“I’m thinking about going to see her. But . . . I don’t know.”
Hannah closes my text to slide my phone back across the desk to me. She pauses when she sees the image on my screen, the one I keep with me always. It’s her and me on top of South Mountain with the radio towers glowing behind us. It’s the last truly happy day I had. She pushes the phone the rest of the way to me and our eyes meet briefly as I turn off my screen again and pocket my phone.
“You should. See her?” she suggests, and I chuckle at her encouragement, assuming she’s simply changing the subject so we don’t talk about the picture of us on my phone. After a few seconds, though, I realize she’s serious. I sit back and fold my arms over my body, showing my unease.
“I mean it. Dustin, I think you need to see her. I think it would be good for both of you.”
“What, like closure or something?” It’s easier to mock and be flippant about things that hurt.
“If that’s what comes of it, sure. But I think she really wants to see you. I feel it.”
“She abandoned me, Hannah.” My answer is swift and nearly closes the door on the conversation.
“You don’t know that. Not for certain. Things like this are never black and white. There’s a lot of good reasons that happen in the gray. A lot of them. And what might seem right at the time doesn’t fit every moment. It’s the reason forgiveness exists.” Her brow pinches by the end of her plea, and her words sit heavy in my gut. I nod, silently promising to give them due diligence, but half-hearted agreements have never been Hannah Judge’s thing.
“We’ll go together. Tomorrow. I’ll drive.”
She stands and moves back a few steps toward the cracked doorway. I stare at her with a bunched up face that offers zero guarantees.
“Too late. I have spoken.” She breathes out a short laugh and gives me a crooked smile.
“We’ll see.”
“We’ll see you in Coolidge, you mean,” she retorts, pointing at me. A second later, she shuts the door, thus ending the debate on me going to see my real mom.
I should probably feel sick about it, but for the first time since I made the discovery, my body . . . it’s full of hope.
9
It’s been awhile since I’ve listened to that impulsive voice in my head that tells me to jump. The last time I did something without truly thinking—and overthinking—I was in business school and living with Bailey, recovering from my breakup with Dustin. Then, it was doing donuts in a Target parking lot covered with ice.
This danger? It’s different. Definitely riskier. But for once, it feels absolutely right.
Or at least, I thought it did during the entire drive home to my parents’ house. Now that I pull into my driveway and am faced with the facts—that I am not alone in this—I’m not so sure.
Bristol is hugging the ugliest plastic reindeer I have ever seen, positively in love with it. My dad is unraveling rows of Christmas lights and twirling them around the dry hedges and barrel cacti in our front landscape while my mom helps my daughter pick out ornaments to dangle from the reindeer’s antlers. Jorge is attempting to figure out how the extension pole works for hanging lights on the eaves of the house. It should be a perfect, picturesque moment, something I want to capture and treasure forever, yet I am frozen in the driver’s seat of my car, suddenly terrified about where any of us go from here.
My daughter is the only one smiling. My mom is faking hers. I catch it fall every time she turns her back to Bristol, and when she finally makes eye contact with me, her eyes are full of warning and question. Jorge won’t face me, and I know in my gut why. I went to find Dustin. My dad doesn’t play pretend anything. He’s scowling. Even while decorating his home with holiday flair that should fill everyone with joy.
I’m not sure I get to decide who I want to talk to first, but my aim starts with my father. Of everyone out here, he and I probably feel the same—responsible, angry and a touch terrified.
I get out of my car and march in his direction, setting my keys, wallet, and phone in a pile on the ground before grabbing a wound bundle of lights and carrying it over to an unlit cactus.
“Careful. I’ve been pricked twice,” he grumbles, not bothering to look up from his own efforts to drizzle a strand of lights through the fake riverbed in front of the house.
“This is going to look really pretty when the sun goes down completely,” I say, plugging my strand into the main extension cord my dad has stretched along the gravel.
“Maybe. Right now it looks like a damn yard sale.” I smile at his wry joke, and he lifts the right side of his mouth in an attempt when our eyes meet.
I wrap my colorful lights around the cactus and focus on the squeals and giggles happening in the driveway a few dozen feet away.
“You may end up taking that reindeer back to Omaha with you,” my dad says. I smile at his words, but it fades as I stand and watch my mom and daughter together. When we drove here from Omaha, I had no intention of staying more than four days. Now, however, I’m finding it hard to accept that we will be leaving this place.
“What can we do, Dad?” My back is to him, but I know he hears me. I fidget with the end of a light strand while my question simmers in the atmosphere.
“I don’t know.”
His abrupt and certain answer makes me turn. My dad is rarely without an idea when faced with a problem. He’s not the kind to give up, even if he’s prone to making wrong decisions along the way. His intentions are always good. This problem, one I’ve only made worse and which carries consequences nobody but me even realizes, feels unsolvable.
My dad stands to admire his work, hands on his hips as his eyes scan the winding rocked strip carved through our cactus garden. His eyes squint and his jaw ticks before he shifts his gaze to me.
“I’ll think of something, Han. I promise.”
He flashes a short smile, meant to assure me. A father wants to make things right for his baby girl. However, I’m not sure he can. Not with this. It’s bigger than the insurmountable threat he thinks Dustin is facing.
“Mommy.” My body reacts to the best sound in the world and I drop the end of my light strand and move a few steps away from the cactus before kneeling and opening my arms. Bristol walks toward me with a wreath in her hands. It’s made from pine cones Dustin, Tommy, and I collected up north one year during one of the kart races. I covered it in glitter, and a dozen years later, about half of the sparkling dust remains.
“Do you like this one?” I ask, taking it from her and admiring my youthful handiwork. Bristol nods and I glance up to my mom who stands a few steps behind her, palm covering her mouth to hide her worried expression.
“We should put it on the door. Do you want to help?” My daughter nods again, so I stand, taking her hand in mine, and move toward the decoration bin in search of a door hanger.
“Hannah.” My mom spits out my name in a nervous whisper, as if we’re sneaking through a haunted house. She unintentionally ratchets up my pulse, and I close my eyes for a minute and draw in a deep breath.
“Hannah.” She does it again and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, willing myself not to snap.