Chapter Twenty-Two
Unlike Skye’s first attempt to cook for me, this meal turns out perfectly. The shrimp étouffée is spicy and delicious, and the Beaujolais-Villages complements it very well. We don’t talk a lot at dinner. Just a little about my trip and about the posts she’s done this week. I’m pleased with her progress as an influencer.
“I’ve been using the skincare line for a week now,” she tells me. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re as beautiful as you always were.”
“Seriously. My skin tone is a little more even, don’t you think?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Are you kidding me? I look better, and you don’t even notice?”
I chuckle. “Contrary to popular belief, beauty routines aren’t for men, Skye. They’re for women.”
“I just mean—”
“You mean you want me to tell you that you look better. What if I did? The first thing you’d say then is, ‘You mean you didn’t like how I looked before?’”
She scoffs. “Maybe some women. I wouldn’t.”
I shake my head. “You aren’t like any other woman I’ve ever met, so maybe you wouldn’t. But I’m telling you the truth when I say I don’t see a difference. You were beautiful a week ago, and you’re beautiful now.”
Her cheeks go rosy. Perhaps Skye doesn’t realize that she could have dirt smudged all over her, tangles in her hair, and it wouldn’t matter. To me, she’s beautiful in every moment, in every state—messy or polished, she radiates something deeper than appearance. She always takes my breath away without even trying.
“Ready for dessert?” she asks.
Am I ever.
But she already turned me down for a shower, so I’ll keep my cool. She invited me here to share something with me. Something important. Something I asked for.
“Let’s talk first,” I say.
She’s going to open up to me.
I may not be able to reciprocate, and that will have to be okay with her.
“All right,” she says. “You want any coffee?”
“I think just a little more wine.” I fill my goblet halfway and then lift my eyebrows at her.
“No, thanks.” She smiles. “You want to sit on the couch? It’s more comfortable.”
“Sure.” I pick up my wineglass and walk to the living room.
She follows me, sits down, and pats the seat next to her.
I sit.
“You asked me a question the last time we were in New York together. A question I couldn’t answer then.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t think I was brave enough to find the answer.”
“That’s not exactly what I said. I said I was going to have my say, and then you could have yours, if you were brave enough.”
“All right. The exact words don’t really matter, because I’ve realized it’s not the answer that’s important in the long run.”
“Oh?”
I wrinkle my forehead. Perhaps she’s not going to open up after all, and I have to be okay with that. I have to be willing to walk away again.
“No, it’s the question. You see, Braden, I asked myself the question. I asked why the choking was so important to me, and I have an answer, but it’s not even the answer that’s important.”
“What do you mean?”
“Figuring these things out isn’t black-and-white. I know you like to think of things that way. You’re a lot like Tessa in that way.”
I chuckle. “Am I?”
“Don’t laugh at me.” She gives me a friendly swat on the upper arm. “I’m serious. She’s an accountant. A mathematician. There’s always a right and wrong with her. You’re the same way.”
“I’ll admit to being analytical, yes.”
“I’m an artist. Black and white only exist to me as opposite ends of a spectrum. There are so many colors in between. And then in between the in-between.”
“Am I in for a philosophy lesson?”
“I’m just trying to explain that yes, I have an answer to your question, but I’m not going to stop asking the question. It’s a journey. And while the answers themselves are important, they are only points along the way of the journey. To me, the answer isn’t as important as the question. And the question you asked me was why the neck binding was so important to me. I have an answer to that question, but before I got there, I had to ask another question.”
“You’re talking in circles, Skye.”
“I’m not, actually. You’re just refusing to see the shades and layers between black and white.”
“That’s not true. I wouldn’t be much of a businessman if I didn’t recognize that there aren’t any absolutes.”
“There you go, then. There is no one absolute answer to your question. I have an answer today—and that answer makes sense today—but I feel there’s more to learn about myself, and that might change the answer later.”
“Fair enough. What’s your answer today?”
“I was punishing myself.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Once I figured out that I saw the bondage as punishment, I knew right away why I wanted it. It’s because I feel like a fraud. The only reason anyone cares what I think is because I’m your girlfriend. Things went down and down after that. I lost my friendship with Tessa. I did a half-assed post for Susanne because I didn’t think I was any better than that. And then, that night in New York, you left me, too.”
“But that was after—”
“I know. I know. I’m getting to that.”
“Okay,” I say. “Go on.”
“So I talked to my mother, and I talked to a therapist, and with their help, I figured something out.”
Her voice breaks a little, but steely determination fills her eyes.
“Tell me,” I prod.
She draws in a breath. “When I remember the cornfield, some of it is so clear. My heart thumping, fear flowing through me. My little legs trying to run but tripping, and then the pole springing and breaking my path. Hitting my head. Then waking up in bed. But so much else was a blur. Like why was I running in the first place? I remember chasing the praying mantis, but there was so much urgency.”
“And did you figure that out?”
She nods. “For now, anyway. But like I said, I believe it’s a journey.”
“I understand. Life is a journey, Skye.”
“Exactly. I told you that I stopped asking my parents about their separation when I was little because they kept telling me that it was in the past and nothing for me to worry about. But after talking to my therapist, I went to my mother again.”
“And did you get your answer?”
She swallows. “I did. And it’s not pretty. Not pretty at all.”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“I do.” She bites her lips, pauses a moment. “I asked my mother again, and this time I told her I needed an answer because I was trying to figure some things out about myself. About my relationship with you. About my relationship with everyone, really. And that it all seemed to come back to those few months when Dad left.”
“And what did she say?”
Skye sighs. “She said something that surprised the hell out of me.”
I lift my eyebrows.
“She said that leaving wasn’t my father’s idea.”
“It wasn’t?”
She shakes her head. “We didn’t have a lot of money in those days, but that year we had a bumper crop, and we needed extra help. So Dad hired a hand. His name was Mario. I didn’t remember him for the life of me, but then she told me to think back to that day I ran off chasing a praying mantis. She said Mario is the one who found me.”
“But you don’t remember being found.”
“Right. I don’t. All I remember is waking up later in my bed. Then she dropped a bomb on me.”
My heart skips. Clearly this is a turning point for Skye.
“She told me,” Skye continues, “that Mario is the reason I ran off.”
I absently clench my hand into a fist. If Mario hurt Skye in any way, I will hunt him down and make him pay.
“No, no, no.” Skye shakes her head, seeming to read my mind. “Nothing happened with Mario. At least not to me.”
I heave out a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Go on.”
“So I started thinking, and then something appeared in my mind. I wasn’t sure what it was yet, but Mom kept talking, telling me I had hit my head really hard and that I had a concussion.”
“A concussion can cause retrograde amnesia,” I say. “Maybe that’s why you don’t remember Mario.”
“That’s probably part of it, but I think I repressed what I saw.” She gulps audibly. “I saw my mother. In the bed she shared with my father.” Another gulp. “With Mario.”
“God, Skye.” My heart breaks for her. “I’m so sorry. So it wasn’t your father who had an affair.”
“No.” She sighs. “My mom said I broke a plate and ran out. And I remembered. I remembered breaking some of her good china, but mostly I remember the praying mantis. I was a tomboy back then, and I loved bugs. My mom always tried to dress me in girly things, but I just got them all dirty.”
“I can totally see that,” I say, smiling.
“Anyway, my mom admitted to me that she was the one who had the affair, not my dad.”
“Skye…”
“No. I want to finish, Braden. I have to finish.”
I squeeze her hand. “Okay.”
“Apparently my mom and dad fought a lot back then. I don’t remember a lot of it because I was only seven, and I spent so much time outdoors. But it turns out they disagreed a lot about how to raise me…and they disagreed about having more children. Dad wanted more. Mom didn’t. That led to Mom’s affair with Mario, which led to their separation.”
I nod, prompting her to continue.
“Anyway, apparently after I discovered my mom with Mario, she asked him to leave the farm. She said her affair with him wasn’t worth losing the respect of her child. And I fought her on that, Braden. I accused her of being okay with losing the respect of her husband. Then she started crying. Telling me I should have left it in the past.”
“Like I’ve told you about and Addie and me,” I say, more to myself than to Skye.
“Exactly, so you can imagine how I took those words.”
“You got angry.”
“You bet I got angry. But then I realized that this wasn’t my problem. It was my mother’s. She called my dad that day because I had been hurt. And he came back, but he didn’t move back into their bedroom yet. He needed a little more time to deal with the Mario situation, and Mom says she understood.”
“Your parents seem to love each other a lot now.”
She nods. “They do. Mom says Dad eventually forgave her, and she claims they became even closer after the whole thing. But there was still one more thing I didn’t understand.”
“What was that?” I ask.