The satisfied sneer Virginia flashed me before she left wouldn’t haunt me tonight.
Nash’s lies, on the other hand, crippled me.
They wouldn't haunt me tonight either. They'd haunt me forever.
“Explain,” I demanded, barely able to form the word through my hurt and fury.
“Balthazar Van Doren is your dad.”
I sidestepped him when he approached. “Yeah, I got that.” Dragging my toe across an imaginary line, I said, “This is my half of the room. That’s yours. Don’t cross it, and I won’t knee you in the balls. Now, continue. The truth, please.”
His jaw ticked. Actually, his everything ticked. “Sir Balty was your mom’s secret high school sweetheart. Her health teacher. She got pregnant and freaked out, because the affair started before she turned sixteen—the age of consent in North Carolina.
“Your dad visited her town over vacation, and she targeted him for his money. They slept together, she told him she was pregnant, and they had a shotgun wedding.” The words rushed out, like he thought I'd leave any second.
If I looked flighty, it was because I was. “How do you know all this?”
“Gideon told me.”
In the hall, two drunk socialites ambled past, stumbling over their heels and giggling with each other. As if my world hadn’t tilted on its axis. I’d never felt more aware of my insignificance.
The world moves on, Emery, and you will, too.
I shook my head, unable to fit these puzzle pieces together, even as he spoon-fed them to me. “Why would da—Gideon let Balthazar into our lives?”
So many questions, but I trembled too hard to ask them all. I needed to take a step back, have this conversation tomorrow when the alcohol and adrenaline fled my system, but I feared he’d be less candid.
No, it needed to happen now.
“He didn’t find out about Balthazar until you turned six. Balty showed up, looking for some cash. He threatened to claim his parental rights over you. Gideon struck a deal, allowing him to be a partner in Winthrop Textiles in exchange for his silence.”
“Why would Dad—” I swallowed, digging my nails into my palms. My pulse gripped my throat, erratic and unrelenting. “Why would Gideon tell you this?”
“Because he’s not guilty.”
Another lie, maybe?
I tugged at the corset of this ridiculous dress, struggling to breathe. “But the F.B.I. and S.E.C. announced an investigation against him. The whole town calls him a cheat.”
“I—” He cursed and yanked his collar hard, causing a button to pop off. Neither of us were made for these clothes, though he wore his easier than I wore mine. “None of this is my secret to tell. At least, not before you talk to your dad.”
My lower lip wobbled. “Except he's not my dad.”
I wanted to scream, and yell, and claw at Nash. I wanted the same for him. An uncontrollable reaction.
This didn’t feel like us. A civilized argument, no magic in the air, no flames we couldn’t douse, no fucking fight.
Our age gap never felt more prominent than it did now.
Twenty-three and fatherless.
Thirty-two and fatherless.
We carried it so differently. Him, with barriers erected higher than any skyscraper mankind could build. Me, with tiny thorns that pricked but didn’t possess the strength to draw blood. Unbreakable stone versus a fractured heart. I knew which would win, and it wasn’t the heart.
“He is,” Nash insisted. “In every way that matters, Gideon Winthrop is your father. Even when you never returned his postcards and ignored him after he tried to visit you, he didn’t give up hope that you’d return to him.”
I remembered the visit. Three years ago, I spotted him waiting for me outside the diner I worked at. I called the cops and told them some creep stalked me there.
Disbelief clung to me, it’s hold nearly choking my neck. “I told you yesterday that I miss my dad.”
“I know, and I—”
“You saw me near tears, and instead of telling me the truth, you fucked me.”
“That's not why I—”
“I don’t care why you screwed me, Nash. I care that you did, knowing how I felt about my dad in that moment.”
“Shit.” He palmed his face. “That wasn’t fucking. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel anything last night. What happened to redamancy?”
I did feel it, but I didn't answer. Maybe tomorrow, but not tonight. Everything hurt too much. Felt too raw. Because I promised myself after the Winthrop Scandal, I’d never let another liar into my life.
No matter how good he tasted. No matter how good he made my body feel. No matter how good he made my heart feel.
My foot inched past the doorframe.
“Emery.” He matched my steps.
“I thought I built walls after the scandal. I thought something like this would never happen again. I feel so stupid for not seeing the difference between a truth and a lie.”
“Don't blame yourself.”
“I don’t. Not entirely. My heart was hungry, so you fed it lies. Everyone in this world lies, and I should have realized that.”
“Maybe everyone lies, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”
“If it’s the truth, yes. And you know what happens after the first lie? Every truth becomes questionable. How am I supposed to believe anything you say now?”
He didn’t answer.
I answered for him, “A liar once told me, life is a Sisyphean task. You put out one fire, and another one starts. It’s easier to accept it burns. We live in a world consumed by fire, but at least it’s the truth. You’re not lured to sleep with a false blanket of security, telling yourself you exist in a part untouched by the flames. There’s death, and betrayal, and revenge, and guilt everywhere you turn. It’s healthier to live it, breathe it, and participate in it than to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
I edged closer to him, cupping his face and hating myself for it. “Do you remember what you said when I asked what happens after you’re burnt everywhere?”
He dropped his eyes, and it was so unlike Nash, it startled me for a moment.
Even the language of your body is a lie.
My palm whipped away from his skin, and I gave him the biggest truth he’d ever told me, “Don’t succumb to the fire. Be the bigger flame.”
\fi-ni-‘fU-gal\
(adjective) hating endings; of someone who tries to avoid or prolong the final moments of a story, relationship, or some other journey
Finifugal originates from the Latin word fuga, for flight. It shows us that endings are fleeting. We may hate them. We may fear them. We may avoid them. But we don’t need to.
Like sunsets, endings can be beautiful. The next morning, the sun always rises again, because there is no such thing as an ending, just a new beginning.
“Why is it that two people never realize how much they love each other until one of them says goodbye?”
Silence.
No one answered me. Not even crickets. Made sense, considering I laid on my shitty quilt in the unfamiliar twenty-fourth-floor closet, picturing the ceiling as the starless night. Outside, so many stars twinkled, it nauseated me.