Page 58 of The Truth of Us

By six, Timothy had agreed to take over as Northwell’s point of contact.

By seven, I had boxed up the things Elliot had sent me. Every piece, every reminder. Every pretty little lie. Then I stood in front of the desk in my bedroom and stared at the first edition book I had found for him.

It had taken three calls, one favor from an auction contact, and far too much money for a book I only knew existed because Elliot had told me about it half asleep one night.

His voice was so soft then. Sleepy and unprotected. He had told me about a nanny who used to read it to him when he was little. About how she smelled of lavender hand cream and peppermint tea. About how, for a while, she was the only person who made the house feel less empty. He had said it as if it were nothing, like it didn’t matter. Like it was normal for little boys to remember hired caretakers with more tenderness than their own parents. I had tracked down the book the next morning, and was going to give it to him after we talked. After he told me what he wanted us to be, after I was brave enough to tell him my real last name, who my family was and why I was so guarded.

Instead, I wrapped it carefully and placed it with the returned gifts. My fingers lingered on the paper too long. I considered keeping it because that felt like keeping the version of Elliot I had almost believed in. But that version had not been real enough to stop him from hurting me.

So I sent it too.

Then I called my father. He answered on the second ring, “My angel.”

I closed my eyes and sat on the edge of my bed, surrounded by half-packed bags and open boxes, and the wreckage of the life I had been building.

“I’m coming home early.”

The silence on the other end changed, as if he moved to a quieter room. “How early?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

Another pause. Then, “Do you need me?”

My throat tightened so quickly that I had to press my fingers against it. “Yes.”

The word came out small, barely there, but he heard it.

“I’ll send the plane.”

“Dad…”

“No.” He used the same tone that had silenced boardrooms, senators, reporters, and me when I was eight and convinced I could cut my own bangs.

“I’ll send the plane,” he repeated.

“You don’t need to rearrange your day.”

“Harper.” Just my name, that was all. Because my father had never made me ask twice to be loved.

“I’ll be home waiting for you.”

I stared down at my hands, at the ring on my right hand, the one I wore because it belonged to my mother.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“And Harper?”

“Yeah?”

“Eat something.”

That was when the tears finally came. They were accompanied by what could only be described as a laugh that sounded more like a snort. It was not pretty.

But only my father and those he trusted most knew I shut down for a while, that when I was stressed, I didn’t eat, and that became dangerous.

“I will.” I reassured him.

I am pretty sure he knew I was lying. And that was even more obvious when I got on the family plane and the stewardess and pilot showed me all my favourite foods my father insisted be aboard when I arrived.