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“It’s not that bad,” Ewan states, ever the optimist. “We get fun food here, and we can play music.”
“No, you can’t go to the music room,” I say, my voice sharp. I wince at my own tone. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just . . . this isn’t our home, and we need to stick to this area, okay?”
Ewan stares at me suspiciously. Like his father, he’s always challenging orders and likes to do whatever he wants. I love his independence, but it could get us in serious trouble here.
I meet their gazes. “Promise me you’ll both stay in this room tonight, no matter what. Please. If you can’t sleep, you have to stay in your room.”
Ewan’s blue eyes stare at me, almost daring. “So we don’t bother the bad guy. What if we meet him and make him kind?”
My stomach drops at the thought of them meeting Brahms. I’m . . . I’m not ready for that. It’s not time for them to learn about their father. I take a deep breath, covering the panic that his question created, and say, “He’s just sick. It’d be best if we let him rest, don’t you think?”
They glance at each other, a silent twin communication passing between them. At last Ary nods, her curls bouncing. “We promise, Mommy,” she says sweetly. My shoulders relax in relief. Crisis averted, for now at least.
With a final kiss on each forehead, I rise, leaving their bedroom. No sooner than I take a step away, my phone buzzes, the vibration jarring against the hushed hallway. The screen lights up with Brahms’s name.
Ugh, what does he want? It’s eight o’clock. I need two hours to decompress. Just two fucking hours. I swear the kids weren’t as needy as he is now when they were toddlers.
Brahms: It’s okay if you don’t come tonight. I hope you were able to fix your emergency.
I stare down at the phone, conflicted. On the one hand, he’s giving me a break, but on the other, I enjoy those few minutes next to him when we don’t say anything because I’m not alone. But then again, I’m relieved because I don’t have the energy to fight another day about . . . I don’t even know what we’ll end up arguing about.
Sephie: Is this some kind of trick?
Brahms: No, I just think you had a long day, and it’s best if you rest.
Sephie: What’s the catch, Ehrenberg?
Brahms: There’s no catch.
Sephie: I want to believe you, but this isn’t you.
Brahms: Maybe I finally learned that I can’t force you to love me again, to forgive me.
Something about this doesn’t sit right with me. Why is he suddenly acting so resigned? I know he’s been making progress in counseling, Ellington mentioned it earlier, when I called to ask for help. Maybe Brahms is ready to tell me the truth.
I hold my breath, wondering if he’s ready to give me real answers. Before I overthink it, I type the question that’s been haunting me for so long.
Sephie: Why didn’t you tell me about your relationship with Iris?
Brahms: It’s complicated.
His vague response makes my heart constrict painfully. So it’s true—they were together.
Sephie: There you go again, giving me vague explanations.
I wait, watching those ominous dots jump on the screen as he types. My stomach twists itself in knots anticipating his reply.
Brahms: You’ll have to be ready to hear things like your dad was a drunk since before you were born, or . . .
I stare at the dots, waiting for more. Dad being a drunk since then seems like a lie but I’ve learned that my parents hid a lot of stuff from me. When his text arrives, I’m even more upset.
Brahms: I don’t want to do that, be the one hurting you with the truth.
Sephie: So, you prefer to hide truths and hurt me with lies.
Brahms: Some lies are necessary.
Sephie: That’s bullshit.
