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Ignoring my aunt’s soft tone was super-duper easy because I’d perfected the art of ignoring tones and loaded looks and heavy subtext.
She sighed, reaching over to snatch the bottle of cleaning solution away from me.
“Hey.” When I tried to take it back, she moved it out of reach. “I can’t talk about this,” I told her. “Not now.”
“At some point, you should,” she said. Her eyes were soft and understanding. This wasn’t burning-bras Aunt Daphne; it wasn’t chain-yourself-to-the-building Aunt Daphne. This was the woman who had held me when my mom died and had always listened to me when I needed to unburden my heart.
“If I talk about it,” I said quietly, “I’ll start crying. And that’s so stupid because he does not deserve my tears.”
“Oh, honey.” She came next to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. “It’s not stupid if you’re sad. Burke is ...”
“Also stupid.”
She laughed. “I don’t know if I’d use that word.”
I swiped my nose. “What word would you use?”
Aunt Daphne didn’t have to think very long. “Lost.”
My eyes snapped up to hers.
“That man has had a lot of change in his life in a very short amount of time. And that does not excuse how he left,” she said firmly, “but after I moved past my unquenchable desire to chop his balls off for hurting you, I had to ask myself why he did it.”
My chin trembled.
It was the question I refused to dwell on, because there was a giant cavern behind my ribs where he’d bruised my heart. It still throbbed painfully when I thought of it.
Thought of him.
“He’s not cruel,” she continued. “And if you saw the way he looked at you for months, you’d have no doubt in your mind that he’s been in love with you for even longer than he realized.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t think he knew what to do with that.”
“That’s still not an excuse.”
“It’s not,” she agreed.
“I thought we were starting something special.” I dashed at my cheek with the back of my hand. “Like ... forever special.”
“I thought you were too.” She studied my face, which I’m sure was puffy and red and splotchy. I’d inherited my mom’s crying face, and it wasn’t pretty. “I wish your mom was here right now, because I know I don’t always give the best advice.”
“Well, that’s not going to help me stop crying,” I said in a trembling voice.
She laughed. “Sorry.”
I exhaled. “What do you think she’d say?”
That’s when Daphne’s eyes watered, and a fresh wave of emotion about knocked me over at the sight of her tears. “I think she’d remind you how precious your heart is, Charlie Brown. Because it is. And I think she’d tell you to think about why you fell in love with him in the first place.”
My chest ached for something I’d never have again, something that I’d grieved a long time ago. Itwasthe kind of thing my mom would say. “How does that help?”
“There’s always a wound underneath the kind of thing he did. Everyone has at least one. But some people can acknowledge their wounds, so they stop hurting others—hurting themselves—as a result.” Daphne held my gaze. “Your dad and mom hurt each other so much it was impossible for them to move forward together. But as the years passed, she could see it more clearly. How his hurts formed him. How hers did too.”
“We never talked about Dad much after she moved us here.”
“Understandable,” Daphne said. “But your mom gained a lot of understanding later in life. It was good for her—helped her make some much-needed peace with that relationship.”
