There’s something about him that makes me want to open up. Reminds me of when I first met Jules, and she was able to pull truths from me that I normally lock away. Maybe it’s how easy it’s been to talk to him. Maybe it’s how safe he feels.
What would I even say? That my presence was a burden to the people who should have loved me? That I learned not to rely on others because they never showed up for me? Or that I’ve always found it easier to keep people at arm’slength—and that’s why I married Mason, because he didn’t ask questions. He let me pretend life before him never happened.
But here’s James, asking me to share and giving me his full attention.
I take a deep breath and say, “I didn’t have a good childhood. It’s hard to talk about.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I get it. I don’t like talking about my shit either. It’s hard to talk about the things we try to bury.”
I exhale, grateful for the way he doesn’t press for the sordid details. “Exactly. It’s like… if I don’t talk about it, maybe I can pretend it never happened.”
“But it happened,” James says. “And it shaped you.”
“You started reading the Riley Sager book yesterday, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. Are we starting our book club now?” He jokes, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Did you get to the part with the poemRemember?”
“Yeah I looked it up.Better by far you should forget and smile / Than that you should remember and be sad.But I don't know... choosing to forget feels like giving up. Maybe the hard stuff is what makes us who we are.”
“That sounds nice in theory,” I say carefully. “But what if some things are too heavy to carry around? What if remembering just keeps you stuck?”
“I guess that's the risk. Without remembering, how will you ever know if you’ve grown?”
Every instinct in me screams to reach for him. To fold into his chest and feel him tuck me under his arm. I want to ask what pain taught him to look at the world this way. Share why that poem doesn’t even pertain to me since the person asking you to forget would have to love you first. To kiss the corner of his mouth and run my fingers through the lock of hair that falls across his forehead.
No, Sydney. He’s not yours. Bad girl.
“What’s the deal with you and Ivy?” I ask the question tumbling out of nowhere.
I plead temporary insanity.
He sputters into his coffee, glancing around to see if anyone is within earshot, then turns the full force of his gaze on me. “What’s the deal with you and your husband? Because from what I’ve seen, he’s kind of a dick. And you… You’re not.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I look out the window, pretending the cool mountain air can soothe the burn beneath my skin. I’ve spent so long making excuses for his behavior, explaining it away, that hearing someone else see it so clearly strips me of every defense.
“Ouch.” I let out a shaky laugh and shift to break the tension, but our knees brush and I jump to my feet, dizzy from more than the movement. I grasp for something to steady myself.
His hand shoots out, gently holding my arm. “What was that? You just went white again.”
“I’m getting a refill, just stood up too quickly. You want one?”
As I head to the kitchen, I fold away this conversation into the back of my mind like a fragile note I’ll read later. I force my lips into an easy, soft smile, already knowing I’ll unfold that note sooner than I should.
***
Onceeveryoneisup,Gary and Margaret hand out gifts. They always select something thoughtful. I peel back the paper on mine to find a deep red cashmere pashmina. Luxurious and soft, perfect for wrapping around my shoulders in the quiet mornings here.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“I know how often you curl up in the sunroom,” Margaret says, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “Thought you might adore something to keep you cozy while you read.”
Across the room, Ivy clutches a gift, tears in her eyes.
“I noticed you didn’t have this lens in your gear,” James explains. “I thought maybe the new focal length might inspire you to pick up your camera again. I haven’t seen you use it.”
“James, this is...” She’s at a loss for words, staring down at the lens. “It’s a lovely gift, but I’m no longer a photographer.”
