For Lucy

“So … you’re going to tell him we were alone?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. We didn’t do anything that he would be upset about.”

The door opens.

I start to rush toward it.

Tatum grabs my arm again. “Count to ten,” she whispers. “Just play it cool.”

I roll my eyes and mouth—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—as fast as I can.

“Hey, Luce. How was your date?”

She sets her purse on the ground and sits on the sofa. “It was good until my dad went crazy flashing the lights. Mom …” Lucy eyes Tatum behind me. “You’re still here?”

“Of course. I wanted to hear all about your date.”

Lucy’s gaze ping-pongs between us. “So … you’ve been here all evening alone with Dad?”

“We played Mancala.” Tatum sits next to her.

“Okay …” Lucy continues to eye me, as if I’m the child. “Well, we had pizza, then we hung out with some friends. Then he brought me home.”

“Will you go out with him again?” Tatum grills her.

“I hope so. He’s nice. And polite.”

“And handsy,” I add.

“And you were never handsy with Mom?”

“Not in her parents’ driveway.” I give her a tight smile. Then I think of all the times I used a napkin on Tatum’s lap in restaurants to hide my hand down the front of her pants. But we weren’t teenagers.

“Well, I’m glad you had a good time. We can talk more tomorrow when your dad’s not here to shame you.”

“I offered her a condom.” I feel the need to remind them. I was never going to actually give her one, but she doesn’t need to know that. Had she said yes to my offer, I would have grounded her until her eighteenth birthday.

“Goodnight, Lucy. Love you.” Tatum kisses Lucy’s cheek and hugs her before grabbing her handbag and car keys. “Thanks for dinner, Emmett.”

“Anytime.” I smile.

She blushes again. Why … why is my wife marrying another man when I still make her blush? Life is so cruel.

Chapter Twenty-Five

LUCY

It’s weird.

Getting fitted for a bridesmaid’s dress for my mom’s wedding is weird. Kids aren’t supposed to attend their parents’ wedding, just like parents aren’t supposed to attend their children’s funerals.

It’s backward. It’s wrong. And it’s weird.

“You always look amazing in that color of blue.” Mom smiles at me as a lady places a few pins to alter the length of the dress. “I’m going to try on my dress. I haven’t shown anyone yet. You’ll be the first to see it.”

“Okay.” I give her a fake smile. I want to see my mom dig out her old wedding dress, the one she wore when she married my dad. I want to see her get excited when it still fits her. Then I want my dad to walk into the room and give me a glimpse of the smile he had on his face the day he married her.

Five minutes later, she steps out of a dressing room in her white strapless wedding gown. It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. But it doesn’t make this less weird.

“What do you think?” Mom steps in front of a cluster of mirrors, lifts the flowing skirt, and makes a slow turn.

“You look beautiful, Mom.” I give her a true smile this time because she does look beautiful. But she always looks beautiful.

“You think so? Is it too much? For someone my age? Should I pick something that shows less skin?” She stares in the mirror at her bare shoulders.

When I don’t reply, her gaze in the mirror shifts to me. “You don’t like it.” She frowns.

The lady unzips my dress and helps me out of it as I use my cane to steady myself, then she helps me get my arms threaded into a robe.

“I like the dress,” I say when we’re alone.

“You just don’t like it on me?”

I shake my head slowly. “It’s … not that.”

“Then what?”

I take a seat in a white fabric chair and fiddle with the sash to the robe. “It’s just the whole wedding, I guess.”

“You think we should just elope? I wondered if the wedding was too much since I’ve been married. But this is Josh’s first marriage, so I didn’t want to take anything away from him and his family.”

“No, Mom … it’s not that. It’s …” I don’t know how to have this conversation with her. I’ve played it out in my head a million times. It’s different now, in person, with my nerves making me a little nauseous.

“Your dad told you. Didn’t he?”

“Told me what?”

“About Chicago?”

I shake my head. “What about Chicago?”

She cringes as if she now regrets mentioning it. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. I suppose now’s as good a time as any. Josh has taken a job in Chicago.”

“I’m not moving to Chicago.”

Mom nods. “I know. I’m not asking you to move to Chicago. At least, not now. I know you want to stay here and graduate with your friends. And you’ll have to decide on a college at some point, if you’re going to college. But I need to decide what’s best for us in the interim. Do I stay here with you and visit Josh on the weekends? Or do I move to Chicago and visit you on the weekends? But I’m not even thinking about moving until you’re done with therapy, and Josh knows this.”