The Lies That Bind(95)

“I don’t know how you stand not knowing the gender,” Jenna says for what has to be the tenth time.

I laugh and say, “Yeah. It’s almost as suspenseful as not knowing who the father is.”

“Neither thing makes a bit of difference. Boy, girl. Grant, Matthew. Who cares?” Scottie says, as the doorbell rings.

A few seconds later, my dad calls up the stairs for me.

“You expecting someone?” Jenna asks me.

I shake my head, thinking that that never stops anyone from dropping by. It is something I both love and hate about being home; it is so friendly and laid-back, but you really have no privacy.

I walk down the stairs as my father points toward our family room and says, “You have a friend here to see you.”

I nod and round the corner, expecting to see an old high school acquaintance. Instead, I am met with the second-biggest surprise of my life.



* * *



—

    Nothing will ever be more shocking than seeing Grant at the cabin and realizing that he was still alive. But in some ways, I am more floored in this moment, the context so jarring. He shouldn’t be in Wisconsin. He shouldn’t be in my parents’ house. He shouldn’t be sitting on our worn plaid sofa. He shouldn’t be anywhere near me.

I freeze as our eyes lock and he stands. “What are you doing here?” I manage to say.

“I came to see you,” he replies.

“I…I got that part…” I stammer, worried that I might throw up. “But why?”

“Because I had to see you. I need to talk to you.”

I shake my head and say, “We have nothing to talk about.”

“Yes, we do. Please, Cecily,” he says. “Please let me really explain this time.”

I stare at him for a few impossibly long seconds, then say a reluctant okay. I walk toward him, choosing the chair farthest from his side of the sofa, as we both sit.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask him.

“From a byline in the Milwaukee paper…” He swallows, looking so nervous. “I read the story you did on that little girl.”

I nod and say her name.

“Have they found her yet?” he asks.

“No. She’s still missing,” I say.

The story is heartbreaking, and the thought of her instantly puts Grant’s disappearance—and reappearance—into perspective.

He nods, murmuring how sad it is, then says, “So that’s how I knew you’d moved back to Wisconsin. And your parents’ address was easy to find.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking that explains how he found me, but not why. I ask that question next, avoiding his eyes.

    “Because of the baby,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Cecily…I wanted to ask you…whether it could be mine?”

I cross my arms and tell him I don’t have that answer. “But even if it is yours, I don’t want anything from you. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” he says, shaking his head. He swallows, then says, “I hope it’s mine.”

“Why in the world would you hope for that?”

“Because,” he says. “I still love you, Cecily.”

I stare him down and tell him to never say those words to me again. “You should be talking to your wife right now. Not me.”

“I did that already,” he says. “We met a few days ago. We’re filing for divorce.”

“Whatever,” I say with a shrug. “You weren’t divorced when you were sleeping with me.”

“I know that. And I’m not making excuses for what I did….But I want you to understand something….My marriage with Amy was never really a marriage. She cheated on me right out of the gate. She was actually seeing someone when I met you. She never really loved me. She admitted that when we spoke last week,” he says. He stops abruptly, shaking his head. “Shit, she even had some weird deal with my brother.”

Shocked, I hit the pause button on my indignation. “What?” I say. “She had an affair with your brother?”

“No. But she toyed with him,” he says, suddenly looking so broken. “Whether she meant to or not…I read his journal after he died. I wish I hadn’t, but I did. He was definitely in love with her. He was always in love with her…since we were kids.”

“Wow,” I say under my breath. “Did she love him back?”

“Who knows? I’m long done trying to figure her out. It doesn’t matter anymore….And I didn’t want to involve you in all of that.”

“You did, though. You involved me as soon as you stayed over at my apartment on that first night.”

    “I know,” he says. “But I tried so hard to keep it as friends. Don’t you remember?”

I shrug, but can’t help thinking back to how long it took for him to kiss me, then have sex with me; how he told me, at first, not to come to London; the way he kept his distance for most of the summer.

“And don’t you remember when I called you from London? On Labor Day? And I told you I had something to talk to you about when I got back—”

“Yes. But you didn’t. We didn’t talk about anything,” I say. “You had a chance on the tenth—before you supposedly died—and you didn’t.”