The Dirty Truth

Pulling me off the bed, he gathers me into his arms. Inhaling his damp, clean scent, I bask in his warmth, and I lose myself in the very same aquamarine gaze that once unnerved me to my core. Only this time, I’m disarmed. I’m malleable. I’m smitten. And I’m utterly his.

“I love you, Elle,” he says.

“I love you too.”

It turns out West Maxwell isn’t the worst after all . . .

He’s the best.

EPILOGUE

WEST

Five Years Later

“I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s like I can’t shut these tears off.” My very pregnant, very hormonal wife dabs a tear with the back of her hand for the dozenth time today as we walk from Scarlett’s dormitory building to our rental car. “I’m not sad—I’m happy.”

I slip my hand over hers and pull her close as we stroll among young adults clad in Dartmouth gear, emotional parents, and a handful of movers hauling TVs, plastic totes, and oversize boxes.

A tearful mother snaps a picture of her young son in front of the entrance to Woodward Hall, stopping to straighten his forest-green baseball cap. He waves her off in annoyance as a group of pretty blondes walks past, eyeing his situation.

“She’ll be fine,” I assure Elle. “Remember last year? She made a new friend before we even pulled out of the parking lot. I bet she’s up there right now giving her new roommate an earful.”

Elle chuckles, resting her cheek against my arm as we head to the car.

“I still think of her as that lost, lonely little fourteen-year-old,” she sighs.

“Me too.”

It took a solid year or so of living in the city before Scarlett truly grew into her skin and started accepting that Manhattan was her home, that I was her home. Of course, Elle played a significant part in that transition. But watching her bloom into the Maxwell woman she was always meant to be has been one of the most fulfilling journeys I’ve ever had the privilege to witness.

But she wasn’t the only one who “bloomed” during that period. Elle likes to remind me of this as often as possible. I changed just as much as Scarlett—growing into a man who accepts that controlling every single person in his life is no way to live. Together, the two of them showed me the difference between pushing someone to do the right thing and simply giving them advice and guidance.

“She sent me her schedule,” Elle says. “Eight a.m. classes every day. Can you imagine? When I was a sophomore, I was doing everything I could to avoid those.”

“She’s become quite the go-getter, hasn’t she?”

Nudging me, Elle chuffs. “Can’t imagine where she gets it from . . .”

Scarlett was halfway through her senior year at Highland Prep when she announced she wanted to major in social psychology at Dartmouth with a minor in human development. Marching around my office with a college-admissions booklet in her hand, she told me all about her big plans, and I sat back, listening in awe and marveling at the driven young woman she’d become.

Last year, during winter break, Elle and I shared the news that we were expecting our first child together, praying Scarlett wouldn’t feel displaced in any weird sort of way, only she blew both our minds when she squealed with joy and said she couldn’t wait . . . to help us raise the child. Teasing that we were two of the most intense people she’d ever met (in our own special ways), she quoted some professor and declared that it was paramount that we not “mess this child up.”

As soon as she’s finished with her undergrad, Scarlett intends to pursue a graduate degree in clinical counseling. She hopes to specialize in adolescents and teens who struggle with abandonment issues or major life changes, much like she did.

Something tells me she’ll make one hell of a therapist. She never used to miss a thing—and she still doesn’t.

Approaching our rental car, I trot ahead to get the door for my wife, getting her settled before skipping to the driver’s side and cranking the air the second the engine roars to life. Should she melt in this ninety-degree heat, I’ll hear all about it from here to the airport. She claims being pregnant in the summertime is like having someone bump your personal thermostat up ten degrees every time you step outside.

I’ll take her word for it.

“Think we have time to stop at that Thai place off Main Street?” she asks as we pull away from the dorm parking lot and head toward the heart of Hanover. When she rubs her swollen belly, her diamond glints in the midday sun. “Little guy’s extra hungry today.”

Warmth blankets me as I reach for her hand, giving it a squeeze.

“What kind of man would I be if I deprived my beautiful wife of her favorite som tum?” I wink, flicking on my turn signal.