Maybe I should feel guilty about playing a part in Augusta’s ruin, but as Augusta herself said in her soon-to-be-pulped book, I’m told that it’s best not to always tell the truth, that the truth can hurt. But I’ve decided I’ll always share my truth, because it’s the one that matters. I didn’t do it to destroy her. I did it to reveal her.
Secrets destroy us. Cal taught me that.
When Bear came to me the day after it all went up in flames, asking if I could change the article to reflect the real story, shitty truths and all, the answer was obvious.
He was inviting me to tell the story I’d wanted to tell all along, but I didn’t do it for me. I did it for Cal.
Cal, who never wants to speak to me again.
Cal, who has a habit of slinging words at me like they’re weapons, when that’s supposed to be my job.
Because even if he thinks he wants to be left alone in his endless quest for karma, alone is the last thing he needs. He needs the truth to be brought to light so he can stop hiding.
It is the only way he’ll heal.
“It’s time he needs,” Bear told me that day, when he found me on my front porch, dressed in sweatpants at noon, an Irish coffee in my hand and the dogs cuddled at my feet.
“Do you think three years will do it?” I asked, raising my brows. “Or is this more of a six-year grievance?”
Bear laughed at that. “We’ll see if we can’t speed it along, huh?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, something that sent a pang through me because I’d seen Cal do it, then said, “You know, you could go to him. He says he doesn’t want to talk to you, but I know my boy. I’ve never seen him as alive as he was with you.”
“You mean in the last three years,” I said, stooping to pet Ein, who’d bared his four teeth at Bear.
“I mean ever.”
“I can’t go to him,” I said. “Ever since we met, I’ve done nothing but hunt him down, seek him out. I’m going to give him what he wants. I’m going to leave him alone.”
Because I owed him that much. And because he’d hurt me too, dammit. I doubted him for a moment—a moment—when all the evidence suggested doubt was the only reasonable emotion, and still he’d turned his back on me. Although he fully admitted to not being perfect, he expected me to be.
Except…maybe it was himself he struggled to forgive, not me. Maybe he was projecting because I was the one who’d made him face up to the past he’d buried. To the guilt that had been pressing on his shoulders for so many years.
In the end, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to beg him to love me.
Bear had just nodded, and he must have told the others, because within half an hour of his departure, I received a practically rabid text from Nicole, who made me an offer I couldn’t refuse (i.e., more dirt on Augusta).
I was supposed to get tea with Tina and Harry that day, but I told them I had to hole up in my writing den and asked for a rain check.
The first article was short and straightforward. This one is a much longer investigative piece that delves into the emotional blackmail that led to Augusta Glower stealing the idea for the Bad Luck Club and claiming it as her own. In writing it, I’d spoken with Alice’s parents and Dean, the man she’d loved. Part of me had wanted to punch him—for Cal and also because he reminded me of Lacy Caser—but I’d done my job like a damn professional (might as well start late rather than never). I’d reached out to people in the various Bad Luck Clubs inspired by Augusta’s book. One woman cried as she revealed that her savings had been wiped out because she’d spent over a thousand dollars purchasing additional challenges. And while I question her decision-making, there’s no denying Augusta’s version of the club was ripe for abuses of power. And I’d also spoken with Augusta’s children, all of whom she’d screwed over in dozens of different ways. Oh, and thanks to Nicole and her dirt-digging prowess, I discovered there are at least two other men whom Augusta stalked and engineered meet-cutes with, and neither of them wants to drop into her DMs.
It took me the better part of two weeks to rewrite it, and it’s easily the best thing I’ve ever written.
And yet…turning it in didn’t feel the way I thought it would. I don’t feel revved up and eager to search for the next big scoop.
I feel hollowed out, like I’m an ice cream carton shoved back in the fridge with only a scraping of sweet treat left inside.
Part of it is Cal—diving deeper into the story, into his tragedy, only strengthened my feelings for him.
Part of it is the stress and strain of facing my own past.
Part of it is that being the reporter who pokes holes into people’s lives isn’t as rewarding as I thought it might be.
Constance and Beth have both been texting me with pleas to return to Seattle. Constance even suggested she’d be willing to let me write the occasional deep dive into something interesting, but I can’t summon much interest in that either.
Still, I do want this article to be published. So I spend the next half hour going through the story with Kate, figuring out what final touches she wants before she’s willing to push the publish button.
“We want it to be our lead story on Saturday,” Kate says at last.
Saturday. Just three days from now.
I’ll be back in Seattle Saturday.
It’s still only Wednesday, though, and I have a long-delayed night (or rather afternoon) out with Harry and Tina at the tea shop before Maisie gets back tomorrow. I’ve seen both of them, of course. Tina popped in the night we were supposed to get tea, because she’s from a family that doesn’t allow cancellations without confrontations (her words), and she’s shown up erratically a few times since. One time we even took some tea from Tea of Fortune over to Mrs. Dahl’s house and spent the afternoon with her and Agnes.
Harry hasn’t stayed away either. Bear must have spoken with him, because he came by with ice cream and pictures of his turtle wearing various hats. He allowed me to choose another two online dates for him, which suggests he feels sorry for me, but doing it was fun, and hearing about the fallout was even more fun, so I’ll take it.
And Bear…Bear’s the reason I haven’t starved or subsisted on a diet of Chex.
That’s not to downplay Dottie’s contributions. She may not have enough petits fours to stock the tea shop, but she stopped by a week ago with a tower of Tupperware for my refrigerator and freezer. I wasn’t home when she dropped by, but she left everything on the porch buried in ice packs.
“It’s time to discuss your start date,” Kate says. “How long will you need to clear out of Seattle?”
A depressingly short while.
“I think I’d rather wait to make the arrangements until the story comes out,” I say. “It’s been a draining experience.”
She laughs. “Ah, you want to see if you can leverage its success to ask for more money. Well played, Molly. You’ll do well with us.”
It’s on the edge of my tongue to correct her, to tell her that I don’t know if this is what I want, but I don’t. Because the thing is…I don’t know what I do want. Although I still plan to write more about Mrs. Dahl, my inspiration has run dry. The knowledge that love wasn’t enough for her and Henry either is too depressing to contemplate right now. Even if I did start writing their story again, I don’t have an agent or a book deal. Maybe I was grandstanding, thinking I could write a book. Maybe I was being like Augusta. And staying here, in Asheville…I’m not sure I can take it. I haven’t run into Cal, but most of my new friends are connected to him, either peripherally or directly, and it’s only a matter of time. I’ve always told myself not to make a decision based on a man, and yet…