Page 30 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

“Stop,” I say.

“I’m not finished?—”

“Yes you are. Whatever you came here to do, you’re done now.”

Her voice climbs. “You have no right— You haveno rightto stand there and act like you’re protecting anyone. You are the reason this happened. You arealwaysthe reason?—”

“Get out,” I say.

“This is not your?—”

“Get out of this cabin.” My voice is emotionless and quiet. This is how I’ve learned to deal with my mother. If I give her even a hint of reactivity, she wins. “Right now.”

She looks at me the way she has always looked at me when I don’t perform the version of son that she requires—like I’m a problem that has refused, once again, to resolve itself.

Then she looks past me at Lennon, and whatever she sees there gives her one more thing she needs to say before she goes.

“Jezebel,” she says heatedly. “You are ajezebeland my son is better off without you! One day you will understand exactly what you threw away. But this is one sin you will nevereverbe forgiven for.”

“Mom.” My voice has an edge in it now. “Walk out that door.”

She does.

Not quickly. No, she takes her time, because leaving quickly would look like retreat and my mother does not retreat. She withdraws until next time, and always with one parting shot over her shoulder. “Delilah!”

I slam the door shut behind her, head down in shame for my shameless mother.

I don’t move.

Behind me I can hear Lennon grabbing her carry-on and moving with focused efficiency. She’s clearly done with all of this.

She doesn’t look at me when I finally turn around.

“Lennon—”

“I need to go figure some things out.” She zips the bag and swings her laptop case over her shoulder. Still not looking at me, and I understand it, I do.

She woke up this morning in bed with a stranger and found out he’s her almost-ex-husband’s brother and his mother just stood in this cabin and called her names.

“I didn’t know who you were,” I say. “I need you to know that.”

She stops.

Looks at me.

The calculation is still running behind her eyes—I can see it, the assembling and discarding of possibilities. I have nothing to offer except the truth. Which is that I met a fantastic, unexpected woman in a hot tub last night who then jumped in a sixty-two-degree pool because she wanted to know what it felt like, and I had no idea she was connected to anyone I’d ever met in my life.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” she says finally.

And then she picks up her bag and walks out the door.

I stand in the empty cabin.

Her phone charger is still in the wall. I unplug it, coil it carefully, and set it on the nightstand.

Then, since I’m already in my swim gear, I go get in the pool and swim in the frigid water until the noise in my head gets closer to something manageable.

It takes much, much longer than usual.