“Mom!” I cut her off before she can finish.
“I can say that word sometimes. If there’s any time to say it, it's now. Look what he did to you!”
“Mom, stop.”
“But he completely snowed you. All the while, all those years, he lied to you, and he convinced you, right under your nose, that you—”
“MOM!” The shocked look on her face makes me feel bad, but the rage inside me takes over. “Quit talking about how stupid I am.”
“No one said anything about you being stupid.”
Dad gives me a look of understanding. “No, you didn’t, Sharon. But Hastings feels stupid right now.”
“Of course I do! Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“No!” Mom chimes in, the two of them neutralizing each other. “This could happen to anyone.”
“Has it ever happened to you?”
“What? Of course not. I’m married to Roy. We’ve been married for—how many years have we been married, Roy?”
“Thirty-six.”
“I’ve been married to him for thirty-six years. You don’t have four extra wives and a hidden identity, do you, Roy?”
“If I did, Sharon, you’d know.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, holding the cup of hot coffee to my lips and sipping, the action mechanical, devoid of any sense of personhood. “And every time anyone talks to me about this, it’s like another piece of my soul gets put through a cheese grater.”
“Wow!” Mom says, looking at Dad, then turning back to me. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling us how you feel.”
“You’re thanking me for that?”
“Hastings, you don’t talk about feelings. Ever. I think the last time you told me about your inner state, you were nine, and it was after you ate a bunch of Girl Scout cookies that you had bought out of your allowance so that you would be the troop’s top seller. You just don’t do this.”
Bzzzzzzz
In anger, I pick up my phone and hit Accept. Before he can say a word, I snap, “Leave me alone. I don’t need anything from you.”
“I’m just trying to check in and see how you’re doing,” Ian says.
“I’m fine.”
“Look, Hastings, I wanted to talk to you about—”
I end the call. The last thing I need is to have my former nemesis rub my nose in it.
“Was that your lawyer?” Mom asks.
“No. Just someone who needs to leave me alone.”
“Burke?” she screeches.
“What? No! I'll never hear from him. Ever. That SOB has disappeared entirely.”
“Are you sure the charges are dropped?” Dad asks. “I hate to ask, and I don’t want to pick at a raw wound, but...”
“It's all in process. I'll get a formal report soon, but it looks like it. My lawyer advised me to provide testimony about Burke. I shared everything that I know, including personal details you just don’t talk about with your parents.”
Mom turns bright red.
“I’m sorry that you had to get that, um, intimate, dear,” Mom says before gulping half her cup of coffee in one big, long, muted gesture.
Dad’s eyes narrow, his lips pursed. Roy Monahan is a pretty mild-mannered guy, but when it comes to us–me, Mallory, and Mom–we always know he has our backs.
I just hate that I had to learn it the hard way.
“It sounds like you have a good team,” Dad says. “We’ve combed over any insurance policies to see if you had any protection from some of the corporate director’s and officer’s liability.” A hangdog expression makes it clear that he found nothing. He turns his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “And beyond that, it’s all about the lawyers.”
“It’s always about the lawyers, Dad. Burke was a lawyer.”
“Burke was a piece of—”
Before Dad can finish, the front door opens. In walks Mallory, followed by her fiancé, Will. Bright red curls bounce into the kitchen atop round, compassionate eyes.
My sister is here for my homecoming. Of course she is. That’s what good people do in small towns, right? Shame burns through me as she smiles the standard-issue Smile of Pity.
You know that smile. The one people give you when they’re secretly glad they’re not you.
“Hasty—Hastings, I mean,” Mallory says, coming in for a hug. The last time I saw her, I was here in Anderhill for a dress fitting. She and Will are getting married in June, just four months away.
As if my life weren’t bad enough.
As if I haven’t lost every single bit of money except for that seven hundred dollars in my bank account.
As if being dragged through the mud weren’t bad enough.
As if I weren’t humiliated enough.
Life converged my scandal with my baby sister’s wedding.
She’s marrying Will Lotham, the younger brother of Veronica Lotham, whom I hated with a passion in high school.
Why? Because she was so much like my sister.
Mallory has no ambition. She’s happy with her life as is. She’s barely ever left Massachusetts or our small town, and Veronica’s similar.
Even worse–Veronica’s happy with her life and ambitious.
That one-two punch was just a little too much, even back in high school. She was that super-nice, sharp young woman who had an internal line she wouldn't cross, and who lacked the killer instinct when it came to final negotiations.
I eat those women for lunch now.
Or at least, until a month ago, I did.
“Will!” I exclaim, pretending to be chipper as he comes in for a hug with eyes that have the same pity in them. It’s worse somehow, being looked at like this by him, because he is ambitious. And successful. Unlike Mallory, he gets it. He knows what it feels like to go out into the world, climb up a ladder, maybe even build the ladder itself, rung by rung, until you’re at the top.
Unlike me, he’s still up there.
We all sit down at the small table, Mom pouring cups of coffee and pulling milk and sugar out as we settle into an awkward group. This is what daily life is going to be like until I can get back on my feet.
I’m going to sleep in my childhood bedroom. I’m going to sit at my childhood breakfast table. I’m going to drink coffee from a coffee maker.
I’m going to get the look of pity.
Sartre says that hell is other people, but there is no hell like coming home with your tail between your legs after you’ve been suckered by a high-end con man who is wanted in six states and three different countries.
A high-end con man you gave your best years to.
This is a special kind of hell, custom-designed for me.
“Hastings was just telling us about her…” Mom halts as she realizes maybe I don’t want to talk about it.
“Everything’s looking good on the legal end,” Dad says, rescuing me.
“But how are you? Emotionally?” Mallory asks.
She’s so predictable.
And then I do something I didn’t predict.
I start to cry.
Alarm fills Dad’s face as he looks at me. Speechless, Mom’s hand goes to the base of her throat, fingers intertwining with her necklace. Will looks uncomfortable, eyes anywhere but on me.