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“I would wager a disgusting amount of money that you already know the precise answer to that question.”
“And yet I asked, so how about we cut the bullshit and you tell me?”
I shook my head. “Oh… are we still on thisNalani is a liarfantasy of yours?”
“Until I’m convinced otherwise.”
“Or… I could just hang up the fucking phone. As a matter of fact I think that's the option I'm going to take, because… kiss my ass,” I told him, already pulling the phone away from my ear.
I could hear him squawking about something, but that didn’t keep me from pressing the button to end the call.
Exactly one minute later, my phone rang again.
“Beloved husband!” I gushed, repeating my sarcastic greeting in hopes it would get under his skin.
“This is childish,” he growled into the phone and I laughed.
“Yes, it is. And you started it.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Beg as much as you want,” I countered. “And the facts will still be what they are. I was trying to be cool for Calli’s sake, but I see you can’t come to the same conclusion. Until you’re ready to stop being an asshole, I’m going to give you back your exact energy.”
He scoffed. “Grow the fuck up.”
“You first,” I replied, pulling the phone from my ear again to end the call.
This time when his name popped up again I didn’t bother answering.
Who had the damn time?
I put my phone on do not disturb, then moved back to what had previously held my attention, the stack of letters in the box from my mother’s office. The envelopes clearly hadn’t been through the mail, not traditionally at least. The only thing on them was my mother’s name, right in the middle, written in neat, beautiful cursive.
I didn’t recognize the handwriting.
The letters inside were done in the same lovely script, but I didn’t read the words.
It felt like an invasion of privacy, especially when the letters were signedS.R.,which I could easily deduce as Stanford Reese.
They were love letters.
Which made me wonder if my aunt’s version of events was quite accurate.
Maybe it washertruth, but notthetruth.
There were no dates on the letters that might clue me in to a timeline, but I’d seen glimpses of them as a child.
The pregnancies she lost… was Stanford the father?
Had they reconnected overhergrief or was the grief theirs to share?
Curiosity had me practicallyitchingto just read the letters to get answers, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so, out of respect. At the very least, I would contact Stanford first—maybe under the pretense of talking business, maybe not—and givehimthe opportunity to define his relationship with my mother.
And explain his absence as Soren’s father.
Assuming he even knew.
But he had to know, right?
