“I’m not sure what to do about it, other than cherish every moment. I have to go. You want to stay. But the more time we spend together, the more awful it feels to think about letting you go.”
Before she could ask him anything further, their server brought the next course, a butternut squash agnolotti in brown butter and crispy sage, accompanied by warm focaccia and a glass of viognier. The stone fruit and honeyed notes of the wine played beautifully with the brown butter.
They ate for a few minutes in silence. As good as the meal was, she couldn’t fully appreciate it. The conversation had upset her and brought more questions than answers.
Jason set down his fork, looking at her. “I know you want to get married again. Have a baby. Or two.”
She nodded, avoiding his gaze. “Yes. That’s what I want.”
“Who do you imagine when you think about getting married again?”
She looked up. “He’s a man just like you. Only he lives in Sugarville Grove.”
“I’m not the guy you want, Mauve. It’s not just my profession. I don’t know the first thing about raising a family or being a father. I didn’t have a father to show me how to be one.”
“You had your uncle. Walter’s the best example of a great father I can think of.”
“It wasn’t the same. In fact, I felt jealous of my cousins.”
“I can understand that,” she said softly. “I had a father, but he wasn’t a role model. I certainly don’t want a man like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was cold. Distracted. Often irritated at my very existence.”
“Is that true? Or was he a man who couldn’t show his feelings? It’s not uncommon, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter if that’s the case or not. Whatever his reasons, he never made me feel safe or loved. He’s a man who should never have had a family.” She took a sip of her water, suddenly parched. “I can’t remember the last time I talked to him. And I have no desire to.”
“What about your mom? She sent you those ornaments. That says something.”
“It was unexpected, that’s for sure. But she was probably just cleaning out the attic and figured it was time to declutter. Or whatever. My mother’s sweet, but completely cowed by him. She’s always done exactly what he wants. As far as I can tell, she’s never wanted anything for herself. Or had a thought that wasn’t directed by him. She votes like him. Thinks like him.” She wiped condensation from her water glass with her thumb. “They say you marry your father, even if you don’t want to. Even if you consciously try to avoid it, one day you wake up and realize you’ve done exactly that, in some kind of Shakespearean tragedy.”
“Your ex-husband was like your father?”
“Oh, yes. I didn’t see it at first because he’s charming. Like a cobra, you know.”
“A cobra?”
“You know how they sway side to side, hypnotizing their prey before they strike.”
He grimaced, picking up his wine glass. “I mean no offense when I say this, nor do I deny the metaphor as valid, but that’s not exactly accurate. They’re swaying because they’re tracking movement. They have poor vision for still objects but good motion detection, so, when they rock side to side, they're keeping a moving target in focus. The hypnotized prey is often just frozen in fear. A common prey response to predators.”
She stared at him before barking out a laugh. “How in the world do you know that?”
“I had a role in a jungle adventure movie a few summers back. I like to learn as much as I can about what it would be like for my character. What they fear, for example. My character’s core fear was allowing himself to be vulnerable and not see an attack coming, which manifested in a fear of snakes. People’s fears tell us a lot about who they truly are, under whatever outer persona they take on.”
“What are you afraid of?” Mauve asked.
He didn’t answer for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass so hard she thought it might spill. “I’m afraid of failure. Of not living up to my potential. Wasting my life. Being worthless, I guess. Invisible.”
The raw honesty of his words settled deep in her chest. Wasting. Worthless. Invisible. His identity was tied up with how much he achieved. “Which is why you push yourself so hard?”
“Yeah. I mean, learning about cobras is a good example. I wanted to be the most knowledgeable person on set. I always want to be the best. It’s exhausting, but it’s the way I’m wired.” He glanced toward the window. “When we were kids, Roan usedto talk for me, you know, because of my stutter. I learned early on what it feels like to be inconsequential. The world didn’t need two of us. Roan was the stronger twin. No stutter. Gifted athletically. If I’d have vanished, no one would have noticed. They’d have the good twin. The successful twin.”
“So you started carving out your own identity. As the entertainer.”
“I craved attention. Still do. When I took drama in middle school, this strange thing happened. When I said the lines from a play, my stutter just vanished. By then, I’d gotten it mostly under control, but, when I was nervous or stressed, it came back. But not when I was on stage. With everyone looking at me, I felt magical. The first time I made the class laugh—performing a scene—it was like I finally knew why I’d been born and what made me special. I’ve been chasing that high ever since.”
