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“Shannon. Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”
“Because, in my pride, I thought I was the friend who had it all together. And I didn’t want you feeling sorry for me. But I’m telling you now, because… well, because I want to be honest. And I want you to be honest.”
So that was how it worked. Abby swallowed, knowing that no matter what her friend had shared, she wasn’t ready to have a similar bloodletting, but Shannon was clearly waiting for one.
“You’re right,” she finally said at last. “My relationship with my dad is complicated. He can be difficult, but that’s because he’s sad.”
“But you’re not responsible—”
“For his happiness. No.” Abby nodded. No, she wasn’t responsible for her father’s happiness, but she had been for his sorrow. His grief. And no matter how much she talked it out—she’d had a couple years of therapy in her mid-twenties—or rationalized it in her own head, no matter how much she understood intellectually that it was a trucker asleep at the wheel who was at fault for her mother and brother’s death and not her, her heart and her gut told her otherwise—every single day. Every single moment. And she knew her father felt the same way.
But she’d never admitted to Shannon how or why she was to blame, and she couldn’t bear to now. She knew—at least she hoped—that Shannon wouldn’t judge her; if anything, her friend would feel pity. So much pity. But Abby didn’t think she could stand that, either. She’d had enough of it already. And so she stayed silent, because that was what she always did, and she wasn’t ready, or able, to change now.
“So do you think Simon is justified in doing this research?” she asked, and Shannon sighed, leaning back against the sofa, accepting, thank goodness, that Abby wasn’t going to share anymore. “Because it concerns his family too?”
“Maybe he could have been more respectful, but it’s not as if it really matters, does it? It happened so long ago. Even if your grandfather did something truly shocking, which I doubt he did…”
“It matters to my dad.”
“But that’s your dad, Abby,” Shannon said gently. “Not you. If you take your father out of the equation for a moment, does it matter to you?”
Abby simply stared at her. She’d never taken her father out of the equation, not once in fifteen years.
“Are you curious about this Matthew whoever and why your grandfather might have ended up with his medal? And, more importantly, do you want this thing that happened in the past, whatever it is, to come between you and Simon, or draw you closer together?”
“I’m not sure there is a ‘me and Simon’, not really.”
“There still could be.”
“He lives in England—”
“That’s a whole separate issue.”
Abby let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know what I want,” she admitted. “I’m curious, it’s true, and I… I like Simon.” That felt like a confession, a big one, for her. “But my dad.” Three little words that meant so much, that had guided so much of her life. But my dad. She thought of the look of anger on her father’s face and then, far worse, the look of weary resignation. “This matters to him. A lot. I don’t know why, and I think he even knows it shouldn’t, but it still does.”
“It’s not like Simon is running to the papers—”
“He’s thinking of writing a book.”
“But he hasn’t written it yet. And maybe it would actually be better for your father—and for you—to find out whatever this thing is. Secrets are usually not good or healthy, especially in a family.”
And I’m so very tired of secrets. The realization, as obvious as it surely was, felt strangely groundbreaking. Revelatory in a way that had her sitting back and shaking her head slowly. She didn’t want any more secrets. She didn’t want to keep them; she didn’t want to stay silent about yet another thing in her life, or someone’s else life. And she didn’t want to throw away the promise of something—someone—good in her life, no matter how fleeting or uncertain that relationship might be, for yet another secret, and one that wasn’t even hers.
“You’re right,” Abby said at last, smiling a little tiredly. “Thank you for saying so. And thank you for putting up with all my crap. I’m sorry I’m not a better friend.”
“You’re the best friend.” Shannon smiled and reached for the bottle to top up their glasses. “Now, I think it is finally time to put on Gilmore Girls.”
Two hours later, Abby was walking the mile and a half home through a sultry summer darkness, the country road back to Willow Tree lit only by the stars and a full, silver disc of a moon. Silvery light gilded the fields as she walked, the air balmy and still.
She felt a tangled mix of sadness and hope; even though she hadn’t told Shannon much, the whole conversation had rocked a door in her heart right off its hinges. Whether she chose to nail it shut once more or pry it open even more remained to be seen.
Back at Willow Tree, the house was cloaked in quiet, the only light coming from the one on the top of the stove. Her father always left it on when she was out at night, just as her mother had. Traditions carried on, a little reminder of the love and care she knew both her parents had felt for her—and still did.
Her father still loved her. Abby didn’t doubt that. She never had, except for in her very darkest moments, right after the accident, when they’d both been frozen in shocked grief and terrible silence.
With a shuddery sigh, Abby flicked off the stove light, so only moonlight lit her way upstairs, the steps creaking under her soft footsteps. She passed her father’s bedroom, and then the guest one, and was about to turn into her own when the fourth bedroom’s door, as firmly shut as always, caught her eye.
Abby hesitated, and then, feeling a little bit as if she were existing outside herself, observing her actions, she walked to the door and quietly turned the knob. It swung open easily, surprising her. Surely after all these years it should be stuck, squeak in protest?
