Heath keeps his gaze on me, his deep brown eyes patient, kind. “That’s a lot to ask,” he says softly.
“Yes, it was. And unfair.” I gird myself for the final chapter. “One day after a seminar, I had some errands near Hyde Park, and I found her with my father on a park bench. Wrapped up in each other.” I look away, letting the image pass, then return to my dinner companion. “And it turned out they’d been together for some time.”
He draws a sharp breath “Did it start while your mother was ill?” he asks carefully, almost bracing himself for a yes.
That’s the one saving grace, I suppose—that I can say no.
“It didn’t start then. My father was with my mother the whole time, caring for her. I was around then, too, and Poppy was often with me. They say it started shortly after my mother died. For a while after I found out about them, I obsessed over every detail of how it had happened. And when I looked back on those days, that made sense. Which also meant it had been going on for months before I caught them. They’d lied to me that entire summer while we were all here. I confronted them after seeing them in the park, and they said they didn’t want to tell me until they knew they were going to marry. Like that would erase the months of lies. Like the sanctity of love was enough,” I say, bitterly.
His lips curl in disgust. “It’s terrible they deceived you. It’s better just to be honest, even about transgressions like that.”
“I don’t think I’d have liked it either way, but yes, exactly. I felt so stupid, like I didn’t matter to either of them.” My voice is brittle. My jaw tics. “And sure, they didn’t start dating until Mom was gone, but they got to know each other while she was sick.” The memory of their deception is a noose, choking me. I try to loosen it, to tug free of the past. I hate when it trips me up. I refuse to let it. I have to deny its power.
“And so, my best friend had a secret affair with my father after my mother passed, and they lied about it for nearly a year. Now she’s his wife. London reminds me of them. Of lies.”
Heath reaches a hand across the table, takes mine in his, squeezes my palm. “That’s so hard, Jo,” he says gently.
I whisper my thanks. “I thought I was so tough. I thought I could handle their secrecy and now their . . . marriage. But it was easier to hate the scene of the crime than deal with them. I wasn’t able to talk to them after. I haven’t spoken with her since then, and I barely talk to my father now.” I fan my face like that will dry the tears welling in my eyes. “I guess it’s taking more emotion than I thought.”
He squeezes harder. Reassurance seems to flow from him to me, and I need his calm, need his resilience.
I reach for the napkin in my lap to dab at my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. His brows knit. “Don’t apologize for having feelings. It’s complicated and terrible, and of course it must have made you doubt everything. Your friendship with Poppy. Your sense of the truth. Your sense of people.”
Yes. That. He gets it exactly. He sees why the news rocked my world. “I’m an only child. Over the course of a year I lost the person I loved most in my mother, the friend I depended on like a sister, and the trust and faith I’d put in my father. I felt so alone,” I say, my voice small and wobbly.
The waitress appears with our food, a Fattoush salad for me, and a hummus plate for him. We thank her, and once she’s gone, Heath doesn’t make a move to pick up his fork. He just holds my hand tighter and listens.
Since, evidently, I’m not done.
Maybe I needed to tell this story again. I haven’t spoken about it in years. Easton, Emerson, TJ, Nolan—they simply know it.
“I threw myself into work, into friendships, into New York. And into hating London,” I say. “When I finished grad school, I moved to New York City, and I felt like I was . . . remaking myself. I moved into a tiny apartment with no windows. It smelled like sauerkraut, but it was mine, and I was starting my own life. I found new friends and they became my new family.” At last, I smile. “So maybe the story has a happy ending after all.”
“Seems it does.” With a soft sigh, Heath threads his fingers through mine. “And no wonder you miss New York.”
My chest squeezes tight with emotion. “I do miss it, and them. That’s why London is complicated.”