A laugh escaped me.
It was sharp.
Ugly.
Alive.
“Insane was leaving your terminal fiancée in the kitchen with your suitcase by the door.”
He was silent.
“I panicked,” he said.
“You abandoned me.”
“I know.”
“No, Caleb. You packed socks. Panic doesn’t fold socks.”
Owen’s head turned slightly.
My father stopped pretending not to listen.
Caleb’s voice cracked.
“I made a mistake.”
“Yes.”
“I want to come back.”
The room went still.
My mother stepped out of the hallway.
My father’s face hardened.
Owen looked down at the seating chart.
Very carefully.
Like if he stared at it long enough, he could disappear.
I asked, “Why?”
“Because I love you.”
My chest hurt.
Not from cancer.
From the memory of believing that.
“You loved me when we were picking cake flavors.”
“I still love you.”
“You loved me when my hair was done and my dress fit and everybody said we were perfect.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. Leaving wasn’t fair.”
read more in next page
