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She saw the door open, and there was Aunt Clare, wearing a floral dress and a beaming smile, her fine blond hair cut short to frame her face. Behind her was Aiden, slouched against the door frame, his dark hair falling over his eyes.
Her heart beat a little harder.
I love you, Izzy.
Did he still feel that way? Probably not. She’d learned that feelings were strange, unpredictable things.
The moment the car stopped, Molly gave a whoop, unclipped her seat belt and raced across the gravel drive.
“Aunt Clare!”
Aunt Clare scooped her up and swung her round before giving her a massive hug and kiss.
Izzy felt her throat close. She felt vulnerable. Awkward. A thousand years older than the last time she’d been here. Life had seemed so simple then, but it hadn’t been of course. It was just that she’d seen it as simple because she hadn’t known the truth. Now she knew and knowing was like dragging a boulder along behind her.
“Izz?” Her dad was looking at her and she felt panic rising inside her like milk left too long on the heat.
Unless she wanted to handle questions, she needed to move.
She reached for the door but he leaned across and his hand covered hers.
“Are you doing okay? I know this isn’t easy.” He spoke softly. “You’re thinking of Mom, and that’s natural. I guess we all are.”
She was thinking of her mother, but probably not in the way he assumed. The secret she’d been carrying formed a barrier between her and everyone else.
She’d never felt more isolated in her life. “I’m okay, Dad. Really. How are you doing?” It had to be hard on him, too.
“I’m good, and a lot of that is because of you.” He squeezed her hand. “You’ve been a superhero, Izzy. I don’t know what I would have done without you this past year. You’re the best daughter a man could have.”
His words made her eyes sting and her throat close. She knew she wasn’t that, but she didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t have known what to say, particularly as Flora was still sitting in the back seat.
“Izzy, I promise you’re going to have fun here. Flora and I are going to take care of Molly so you can do whatever you enjoy.”
“I enjoy being with Molly, Dad. She’s my sister.”
Did she really have to say it? There wasn’t a single person on the planet who understood her.
“But you should be spending time with kids your own age. I expect you’ll be pleased to see Aiden again.”
She was, although she was also nervous. What if his feelings toward her had changed? And she was so angry with everyone, what if she was angry with him? What if she hated him, too?
“We should say hi to Aunt Clare.” With a quick smile, she fumbled for the door and exited the car hoping to leave her mini meltdown behind in the car.
She walked across to Clare a little hesitantly. Last time they’d seen each other was at the funeral, which Izzy barely remembered. The whole day had been a dark, heavy blur of horror.
Clare put Molly down and then Izzy felt herself wrapped in the same warm hug Molly had been given. She breathed in Clare’s floral scent and closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself the comfort even though it wasn’t specific to her problem.
Aunt Clare had always been a hugger and a homemaker. Izzy had often heard her mother say that she couldn’t understand why anyone would give up a glamorous career working for a glossy, glamorous magazine to bury herself in the middle of nowhere and spend her day making beds after other people, wiping mud from boots and baking cakes.
Izzy didn’t know anything about editing a glossy magazine. All she knew was that whenever you were with Aunt Clare you felt cared for and fussed over. She was never on her phone, distracted by which filters to use on a photograph she was about to post on social media, and she never cared about her hair or her makeup when she was hugging you. Even though she was busy, she was never in a rush. She seemed to live in the moment rather than pushing forward to the next goal, and nothing she did was for public consumption.
On the flight, Izzy had started to write a piece about the perils of presenting a fake version of yourself to the world, but then she’d realized she was guilty of doing exactly that. It wasn’t the same, of course, not really. Keeping secrets and thoughts inside you wasn’t the same as presenting a polished, happy image. She’d made that the point of the piece, the central question that she hoped would stimulate conversation. How much of your true self do you keep from the world?
“How’s my Izzy?” The affection in Clare’s voice made Izzy tempted to tell the truth.
I’m completely messed-up. Help me.
This wasn’t the time, of course, but maybe—maybe later—
