A Million Reasons Why Page 11

  He grinned at her across the table, broadly, slowly, and she couldn’t help returning the smile, even as she chastised herself. What did he really make of seeing her, after all this time? Were it not for the events of the past month—events she had to remind herself he knew nothing about—she’d have felt quite differently about this encounter. Had she run into him by chance, she’d have been cold, if not outright confrontational. Did he think her openness odd? Or did he simply assume enough time had passed that old hurts had faded?

  “So,” he began as the barista plunked down two fat, steaming mugs, the foam on top swirled into works of art.

  “So,” she agreed.

  They watched the woman move out of earshot.

  “You stayed in Cincinnati, huh?”

  More like: You left me in Cincinnati.

  “I did.” Her voice, at least, sounded neutral. “And you returned.”

  “Last year. Renting in Hyde Park and commuting to the athletic department at NKU.”

  He looked as if he belonged in Hyde Park, on trend. She and Walt had been priced out of the neighborhood—the most desirable gem in city limits—the second they even thought about trading their apartment for a house.

  They were so suburban now.

  “Good for you.”

  “Well, long story. But my parents are happy to have me back.” He cleared his throat again. “Heard you married Walt Porter. I remember him running with Mo’s crowd—seemed like a nice guy. Three kids, is that right?”

  She nodded, noting it was more than she’d known about his life until she—or, rather, Maureen—had looked him up such a short time ago. “Where’d you hear all that?” Fishing around never did sound casual. Least of all when you wanted it to.

  He shrugged. “Grapevine.” She had that coming—her own lame pretense parroted back.

  Mo had so confidently pegged him, though: a man who wants to be found.

  “And you?” She wondered if he thought this was posturing. She wanted, rudely, to boast that she’d never asked anyone about him. To demand he ask the grapes—they’d corroborate.

  “Came close—I was engaged, a few years back, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. It was for the best.”

  Exactly what Mom had said about their split: He must’ve known it was for the best. Maybe he really had changed his mind—more than once. She nodded again, pointlessly, and took a tentative sip of her cappuccino. It was just on the tolerable side of scalding.

  “And Brevard?” she heard herself asking. “It was a good move?”

  “I had a lot of good years there,” he said carefully. Not exactly an answer. “It’s still as beautiful as you remember, with more to it. Outfitters, breweries—a few of my friends opened one, with a big outdoor space, food truck—you’d love it.” Maybe, if she ever dared visit Sela, she could get the details, go. “And the cycling program draws better talent every year. I’d be there now if not for some slick leaves on a hairpin turn.”

  She cringed, trying not to conjure the pictures Mo had shown her. “Bad crash?”

  “Depends on whether you consider a full-body cast bad.”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.” Everything changing, just like that.

  Then again, maybe she could.

  “You know, in hindsight, it’s an interesting perspective check. Every team I’ve ever been involved with, there’s a collective fear of these kinds of injuries. To miss a big race, a season … disaster, right?” He paused to take a long sip of his drink, undeterred by the temperature. “I’m not saying it isn’t, for a serious athlete—but the stuff I saw in that rehab hospital redefined unimaginable. When it was over, I was one of the lucky few who got to actually walk out of there. And you realize it’s nowhere near a disaster. Nowhere near.”

  Keaton’s hands sprawled emphatically on the table between them. He used to get a numbness from long rides, cyclist’s palsy, and she’d massage them until it eased. The key was maintaining consistent pressure, transferring heat, working her thumbs over his palms and up his fingers in small circles. She’d known every crease, every bend, as if his hands were her own, and the intimacy of the act had become a soothing ritual for her, too. Least of all because of how it always ended—him raising her fingers to his lips and saying, “What did I ever do without you?”

  How wildly inappropriate it would be to reach out and touch them now.

  How jarring it would still feel when he startled and yanked them away.

  She leaned into the high back of her chair. “Nothing like some light conversation to break the ice.”

  He laughed. “Sorry. I get a little…” Intense, her mind supplied. And he didn’t get that way; it was his way. He cleared his throat. “Don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.”

  Translation: Don’t want you feeling sorry for me. She shook her head. Wouldn’t dream of it. But it was hard, even now, not to imagine that parallel life. Her cheering him through his recovery. The two of them deciding, together, where to go from there.

  “Did it cost you the job?” she asked. “Can you still ride at all?”

  “Yes and no, on both counts. But it’s okay—also on both counts. All good things must end, and all that.” The exact words she’d spoken in sarcastic jest to Walt. A wave of contrition washed over her at his sincerity.

  “No regrets?”

  He could read whatever he wanted into the question—everything, nothing, something. In any translation, she genuinely wanted the answer to be yes. She’d wished, incessantly early on, that he’d come back for her, change his mind. But she’d never just plain wished he’d come back. Especially not like this. That would have been closer than she’d ever come to wishing him ill.

  His mouth twitched. “Maybe just one or two.” His eyes met hers, then fell away. “Enough about me. Tell me about you.”

  A deep breath. No time like the present. “Funny enough, you came up recently. It’s actually why I messaged you.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Turns out,” she began, “I have a half sister. Product of my dad’s affair.” She rushed on before he could react. “Weirder still, she lives in Brevard. Any chance you know her? Sela Bell.”

  His eyes went wide. “Holy wow. No, I’ve never met any Sela. Is she a student?”

  “No, my age. Almost exactly.”

  He slouched, though whether he was absorbing her curveball’s impact or dodging it, she couldn’t say. “Well, that’s—did your mom manage to whisper her way through that bombshell?” He pulled a face, unsure if it was appropriate to joke, but she conceded a laugh.

  “She did not. First time for everything. Turns out she knew about the affair at the time, though—or at least suspected. Minus the pregnancy. That part was a surprise.” Allegedly.

  “Guess so.”

  She took a deep breath. Her entire impetus for coming, and she still didn’t know how to broach it.

  “The Brevard part, though, she knew.” She watched his face closely. “She knew that was where the other woman lived. Turns out she taught art classes at BC. Rebecca Astin?”

  He blinked at her. His expression betrayed no sudden revelation, no suspicion. But it did hold a sadness he hadn’t let her see before.

  Take care, Caroline.

  “Small world,” he said finally.

  Her hands clung to each other in her lap.

  “What did my mom say to you, Keaton?”

  “Nothing.” He managed to look taken aback. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  “Not about the affair. About me, you, Brevard. Funny neither of you ever mentioned that you came by the house, stayed for dinner.” She let the words rest, and his face fell as the unspoken what-if echoed between them. If he hadn’t mixed the nights up—or was it she who’d said the wrong date?

  He frowned. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Wasn’t it? Her memory is conveniently fuzzy on the details.”

  The sadnes
s was all over him now, gathered at the corners of his eyes, in the twitch of his jaw. So prevalent that everything before seemed a facade.

  “What does it matter, Caro?” His voice was so soft, she had to lean closer to hear, even as the intimacy of the nickname made her want to pull away. “This isn’t why I came. I only wanted to—” He shook his head. “Even after moving back, I resisted. I thought it unfair, actually, to reach out, after…” He cleared his throat. “But once I’d heard from you? I couldn’t. I wanted to know that you’re happy. That you’re … still yourself.”

  The word grabbed her: still. She might have gotten back to herself, even grown into herself, but by no stretch was she still herself, as if he’d caused nary a ripple.

  “It matters because you never fully explained why you ended things the way you did. Not in a way I understood. And now I’m getting a new sense of what might have happened, and I don’t like it.” A hint of the old resentment crept in, disguised as frustration.

  He shook his head. “We went separate ways. It turned out well for you. I’d love to hear more about your life now, about—”

  “That isn’t why I came. We parted on your terms. Can we at least do this on mine?”

  “Sounds like your mom is going through a rough patch. Dredging this up is the last thing she needs.” He was still playing at this as if he didn’t want to be caught in some family feud. As if it didn’t involve him in any consequential way. Caroline hoped, she realized now, he was right. Even if the very idea of the two of them having any talk behind her back made her hair stand up.

  “What about what I need? My parents are opting out of any communication with Sela. But I’m trying to do better than that. Whether it’s connected or not, the past is officially dredged up, okay? Even if you think it’s ‘no big deal,’ I’m getting weary of secrets, and of being the last to know them.”

  He pushed his mug away, as if it, not she, had talked back to him.

  “Did you ever get the feeling your mom might have made different choices? If she could go back, do things over?”

  “No.” Unequivocally no. Even now, she didn’t get that feeling. Hannah hadn’t shown remorse or wavered on the topic of Rebecca, Caroline herself, or even Sela. It wasn’t her style.

  “Well. I did.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Following some guy to another town? Throwing over your own goals for his?”

  “I don’t recall throwing over my goals.”

  “That’s because I didn’t let you.”

  She swatted away her knee-jerk frustration at anyone—Mom, Keaton—thinking they knew better what was best for her. This was getting away from her, too quickly. Again.

  “Back up,” she said. “You went to my parents’ house. In what mind-set? We’d had that fight. I invited you there to clear the air, talk things through.” She remembered playing over all the things she’d wanted to tell him as she sliced the zucchini, chopped the onion. Not with a nervousness, a sense that the other shoe was about to drop. But excitement. Clarity.

  She’d known, in that moment, exactly what she wanted.

  He nodded, looking a degree more sheepish. “I came in the mind-set to apologize. It seemed stupid to be fighting just because we were both disappointed about the same things. I mean, we were on the same side.”

  “We were,” she agreed. So everything didn’t line up as perfectly as it could have for the move. So what? “When you didn’t show, I thought—well, I assumed you felt the opposite. You weren’t really ready yet to talk. You were still stewing.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know how we got our calendars crossed. Doesn’t matter.” It wouldn’t have. Except.

  “When you did show and I wasn’t there, why not just come find me? Call me?”

  “I was going to. But Hannah seemed so glad to see me. Your dad was out, and—they’re pretty codependent, you know? She’d never really let it show that she minded the idea of you moving, but all of a sudden it was so obvious. And I was the one taking you away. Seemed like the least I could do was keep her company this one night. Next thing I knew I was at the kitchen table, eating pesto.”

  “And?”

  “Well, she asked about the job. When I told her more about it, she got all wistful. Said she hoped you’d find something you could be as passionate about one day. She said she sometimes wondered what she’d have done or been if she hadn’t gotten married right out of school.” Without recent events, this didn’t ring true. In fact, Hannah often joked her college major had been Fred.

  “I could have found plenty of other opportunities in Brevard.”

  He looked doubtful. “We both know the college was your best shot.”

  “Asheville is a short commute—” She caught herself. “That’s beside the point. That was not for you to decide. Or my mom. Or the two of you, behind my back.”

  “I’m not just talking about your slim odds of landing one of the few jobs you’d love outside of a bigger metro. I’m talking about the slim odds I’d already beat to land mine.”

  He crossed his arms, as if this were acknowledging some meaningful revelation.

  “I don’t follow. Why don’t you tell me exactly what she said?”

  She mirrored his posture until finally he broke and rolled his eyes.

  “We’re really doing this? Fine. She asked how long I thought it would take to get the coaching gig ‘out of my system.’ She strongly implied that you hoped this would be a brief stepping-stone for me. That you—your whole family, as I understood it—thought it childish. Which, maybe it was. I mean, if falling off your bike can derail your career, how much of an adult can you be?” He tried to smile, but when she didn’t laugh, it dropped.

  “But you said she was applauding you for following your passion.”

  “Yeah. My silly, get-it-out-of-my-system-while-I-waste-your-time passion,” he said dryly. “I couldn’t start that new chapter of my life that way. Feeling like I was holding you back. Wondering how long you’d be happy treading water until we could move on to someplace that was a better fit. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of us.”

  Caroline thought back to what she’d been doing the night after she waited at her parents’ house for Keaton. The night he actually showed and found Hannah instead. Mo had cooked her a fancy dinner, since Caroline didn’t get to enjoy the one she’d slaved over. Wild mushroom risotto and boxed wine, a combination destined to become an inside joke for future girls’ nights in. Mo had kept her laughing that night, told her Keat probably just needed another day to “fully extract his head from his ass” and everything would be fine.

  “Are these impressions you got or things my mom actually said?”

  “Both? It was a long time ago,” he said again.

  Twelve years. Still not long enough to erase that special, humiliating breed of heartbreak—the ache of loving someone who simply does not love you back enough. Of wanting a life you cannot have, resigning yourself to another one, making it work. Telling yourself it’s better.

  And maybe you’re not wrong; maybe it is. But can anything built on false pretenses remain sturdy when the cracks in the foundation are exposed?

  “Why,” she demanded, her voice barely controlled, “did you not talk to me about this?”

  “I knew if we talked about it, we would land on a compromise. That was what we did—really well.” He was getting visibly upset now. They were back there, both of them, in the heat of an argument they’d never resolved. An argument that had gone entirely one-sided.

  “And that was bad?”

  “Yes! No. I don’t know. She got me thinking we did it too well. I didn’t want to be one of those couples who wants fundamentally different things, and so torments themselves for years, dragging out the inevitable. Once it was pointed out to me that’s what we were, it seemed better to just call it, rather than prolong the inevitable.”

  “You were a coward.” She glowered at him.

  “Maybe. But afte
r I got home from dinner that night, I realized: I’d made my decision. Leaving the way I did was the only way to be sure I’d stick to it. Even if it did hurt like hell.”

  She felt dizzy from shaking her head so hard. “I did not then, nor do I now, believe we wanted fundamentally different things. We always seemed so in sync—I don’t get how you were convinced otherwise, just like that.”

  He shrugged—not dismissively, but hopelessly—and she had the feeling that whatever he said next would be the real reason he’d left. Like the last thing you ask the doctor at an appointment. “We’d been fighting so much, and … Hannah didn’t say anything I wasn’t already feeling insecure about. She’d always liked us together—I had no reason to think she’d mislead me. And I didn’t expect you to be honest if I called you out. Some opinions, you keep to yourself when someone you love is involved. Kind lies.”

  Someone you love.

  Her old anger began to unwind, revealing the spool of grief it had been tangled around. What a waste, for something so definitive to come down to something so insubstantial.

  His eyes searched hers. “Are you honestly telling me none of that was true?”

  “I’m honestly telling you none of that was true.”

  “You think Hannah was projecting her own regrets, insecurities, whatever, on you? Being an overprotective parent, not wanting you to sell yourself short the way she maybe did?”

  “That’s a very charitable way of putting it.”

  “What then? She was afraid you’d meet Fred’s old flame?” Even as he clung to his skepticism, the first hint of outrage flashed. It was oddly comforting, made her feel less alone.

  “Or maybe that it would give him an excuse to look her up. I wouldn’t even rule out that she knew about my half sister. I want to believe she didn’t, but…” She sighed. “She said she underestimated how much you wanted that job. That she set out to talk you out of Brevard and talked you out of me instead.”