Verity(50)

“They cut her out? Why?”

“It’s hard to explain them,” he says. “They’re strange. Victor and Marjorie, insanely religious to their core. When they found out Verity was writing thriller and suspense novels, they acted like she was suddenly denouncing her religion to join a satanic cult. They told her if she didn’t stop, they would never speak to her again.”

That’s unbelievable. So…cold. For a second, I empathize with Verity, wondering if her lack of maternal instinct was inherited. But my empathy evaporates when I remember what she did to Harper in her crib.

“How long did their estrangement last?”

“Let’s see,” Jeremy says. “She wrote her first book thirteen years ago. So…thirteen years.”

“They still haven’t spoken to her? Do they even know about what’s happened?”

Jeremy nods. “I called them after Chastin passed. Left them a voicemail. They never called back. Then, when Verity had her wreck, her father actually answered the phone. When I told him what had happened, to the girls and to Verity, he grew quiet. Then said, ‘God punishes the wicked, Jeremy.’ I hung up on him. Haven’t heard from them since.”

I pull a hand to my heart and stare up at the sky in disbelief. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

We’re quiet for a stretch. We see two meteors, one to the south and one to the east. Jeremy points at them both times, but says nothing. When there’s a lull in both the conversation and the meteors, Jeremy lifts up beside me, onto his elbow, and looks down at me.

“Do you think I should put Crew back into therapy?”

I tilt my head so that I’m staring at him. We’re only a foot apart with him positioned like this. Maybe a foot and a half. It’s so close, I can feel the heat coming from him.

“Yes.”

He seems to appreciate my honesty. “Alright,” he says, but he doesn’t lower himself back to the grass. He continues to stare at me, as if he wants to ask me something else. “Did you go to therapy?”

“Yes. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I look back up at the sky, not wanting to see the expression on his face after my next sentence. “After watching the footage of myself on that railing, I was worried that deep down, it meant I wanted to die. For weeks I tried to fight my sleep. I was afraid I’d hurt myself intentionally. But my therapist helped me realize that sleepwalking is unrelated to intention. And after several years of being told that, I finally believed it.”

“Did your mother go to therapy with you?”

I laugh. “No. She didn’t even want to talk to me about my own therapy. Something happened that night, when I broke my wrist, and it changed her. Our relationship, anyway. We always felt disconnected after that. My mother actually reminds me a lot of—” I stop speaking because I realize I was about to say Verity.

“Reminds you of who?”

“The main character in Verity’s series.”

“Is that bad?” he asks.

I laugh. “You really haven’t read any of them?”

He lies back down on the grass, breaking eye contact with me. “Just the first one.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Because…it was hard for me to fathom that it all came from her imagination.”

I want to tell him he’s right to be concerned, because his wife’s thoughts are eerily similar to her character’s thoughts. But I don’t want him to have that impression of her at this point. After all he’s been through, he deserves to at least be able to preserve a positive memory of his marriage.

“She used to get so angry with me because I didn’t read her manuscripts. She needed that validation from me, even though she got it from everywhere else. Her readers, her editor, her critics. For some reason, my validation seemed to be the only validation she wanted.”

Because she was obsessed with you.

“Where do you get your validation?” he asks.

I turn my head toward him again. “I don’t, really. My books aren’t popular. When I do receive a positive review or get an email from a fan, I never feel like they’re talking to me. Probably because I’m such a recluse and never do signings. I don’t put my image out there, so even though there are readers who love what I do, I still haven’t had the experience of being told to my face that what I do matters to someone.” I sigh. “That would feel good, I imagine. For someone to look me in the eye and say, ‘Your writing matters to me, Lowen.’”

As soon as I finish that sentence, a meteor shoots across the sky. We both follow it and watch as it streaks across the water, reflecting in the lake. I stare at the lake, framing Jeremy’s head.

“When are you going to start on the new dock?” I ask him. He finally finished tearing the old one down completely today.

“I’m not building a new dock,” he says, matter-of-fact. “I just got sick of looking at that one.”

I would make him expand more on that, but he doesn’t seem to want to.

He’s watching me. Even though Jeremy and I have been making eye contact a lot tonight, it feels different in this moment. Heavier. I notice his eyes flicker toward my lips. I want him to kiss me. If he tried, I wouldn’t stop him. I’m not even sure I would feel guilty.