At the time, I knew Hannah’s fears were legitimate. Her parents would have never accepted a grandchild born out of wedlock. And seeing my friend terrified at the possibility of losing the only family she’d ever known was a stark reminder.
The Prices had always shown me kindness. They’d eased my path in a new town, and they’d given me a place to be that wasn’t filled with the neglect and indifference of my aunt’s house. Hannah had been my first real friend in Kirby Falls, and when she was scared and alone, she’d sought me out. I couldn’t turn her away and watch her life fall apart.
So I married her. We announced her pregnancy shortly thereafter, and eight months later, nobody batted an eye when Lyndsey was born. She was perfect—the sweetest, most beautiful baby. At the time, I was too focused on Lyndsey to worry about my marriage to Hannah. We were friends again and navigating parenthood. There wasn’t room for anything else.
As strange as it sounded, I was happy. I loved Lyndsey and our approximation of a family. My own experiences growing up had been so limited. I never wanted Lyndsey to feel unwanted or unloved. The late-night bottles and the colic never bothered me because I had this perfect little person to take care of.
We got an apartment off campus, and Hannah finished up her degree while I stayed home with the baby. When our lives brought us back to Kirby Falls the following year, Hannah got a job teaching at the elementary school while I came on board at Judd’s Orchard. I put all the money I’d saved toward a little house for the three of us—the house I lived in now. And things were good...for a time.
When Lyndsey was just over a year old, Hannah asked for a divorce, seemingly out of the blue. She said she’d met someone else, and she was moving to Tennessee to be with him. That he was a good person and he loved her. He was ready to be a dad. They’d been in an online relationship for a while, and Hannah wanted a clean break from me. She’d said Lyndsey wasn’t really mine anyhow, and if they left now, she’d never even remember me. Hannah seemed to think that was for the best. But the knowledge battered my already bruised heart. How something that felt so vital and beloved to me could only exist in my memories alone.
But I wanted Lyndsey to grow up safe and loved. I’d been saddled with a messy family life as a child and adolescent. I never wanted that for her. The confusion, the upheaval. Constantly wondering what I’d done wrong. I wanted Lyndsey to have stability and security.
So I didn’t fight it. I let them both go. It nearly killed me to lose Lyndsey, but I wanted Hannah to be happy, and, by that point, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen with me. If I had to break my own heart so that Lyndsey would have a bright and prosperous future, I would do it—over and over again.
But small-town gossip and perception painted me the bad guy—the deadbeat dad who let his family go without a backward glance or child support.
Hannah’s parents didn’t approve of our divorce, but they supported their daughter, especially when they had someone to blame for the drama and disruption in their lives. I didn’t correct them. I kept my head down and my mouth shut. Hannah never wanted them to know the truth about Lyndsey’s paternity, and it wasn’t my place to reveal her secret. So I ignored the disproving stares and the gossip, and I kept to myself. And four weeks after Hannah had asked for a divorce, my family was gone.
My life was quieter after that. No more babbling in the high chair or singing songs at bedtime. Gradually, in the two and a half years since, I’d gotten used to the silence.
A few times a month I had to deal with locals who thought they knew my life or church ladies who felt like they owed it to the Prices to hate me on principle.
It didn’t matter. Shit like that had never bothered me anyway.
Hannah was happy, and she was a good mom to Lyndsey—always had been. And Hannah’s new husband loved them both. Based on news around town, things were going well for them in Tennessee.
There wasn’t a place for me in their lives anymore.
But I still had to deal with the fallout.
At least when people thought they knew my story, I didn’t have to answer questions or explain things.
Having Candace stare at me in confusion, awaiting an answer I didn’t know how to formulate, was a situation that didn’t come up too often.
So instead of addressing her unspoken questions, I replied simply with a shake of my head, “You can always count on small-town judgment no matter how long you’ve been away.”
And then I ignored the way she kept looking at me, and I changed the subject. “The whole town will hear you’re an exotic dancer before lunchtime.”
Hazel eyes searched my face for another long moment before she shrugged casually and glanced away. “That’ll spice things up around here.”
It wasn’t rational, but I wanted her attention back. I’d managed to divert her curiosity, and now I felt disappointed over it. That didn’t make any sense.
Then I considered her words. I supposed Candace was used to bigger and better everything.
“I guess Kirby Falls can’t really compare to New York,” I mused, straightening the flyers on the tabletop when they were plenty straight already.
“It has its charms,” Candace replied easily. “Besides, I’ve missed home. I’m glad to be back.”
The rest of the morning at the farmers’ market sped by as business picked up. Eventually, Candace got comfortable enough to chat with the customers. She seemed at ease with tourists, but every now and then a Kirby Falls resident would recognize her and she’d stiffen up. Neighbors and former classmates and coaches approached, and I’d see her smile go strained and her shoulders brace for impact.
I couldn’t understand it. Candace Judd seemed universally beloved. Everyone who remembered her did so with a kind word and a fond recollection. She never once corrected them when they called her Candy, and I didn’t step in again.
I witnessed her tension rise through every encounter until early afternoon when I couldn’t stand to see another strained smile. I asked if she was hungry and told her I was starving. After passing her some cash, I asked if she’d care to pick us up some lunch at the Hogs Wild food truck set up down the street.
As I watched Candace walk stiffly away, I considered that maybe everyone had complicated histories with their hometowns. Even when their pasts seemed perfect and unblemished by scandal. Maybe coming home wasn’t always what you thought it would be.
We ate our lunches quietly as the farmers’ market mostly wound down. Candace had relaxed a bit since her return with our beef brisket sandwiches, but she still seemed cautious with me.
