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I hold onto the railing for a moment longer before deciding to go into my father’s office.
As I sit down behind the desk, my hair still wet from the walk up to the house, tiny drops of rain fall from my hair and hit the manilla envelope in front of me. My curiosity has gotten the better of me. Either that, or Alistair is in my head about caring too much about a girl I paid five-million dollars to be my wife.
I empty the contents of the envelope marked Evangeline across my father’s desk.
My heart skips a beat, my breath shallow and empty like a cavern.
I think about finding Evangeline here shortly after we came back from Vegas. The way her fingers pressed against the spines of the books as if she’d been trying to figure out which one she wanted to read first, or maybe revisiting an old favorite. The sight of her in here was arresting, the oversized t-shirt just barely covering her ass, and the thought of fucking her on my father’s desk was overwhelming and intoxicating; the perfect fuck you.
But I guess the fuck you was on me.
My eyes shift over to the framed Emerson poem on the wall behind me and my heart beats faster, my veins unable to hold the sudden surge of blood flow. I could never understand the love my father had for Emerson, but hearing Evangeline describe the meaning behind the lines – the way her cheeks flushed pink, and her pale blue eyes seemed to gleam like the ocean in sunlight – made want to understand more. Maybe I always knew but refused to let myself think of the possibility, because even though I didn’t get along with my father, I always held him to a higher standard, one that I could never reach so I never tried, but, of course he was human, and humans are flawed.
I can hear footsteps in the hall, the sound of wet sneakers on the wood flooring.
When I look up, I see her standing in the doorway, her eyes trained on the photos spread out before me: photos of her and my father. As if I’d made a noise – and maybe I did – her eyes snap up to mine, and even if I hadn’t had the proof right in front of me, her eyes are like a door leading to the dark place where she keeps all of her secrets.
How could I have been so stupid?
At the museum, I had asked her who made her fall in love with Emerson, and she avoided answering the question.
As if a puzzle piece fits into place, it all makes sense now.
Evangeline knew my father.
She knew him before we ever met.
