I flip to the nearly blank dedication page, focusing on the words centered there.
To Forrest.
Thank you for helping me believe in Happily Ever After again, even if we couldn’t have our own. Every moment with you was better than fiction.
Finally, I know how Margot must have felt with every letter she got from Savannah. The bittersweet elation of having communication from the one person you need most, even if their words cut you to the quick. I reread her dedication—words formethat she plans on baring to the whole world—and hardly know whether to be grateful or miserable. It’s the final farewell she never had the chance to give me.
“You’re only half of yourself without her,” my dad says gently, pulling my gaze up.
“You’re right,” I manage, because truer words were never uttered. “But this is her goodbye, Dad. It’s closure.”
“Read between the goddamn lines, son. This isn’t goodbye unless you let it be. Haven’t you ever read a romance novel? You need to go to her, and you need to gonow.” The way he says this last sentence is heavy with experience. He knows exactly what it feels like to be torn from the person who balances out the scales of your life.
“But I can’t leave you,” I argue shakily, and this time it’s not coming from a place of rational thinking. “Not after Mom.”
He tilts his head, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Come on, now. Do you think for one second that Sheila Marie Wakefield would’ve tolerated you moping around here like goddamn Eeyore when you could be chasing down your soulmate and continuing your life’s work?”
Up until now, I’ve managed to keep my eyes dry. But hearing my mother’s name is like hitting a release valve. I think of her standing tall and straight in the kitchen, her clean white aprontied around her like armor. I remember the flash of her knife, as sharp and beautiful as her smile. I remember her embrace, as firm and sure as the way she always said “I love you.” She wouldn’t have put up with any of my shit. She never did.
“No,” I say, my voice like a rusty hinge swinging open. “She wouldn’t have.”
“Your mom left us when she had to, on her terms. There’s nothing you could’ve done differently that she would have allowed,” my dad says, his tone brooking no argument. “Every moment I had with her was one I’ll always cherish, and no, it wasn’t long enough. But do you think if I’d known we’d lose her, I would’ve let hergo? Lost even one more second with her?”
I shake my head, pressing a hand to my eyes as my breath starts coming in stutters. “No,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t have.”
“Then my question is—wouldyou?”
I drop my hand to look at him. For the first time in two months, I see a spark of hope in his eyes that I thought had been snuffed out for good. I blamed its loss on the seizure and his physical setbacks, but as it rekindles now, I see that it hasn’t been about his health at all. I realize I’ve done the one thing he never would have—I’ve willingly given up the love of my life for another, when all along, he knew I could have both.
“No,” I finally answer him, bracing my hands against the desk. “I wouldn’t.”
He nods, and when he smiles, it looks broader than Alaska itself. “Then I guess you’d better start packing. The flight I booked you leaves this afternoon.”
I stare at my father, who, despite his new challenges, has taken charge of the situation and reversed our roles. I realize I’m no longer taking care of him—he’s taking care of me. And at long last, I’m going to see her. At long last, I’m going home.
If she’ll have me.
32MARGOT
Tell me those are NOT what I think they are.”
At the sound of my sister’s voice, I turn to see her standing in the doorway to my office, holding a bowl of popcorn and staring at my ass.
“Yep,” I say, pulling out the high waist of my underwear and letting it snap back. “Ye Olde Panties of Lies themselves.”
“?‘Ye Olde’? Do they have a built-in chastity belt?”
“Discreet but effective cockblocking or your money back,” I murmur, staring at the email on my screen. It’s from Sylvie, the podcast host who witnessed the infamous Happily Never After leak and who will be hosting my much anticipated comeback interview tonight. I scan the details for the hundredth time, still cowed by the sheer number of people who RSVP’d to hear our live stream talk.
There’s a soft ceramic-against-wood sound as Savannah puts her bowl down on my desk and comes up behind me. I breathe in the delicious scent of buttery popcorn as she rests her chin on my shoulder, realizing I haven’t eaten anything in hours.
“How many times are you going to read that?” she asks, looking down at my screen with me.
I’ve shoved a handful of popcorn into my mouth. “As many times as it takes for these numbers to get smaller.”
Reaching out, she puts a denim-blue-painted fingernail over the end of tonight’s participant number, covering the last zero. “Better?”
“Somuch better,” I say gratefully.
