They’re all organized.”
He smiles and stands up straight.
“Hey,” I say when his eyes fall on me. “How’s it going?”
He sighs. “Fine. Your mother’s a good woman,” he muses, heading to the refrigerator. “She keeps me out of jail by talking me out of tax fraud.”
“Damn right,” Mom adds. “You make enough. You can pay your taxes, cheapskate.”
I watch them, smiling, and wonder what would’ve happened if my mom had never gotten help. If my dad had never gotten a divorce from Madeline or Patricia. If they’d never stopped trying to hold each other up.
I realize that now.
No one else can make you happy, and putting that expectation on the other person will doom both of you. You don’t look at someone and say “you can make my life better.” You look at them and say “I can make your life better.” Be a blessing, not a burden.
I clear my throat. “May I talk to Mom for a few minutes?”
My dad pauses mid-sip, staring at me. “Um, sure.” He nods, his eyes shooting to my mom. “You’ll tell me everything she says later, right?”
“Ha-ha,” she mocks. “She keeps my secrets. I’ll keep hers.”
“That better not be true.” He gives her a scowl, but I can see his grin as he heads out of the room. “I’ll be in my office.”
Mom types quickly on the computer, pounding the final key with some extra punch, and then turns to me, waiting.
Inhaling a deep breath, I reach in my bag and pull out the book, setting it on her desk, right in front of her.
Her eyes fall on the cover and stay there, no surprise registering on her face at all.
“You had Pasha mail me the book?”
She hesitates, but finally gives a small nod. “I knew you’d figure it out.”
Pasha lives in Toronto, setting up Jared’s production line, and my mother didn’t want me to see the book postmarked from Shelburne Falls. I guess she wanted me to read it before I started hunting down who sent it?
Occam’s razor.
Reaching back into my bag, I pull out the diary from her closet and plop it down on top of the novel. “Well, whoever wrote it had to have access to this. You, right?”
I couldn’t believe she’d trust anyone else with all those intimate details.
“Yes,” my mom admits, turning her swivel chair to face me completely. “Juliet helped me. She didn’t want to lie to you, but I asked her to hold the truth, if you came to her, until you were finished with the book. I wanted you to read it first.”
The strange look from Juliet makes sense now. She didn’t technically write it, but she did know about it.
“You could’ve told me all of this,” I chided. “Did you think I’d hate you? Or Dad?”
“No,” she rushes out, leaning over to take my hand as I sit down in the chair at the table. “When I found out I was having a daughter, Quinn, I honestly wasn’t happy. I was worried. I was so afraid I’d have another version of me, making the same mistakes, crying over the same types of men, and making bad decision after bad decision to make someone else happy. Someone who doesn’t deserve her.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about Jared’s dad or mine, but I keep quiet and listen, anyway.
“That’s the hardest thing about being a parent,” she explains. “Living through heartache, bearing your struggles, learning the hard lessons the hard way, and enduring years of climbing a wall only to fall back down and have to start all over again . . .” She holds my eyes, and her voice is weighted with sadness. “The tears, the waiting, the zero sense of who the hell you are, and then one day . . .” Her voice grows lighter and she looks happy. “You wake up, and finally you’re exactly the person you’ve always wanted to be. Strong, decisive, resolute, kind, brave . . . But then you also look in the mirror and you’re fifty-eight.”
An ache hits my chest, and I can imagine a fraction of what she’s talking about. All those years, all the wasted time . . . She finally grew but at a huge expense.
“And when you have a child,” she goes on, “it’s like watching yourself start all . . . over . . . again. You want them to make the most of every moment and be the type of person you’ve finally become, but that’s the cruel joke of youth.” She smiles sadly. “No matter what I tell you or share with you or try to teach you from everything I’ve learned, it won’t hit home for you until you’ve lived it. You won’t really know what I’m talking about until you’ve made those mistakes and learned from them on your own.” She lets
out a heavy sigh. “And unfortunately, that could take years.”
I slide my bag off my shoulder, absently dropping it on the floor. My mom may have been happy with her life and proud of what she’d survived, but her regrets don’t end with her.
She worries for me, too.
“I wasn’t sure I would ever let you read it,” she tells me, looking embarrassed. “Obviously, some of the scenes I wrote would be uncomfortable for you to read.”
Uh, yeah. I’ll try not to think about the episode in my dad’s office the next time I swing by his work.
“But I wrote it when you were little, and I included your dad’s side in the story, using his thoughts from some of his old letters to me that I’ve kept over the years, because I felt his side was important, too. I’ve just been concerned about you for a long time. I finally decided that if I could show you some things in a way where you could feel them for yourself, then maybe you would learn something from him and me, and what we went through, after all. The book was a way for you to live vicariously—go through the experiences without the costs and consequences.”
“Why do you worry about me?”
She leans back in her chair, shaking her head. “Maybe your dad is right. Jared was so difficult, and it was my fault, of course, but raising you has been such an easier experience that maybe I don’t know what to do with myself.”
Her eyes flash with something, like she’s practically lost in thought, and I know she’s thinking about my brother.
“Jared was just such an open book,” she muses. “If he didn’t like something, you knew. If he wanted something, he’d take it. If he wasn’t happy, he didn’t act like he was.” And then her eyes narrow so she can study me. “What do you want, Quinn? What makes you happy?” She leans forward, taking my hand. “Whatever it is, don’t wait on anyone else to give it to you. Don’t wait for it to just happen. Go get it.”
I frown, and it’s like I’m standing on a cliff, looking down onto a waterfall and everyone else has jumped—laughing and calling to me to follow—but I’m afraid of the drop.
“It’s kind of scary,” I choke out. “What if I love you all too much, and I’m afraid of disappointing you?”
“I know you love us,” she assures. “We all know, and we love you, too. That will never change.” She leans in, trying to catch my eyes. “But does it make you feel good? Sacrificing your own happiness to please others? Honey, if our love is that brittle, then we don’t deserve you. A strong person realizes that the only love you truly need in this life is the love you have for yourself. If you have that, it’s like armor. No one can stop you. No one else matters.”
“So that’s why you decided to let me read it,” I ask, looking up.
She nods.
“But why did you write it in the first place?”
“To learn about myself. To try to make sense out of everything Jason and I went through. Everything we put Madoc and Jared through.” She pauses and then continues. “We could say we were young and stupid, but that excuse only lasts so long before you realize that you were selfish and just really big assholes.”
I laugh to myself, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest. “Did you learn anything else?”
A smirk crosses her face, and she reaches behind her to dig in the desk drawer.
Pulling out a small forest green booklet, she hands it to me, and I open it up.
I see several transactions printed, and I can tell it’s a bankbook. I widen my eyes, spotting the balance on the bookmarked page. “Oh, my God.”
“I learned that it’s okay to love and to feel vulnerable and to make mistakes,” she says, “but it’s not okay to live a trapped life. Never give up your control to someone else.”
“Where did this money come from?”
“After I finished the book, I realized a woman should always protect herself. So I gave Jax some of the money I had saved, and the smart investor he is, he multiplied it.” She laughs. “Many times.”
Oh, my God.
I shoot my eyes back up to her. “Was this your security? In case you and my dad broke up?”
“No,” she answers. “It’s yours. I didn’t really need the savings when I married your dad, so I let Jax create an account, and it’s been collecting interest ever since.”
“It’s mine?” I can’t take this. What if she needs it some day?
“As long as you remember, Quinn . . . when you fall in love, take care of him,” she explains, “but take care of yourself, too. Make yourself happy. Spend it. Save it. Give it away. Your choice. Your life.”
Chapter 13
I slip the bankbook into my back pocket and make my way down the hall toward my father’s office.
My mom had just given me a crap load of money, and I shouldn’t take it, but she said it was a gift, and I could do anything with it. Save it, donate it . . . spend it on something.
My heart has started hammering in my chest, and I’m on autopilot, but I just keep going. I’m not sure what’s going to happen or what I’ll say to my dad, but it’s probably going to be something he doesn’t like, since why else would I be so nervous?
The hardest part is jumping. I can’t retreat, and I can’t keep trying to please the world.
I’d hate myself. There’s no choice.
Opening the cracked door wider, I step inside and see him standing at the bar against the wall, pouring himself his favorite GlenDronach to wind down before he heads to bed.
“Hey,” I broach, my voice surprisingly light.
He twists his head and replaces the top on the decanter, smiling at me. “Hey. I missed you tonight. Were you at the track?”
“For a bit.” I nod and walk into the room. “Dylan had her first race, so I rode with her.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and I immediately laugh. He may as well find out now before it shows up in his Facebook feed.
“Madoc all but forced me, okay? I’m still in one piece.”
He twists his lips to the side, scowling. “That kid, I swear . . .”
Yeah, that kid. I almost laugh.
My dad still sees Madoc as a cocky teenager, but I think he understands completely. We’re all helpless when Madoc decides he wants something.
Walking over to the large brown leather chairs by the bookcases, he sits down and takes a sip of whiskey. I follow and sit in the identical chair next to him, a small round table between us.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make your game today,” he says. “I heard you ‘kicked major ass.’”
I snort, knowing those aren’t my father’s words. “Madoc lies.”
Dylan and the rest of the team carry me. I’m simply there to make sure there are eleven players on the field.
But my father corrects me, anyway. “Lawyers don’t lie. We invent truth. It’s an art.”
Yeah, I’m sure. Lucky enough for him, he has clients willing to pay such huge amounts of cash for his “art.”
I lean back in the chair, pushing my hair behind my ear and studying him for a brief moment. His gray hair has a good amount of blond left, but while there are wrinkles around his eyes and the lines on his forehead have grown deeper over time, his blue eyes still pierce like lightning in a storm, and his hands are still so strong. I can remember the feel of my little fingers in his when he’d help me cross streets in the big city as a kid.
After all he and my mother went through and put each other through, I understand how he has so much hope for me. I was a long time in the making.
“You really love Mom, don’t you?” I say, holding his eyes.
“Of course,” he answers and then looks down, looking lost in thought as he takes another sip. “I can’t live without her. I never could.”
“What made you finally realize it?”
“When I realized that she was fine without me,” he admits. “I’d always lov
ed her, but when she got sober, and she was working and paying her bills . . . doing everything just fine on her own, I realized I had lost her, and the finality of it hit home.”
I narrow my eyes on him, still not sure I understand. He wanted her, because he no longer had control of her?
He seems to see my confusion, because he continues explaining.
“I was so arrogant back in those days, honey. I took everything for granted.” He swirls the liquid in his glass, staring at it, probably because it’s easier than looking me in the eye. “But seeing her turning her life around—happy—honestly, it hurt. It hurt my pride. It hurt my confidence. It hurt my equilibrium. It hurt everywhere.”
“Didn’t you want her to be healthy?”
He finally looks up at me, his tone turning soothing. “Of course I did. But I guess I thought, though, that if she didn’t need me, why would she want me? And all over again, I was in knots. Now that she had choices, would she still choose me?”
And all of a sudden I understand.
My dad had had absolutely no idea what he brought to the table outside of his money and power. He spent so much time and energy taking care of things, providing for her, throwing cash at their problems, that the nature of their relationship had been blurred. He thought my mom loved him, because she was young and naïve. Because fear kept her bound to him.
Once she was older, wiser, and stronger, what did he have to offer her except himself? And would she even want that?
“I’d lost her too many times, and now it was going to be for good,” he continues. “I couldn’t let her go. I finally woke up.”
For a long time, my father did what was best for him. Even though he loved her.
But after sixteen years, my mother finally realized that no one was going to save her but her, so she let him go. If he came after her, he came after her. If he didn’t, life would go on.
I’m not sure if my mother’s plan worked by giving me the book, though. I’ll make mistakes, and I’ll want things that are bad for me. That goes without saying. It’s human nature to be imperfect, after all.
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