If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(41)

“She’s fine now . . . sorry. I should’ve led with that.” Her panic threw me. Erin put up such a good front of not caring that I sometimes forgot it couldn’t be true. “Mrs. Morton found her passed out beside her mailbox. She’d fainted. No major injuries.”

“Why did she call you when I live closer?” Erin scowled.

I suspected because I ran into Mrs. Morton regularly when stopping by our mom’s, but I didn’t want to escalate hurt feelings. “I’d given her my number after Dad died . . . for emergencies.”

“Oh.” Erin sat back. “Does Mom faint a lot?”

“Not that I’ve ever known.”

“Well, lately she’s been more stressed than usual.” Erin didn’t say more, but I guessed we were both thinking about Lyle and the loan.

“I’m getting concerned.” I risked another glimpse of my sister. “I know she’s only sixty-two, but she’s still grieving Dad’s death—”

“Of course she is,” Erin interrupted. “I still am and probably always will.”

“As will I.” My chin tipped up, resenting the implication that her being Dad’s favorite meant she grieved him more than I did. “All I’m saying is that with this extra financial stress . . . I think she’s alone too much.”

“What’s being alone have to do with her fainting?”

“I think loneliness is affecting her—she’s not sleeping and eating well.”

She nodded, tapping her fingernails on the table. “You don’t like being alone, either. How are you holding up?”

Dissecting myself had not been the purpose of my visit, yet I needed to talk to someone. Mom wasn’t an option, and I refused to go outside the family in case Lyle decided to come home. That left me with no choice but to take a leap of faith. “So-so.”

Erin listened to my update about Lyle’s phone call, his indecision, the flowers, and the deed. If I’d expected her to see anything positive or hopeful, I’d be disappointed.

“What a dick—keeping you on the hook like that. Making out like he’s the poor ‘torn’ victim, then sending you flowers? Total BS.” She grabbed my hand. “You know, this is his loss. Tell me you know that and then walk away.”

I shrugged, unable to lie. The end of my marriage seemed very much my loss.

Erin released my hand and stroked my arm. “Amanda, look at me. None of this is your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” I blinked my watery eyes. “I missed all the signs.”

My sister’s face drained of color, which didn’t make sense. I braced for her to say something else that would inadvertently hurt me.

“You’re not the only one who ignored signs. We both did.” Her gaze wandered as she got lost in her thoughts, but her contrite expression didn’t make sense. She had nothing to do with my marriage. I was about to ask her about it when she continued, “Look at me with Max. I left him alone in my apartment after we broke up. Trusted him to be a good guy, pack his own things, and go. Yet he stole from me. Is that my fault?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly. Don’t take the blame for Lyle’s behavior.” She wrinkled her nose before asking, “Even if he sent flowers and a deed, he’s still down there with another woman. Why are you still interested in saving your marriage?”

The leaden feeling returned, sinking me in a murky lake of emotion. Erin said the word “marriage” as if it were some abstract concept, which to her it was. But to me it was my life. My place. My everything. How could I not want to save it?

I laid my hands on my stomach. “I’ve read about couples surviving infidelity. And my baby . . .” My voice croaked as the biggest fear surfaced. Lyle might be distracted by lust now, but someday he would want a presence in our child’s life. “I don’t want to split her holidays and birthdays and summers. I don’t want to miss a single moment of her life.”

Erin stared at me for what seemed like a long time. Her resigned expression proved she neither understood nor condemned me. “I know it’s hard for you to let go of the perfect picture in your head, but you don’t need him, Amanda. You’re so much better than he ever was.”

The compliment—while surprisingly lovely—didn’t make it easier to hear criticism about someone I’d cared about. “I loved him. Loved my life with him. Waking up snuggled close. Sharing meals and walks and dreams. And he did things you never saw, like handing a homeless man his coat on a cold night, or the money he gave Jed Symons to help with bills when he was out of work last year.” At that point I stopped. Bombarding her with words wouldn’t convince my sister of how happy I’d been, or of the sense of peace his love had given me, because she’d never liked Lyle. Yet I wouldn’t pretend I didn’t yearn to recapture those feelings.

“There are other guys out there who can snuggle, talk, walk, and help you raise your daughter. Heck, maybe even one who will make you laugh. I don’t recall ever hearing you and Lyle laugh, and that makes me sad. Don’t you want to laugh?”

We’d laughed. Maybe not the kind of belly laughs that made soda spit from your mouth, but Lyle and I shared lots of little inside jokes, like when he’d mimic that BatDad guy from YouTube he weirdly idolized. It was so out of character it always made me laugh. Or the way he’d sing-talk in the mornings, as if we were actors in a musical. He woke up playful, which was a nice way to start each day. In any case, if I had to choose between belly laughs and security, I’d choose the latter. Then again, Lyle had hardly left me with a sense of security. “I think it’s safe to say we’re not looking for the same things in a man.”