The Truth About Lennon
“Good.” I kiss her gently, hating the way her puffy lips feel against mine. I don’t like it when either of my girls cries. “You’re coming over for dinner, right?”
“Is it okay if I skip tonight? I just really want to be alone.”
“I’m not sure I want you to be alone.”
“My mother isn’t like yours, Noah,” she says, her eyes hardening. “She isn’t loving or kind. Never has been, and all of a sudden it’s clear she never will be. Whatever hope I had of that is gone, and I just need to be—” Her voice grows thick with emotion, and she takes a second to collect herself. “I just need to be alone. I need to process this, figure out how to move forward.”
“You’re going to process it with me.”
My words cause a spark in her eye. Did she really think I was going to let her deal with this by herself? She’s mine now. We deal with this shit together.
“We’re going to process this,” I tell her again. “You’re not alone anymore, Lennon. We’ll deal with your mother together.”
I cradle her face with my hand, and she rests her cheek against my palm. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me; this is what relationships are about. Now, go relax. Take a bath, sew, read a book, invite Charlotte over for a glass
of wine and watch a chick flick—whatever it is you need to do to clear your head. I’ll check on you later, and we’ll talk it out.”
With one last kiss and a promise to call Lennon after dinner, Nova and I slip out the door.
We’re halfway across the yard when Nova tugs on my hand. “Daddy, is Lennon okay?”
“Yeah, sweetie, she’s going to be fine. We’ll make sure of it.”
After Noah leaves I cry.
A lot.
And then I scream and yell and cry some more, because this isn’t fair. Life isn’t fucking fair. Why was I born to such unloving parents? Why did I allow myself to get involved with someone like Mathis when there are men like Noah in the world?
Clenching my fists, I yell at the top of my lungs. It feels good, so good to get all of that tension out, so I do it again.
Pushing my fingers into my hair, I pace around the house, trying to make sense of everything. But it’s nearly impossible. All of it—my mother, Mathis, Noah, that night—is one tangled mess in my head, and I can’t seem to straighten it all out.
Maybe I need to get the hell out of here.
Frustrated and angry, I grab a bottle of wine, my purse, and my keys, and charge out my front door. Tossing my stuff in my car, I shoot Charlotte a quick text to let her know I’m on my way, and I make the short drive into town.
Thank God for Charlotte, because not even twenty minutes later I find myself perched in a shop chair with a glass of wine in one hand and a package of Starbursts in the other—sans pink ones, of course.
“Your mom’s a real bitch.”
That’s putting it mildly. “Tell me about it.”
“You don’t really think she’d tell Noah, do you? I mean, not that you have anything to worry about, because it isn’t true, but…”
“I don’t know.” I take a sip of my wine, contemplating, and as much as I hate to admit it, I do think she would say something. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“You know you have to tell him first.”
I nod, lifting my head to focus on Charlotte. “I know. I was always going to tell him; I’ve just been waiting for the right time.”
“Is there ever a right time to tell someone about the past?”
“Probably not. But I wanted him to get to know me for me and not for who my parents are or who the tabloids say I am.”
Charlotte nods as I talk. “And he has. Listen—” Taking my glass, Charlotte refills it and hands it back. “Noah is a great guy, the best of the best. He may be upset that you kept this from him, but he’ll be level-headed about it.”