13. Lo #2
“People keep asking me what happened. What went wrong. Interviewers, fans, people in the grocery store who recognize me. And I’ve been thinking about how to answer that for ninety-two days.
” Another pause, longer this time. “The truth is, I made her a secret. I sat on a hay bale in our hometown and sang the song I wrote about her eyes, and I never once looked for her in the crowd. I sat across from a woman with a microphone and called myself single as they come, and my wife had to watch it on a big screen with every neighbor she’s got. I let her think I was ashamed of her.”
He looks at the camera. His eyes are red-rimmed.
“The biggest mistake of my life was making my wife a secret. I don’t know if she’s watching this.
If she is, I’m not asking her for anything.
I wouldn’t forgive me either. But I need her to know - I need everyone to know - that I’m not hiding anymore.
I’m not pretending. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I threw it away because I was afraid of what honesty might cost me.
” A breath. “Turns out silence cost me everything.”
The video ends.
The diner noise rushes back in, the clink of silverware, the sizzle from the kitchen, Dot yelling at someone in the kitchen. Normal sounds. Real sounds. Not the ghost of my husband’s voice telling a camera the things he never told me.
“There are more,” Molly says quietly. “That’s from a few weeks back. They’ve gotten-”
“Turn it off.”
“Lo, some of them are-”
“I said turn it off.”
She turns it off.
“That was intense,” Bree says.
“He’s good at cameras.” I pick up my water glass, take a sip I don’t taste. “He’s always been good at cameras. Good at saying the right thing when people are watching.”
“That didn’t look like performing to me.”
“Then you don’t know him like I do. He made a whole career out of making strangers feel like he was singing just to them. That’s the job. That’s what he does.” I set the glass down too hard, water sloshing. “Doesn’t mean it’s real.”
“The ring, though,” Bree says quietly. “He put it back on in the first video. Before he knew if you’d ever watch a single one.”
“I noticed.”
“That’s not nothing, Lo.”
“I know it’s not nothing.” I stare at the water I spilled. “I just don’t know yet if it’s enough.”
“He canceled the rest of the tour,” Molly says. “Did you know that?”
“I heard.”
“He fired Sloane. Cut ties with her completely. There was a whole thing in the industry press about breach of contract, but apparently he didn’t care about the penalties. He just wanted her gone.”
“Good for him.”
“Lo-”
“What do you want me to say?” I look at her, and some of the anger I’ve been pressing down for months slips through the cracks. “That I watched that video and suddenly everything’s fine? That he said pretty words to a camera and now I should pack my bags and run back to him?”
“No. I just thought you should know what he’s putting out there. What people are seeing.”
“Now I know. Can we order?”
“He seems like he’s really hurting.”
“And I’m not? Four months ago, his manager told the whole town she was pregnant with his baby while I stood there holding my own test.” My voice is rising, and I force it back down.
Rosie’s stopped coloring, watching me with wide eyes.
“I left everything I knew. I’m pregnant and alone in a town where I had to start over.
But sure, he made some videos and he seems sad, so I guess we should all feel sorry for Jesse Cooper. ”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I meant-” Molly stops, takes a breath. “I meant that the internet is either falling in love with him or telling him to go to hell, and you should know which side you’re on before someone asks you.”
“I don’t have a side. I have a hay business and a baby to think about. That’s enough.”
Bree puts her hand on my arm. “Nobody’s saying you should forgive him. Nobody’s saying you should do anything. We just didn’t want you blindsided if it comes up.”
“It’s already come up. Every time I go to the feed store, someone mentions his videos.
Every time I pick up supplies in Bell Creek, there’s a magazine with his face on it at the checkout.
‘Country Star’s Heartbreak Confession!’ ‘Jesse Cooper’s Tearful Plea to Missing Wife!
’” I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to me.
“I can’t escape him. Even here, two hundred miles away, in a town he’s never heard of, I can’t escape him. ”
“Do you want to?” Molly asks. “Escape him, I mean. Really, permanently, never-see-him-again escape him?”
The question sits there. I don’t answer it. I don’t have an answer.
“Because if you do,” she continues, “that’s valid. You can divorce him, move on, raise this baby without him. That’s a choice you’re allowed to make.”
“I know.”
“But if part of you is still-”
“I don’t know what part of me is still anything.” I rub my temples. “He’s doing everything different. Asking permission. Going through Ruth. Letting me make my own choices about the safety stuff. It’s like he actually heard what I said.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s another performance.”
“Can we please just order?” Molly interjects. “I’ve been craving their burger for three days, and I’d like to eat something before Lo spirals into a philosophical crisis about the nature of sincerity.”
“I will throw this water at you. Don’t think I won’t.”
“And there’s the Lo we know and love.”
Dot appears with her notepad, orthopedic shoes squeaking on the linoleum. Eighty years old and still working six days a week because, as she puts it, “sitting around waiting to die isn’t really my style.”
“What can I get you ladies? And don’t say you need more time, I’ve got a hip that predicts rain and it’s telling me I’ve got about an hour before I need to sit down.”
“Grilled cheese for me,” I say. “Extra pickles on the side.”
“Pregnancy cravings or just poor taste?”
“Both, probably.”
“Burger, medium rare,” Molly says.
“Salad, dressing on the side,” Bree adds. “And can we get some more crackers for James? He’s eaten his body weight already, but he’s giving me the look.”
“The look?”
“The one that says ‘feed me or I’ll scream until everyone in this diner hates you.’”
“Ah, that look. My kids had that look. Then they grew up and developed new looks, like ‘when are you going to die so I can have the house’ and ‘why won’t you babysit my children for free every weekend.’” Dot tucks her notepad into her apron. “I’ll get those crackers.”
She moves on to the next table. The conversation settles like dust after a storm, all of us picking at napkins and avoiding eye contact.