Page 65 of The Truth of Us

A long silence, then he said, “That is rarely the real reason.”

I hated when he was wise.

“I was scared.”

“That is more honest,” he murmured.

“I thought maybe if he knew me. Really knew me. Maybe…”

I trailed off because the sentence was humiliating. Maybe he would choose me. Maybe we could have what my parents did. Maybe he would look at all of me and not run from the weight of it.

My father’s voice softened. “The right person will not need you to make yourself smaller to be loved.”

I stared at the fire.

“And if they are frightened by who you are,” he continued, “then they were never meant to stand beside you.”

I thought of Elliot. Of his panic. Of the way he wanted to keep me, but could not trust me enough to let me love him without punishment.

I thought of my mother in a yellow dress asking my father if he meant what he said.

I thought of my father walking away from everything because love mattered more than legacy.

“I want that,” I admitted.

My father’s arm tightened around me. “I know.”

“I want what you had.” I whispered.

“I know.”

“I thought maybe…”

The tears came again, and my father held me through them. He did not tell me not to cry, or that Elliot was not worth it. Did not tell me I would find someone else. He just held me. Because sometimes the only thing worse than losing love is realizing you had believed in it and then watching it prove you wrong.

Much later, when the wine sat forgotten, and the fire burned low, I fell asleep tucked against my father’s side. Like a child, a daughter who had finally come home. And for the first time in a long time, I dreamed of my mother’s laugh without hearing the sound of cameras after it.

18

HARPER

Christmas morning came quietly. No alarms, traffic outside the window, or the sharp buzz of my phone on the nightstand reminding me of emails, meetings, or men who had no business living rent-free in my head. Just snow.

For a few seconds, I lay there staring at the ceiling and let myself exist inside the fragile pocket of peace before memory found me. Then it did. Chicago and that elevator. The scent of her perfume and the knowledge that he went there with her just to hurt me. My chest tightened before I could stop it. I closed my eyes and breathed through the ache, waiting for it to pass. It hadn’t, not really, but it had dulled since coming home. That seemed to be the best I could hope for lately.

The first few days after coming home had been a blur of sleep and my father pretending not to worry. I slept so hard the first night that I woke up disoriented and convinced I had missed something important. Then I remembered there was nothing left to miss. No schedule with Elliot, fake dates, late-night texts, no reason to roll over and check my phone. So I slept more.

My father didn’t push. He simply appeared with coffee, food, blankets, and the occasional glass of wine.

The house was quiet when I climbed out of bed Christmas morning and crossed to the window. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the lawns and gardens and the long drive in pristine white. The lake beyond the trees looked frozen; the surface pale and still beneath the winter sky. Montgomery House had always been beautiful at Christmas. Garland along the banisters. Candles in every window. A tree tall enough to have its own ladder. Fresh greenery tucked into mantels and doorways.

I pressed my fingertips to the cold glass. For one moment I could almost see her in the reflection. Sophie Lane Montgomery. Barefoot in the kitchen, hair pinned messily on top of her head, with flour on her cheek, telling my father that if he touched one more cookie before guests arrived, she would divorce him. He would pretend to be horrified, then steal another one.

I showered, left my hair damp, and pulled on leggings with one of my mother’s old sweaters.

Downstairs, I found my father in the kitchen with a mug of coffee and a look of suspicion aimed at a mixing bowl.

I stopped in the doorway, asking, “Should I be concerned?”