1
It’s harder than I thought it would be, being home. Everyone assumes I stayed away because I’m so bitter and angry at my family—at Dustin—that I can’t stomach being here. And perhaps, somewhere deep in the pit of my chest, that reason exists. That’s not the whole of it, though. Not even close.
I stayed away because I had to. I carved this deep chasm with purpose, and it had to be impossible to close, and it had to hurt. What my heart wants is completely irrelevant when compared to what keeps my daughter Bristol safe.
Dustin’s daughter.
That’s the one fact I cannot delete from my heart and mind. It wouldn’t be right, and one day, when it’s safe, and when Bristol can think for herself and make choices that protect her from the dark cruelty in this world, I’ll let her know. She can decide what her relationship will be with Dustin. I can’t imagine a life where any relationship with him comes without risk, but I also can’t fathom one where I keep the truth locked up forever. That wouldn’t be right. I’ve seen it play out in Dustin’s soul, learning his real mother gave him up. I don’t believe that’s what drove him to be careless, but I do think it was one of many bends in his road.
Jorge has been so patient. This situation also isn’t fair to him. He could have fallen in love with anyone. He lives and breathes in a world so beautiful, filled with creative geniuses who look up to him for inspiration because of the way he paints, the way he molds textures together with purpose and reason, the stories he tells with color and shape. I suppose that’s what drew me to him, too. He was solace and kindness when I was falling apart. I will always love him for being those things, but I can never be in love with him, and he knows it.
He agreed to be my partner and knows more than most, yet he still doesn’t know the full truth. His heart is so kind that he doesn’t push or ask for details, which is good. I’ve made things so complicated that I’m not sure I would be able to explain how I got here.
It all started as a lie when I had to share my pregnancy. With no family other than a sister he barely speaks to, there weren’t a lot of loose ends to tie up for him. And he was genuinely excited to be a part of bringing a life into this world. He looks at creation through an artist’s lens, seeing beauty in every moment of the baby’s journey. We became fast friends, on his part due to his inability to connect with many people; for me it was born from a desperate need to connect with someone. Our friendship, it was and is real. It’s my rock. And I felt our fake relationship could carry on harmlessly on his end. I never expected him to fall in love with me. I’m so . . . unlovable.
He has no idea who Dustin is. He knows I got hurt and that I’m afraid. I haven’t told him fully what it is I fear. It’s better for him that he doesn’t know. The less the truth is out there, the better. It’s why I keep most of it to myself. But holding it all in is becoming incredibly hard. And being here, in this house, with all of these memories, it’s ripping me in two.
“I think she’s pretty knocked out,” Jorge says, slipping into the room my parents set up for us. He put Bristol down for the night in what used to be Tommy’s room. This room was mine, and there are still too many traces of my old life around. My rose-colored blanket and pillows cover the bed, the pale pink lamp sits on the nightstand, and my favorite books remain stacked in the corner bookcase. Most of the clothes I left behind are gone, probably in those boxes tucked in the back of the closet. And the walls are bare, minus a few framed pictures my mom must have thought still looked nice. No more concert posters or race credentials tacked to the wall.
The only thing I expected to see is missing. Dustin’s wind chime has been erased from existence. I’m sure if I stood on this bed and inspected the ceiling I may find the tiny hole in the plaster where the nail held the string in place. Besides that, there is no trace of it. My stomach hurts at the thought that someone threw it away. I should have taken it with me, but when I left, I didn’t want anything that would fuel my emotional attachment to this place—to Dustin. I suppose I got what I asked for.
“Thank you for coming. I know this is . . . awkward.” I scrunch up my lips and look up at this man who could be anywhere else in this world. He could be with anyone else in this world. Yet he’s here, with me, as a friend hoping for something I can’t give him.
“Hannah, this is only awkward if you decide to make it so. Your dad didn’t make fun of my name this time, so I see this trip as a major win.”
Without asking, Jorge pulls the folded comforter from the end of the bed and spreads it out on the floor, making his pallet. He snags one of the two pillows on my bed and holds it up in question, asking permission, as if I’m going to say no and make him sleep without one. I nod and he tosses it on top of the blanket then moves to our suitcase to riffle through our things and find his clothes for bed.
“I’m not looking forward to the jokes bound to happen when he sees me in a nightshirt. But comfort above all else!” Jorge holds up his long-sleeved, striped bed shirt, which is quite ridiculous. I chuckle as he slips out the door and heads to the bathroom to change. He’s not wrong; my dad will have endless jokes when he sees him in that.
Jorge was born in Luxemburg to two hippie parents who immigrated to northern California when he was a baby. His older sister, Clara, resented the lifestyle she was forced to grow up in and took off when she was sixteen. Jorge, however, stayed until his mid-twenties, caring for his mom after his dad died from a heart attack. His mother passed away from cancer two years later. It was in his grief that he found his art. And a decade later, his fame—at least in the art world.
He’s ten years older than me, a fact my mom seems to love to dwell on. My dad likes to point out all the passions Jorge seems to be missing—sports, movies . . . cars. We have art in common, and that’s usually my response. My dad blames art for me running away, still too blind to see the error of his ways. At first, I corrected him and tried to make him see how paying his daughter’s boyfriend to leave might have had something to do with the rift in our relationship, but he’s hellbent on believing his own story. Sure, Dad. I left because you don’t like oil on canvas and I do.
Tommy doesn’t mind Jorge. He’s rather indifferent to him. I think more than anything my brother likes that when I’m gone, there’s very little drama in his life. He and Dustin have grown closer than ever, and while at first I resented my brother for that, now I’m grateful they have each other. It’s through their relationship that I know the danger to Dustin’s life is still very present, and a real threat to Bristol.
Dustin’s working with Alex, still, after everything. I won’t let Tommy share the details with me. The less I know, the better. All that matters is Alex isn’t investing in the track, and that’s good because that track has my mom’s name tied to it as the mayor. As annoying as she’s been about her legacy and building something for the town, that track did turn into something special. I want our family name attached to it too. I want it to be something Bristol takes pride in one day.
I’ve been flipping my phone from front to back in my palm ever since Jorge left the room to get dressed. He catches me noodling with it as he comes in.