Chapter 8
Natalia runs through her story without interruption as I capture her words on the keyboard. My fingers cramp as she fills in the details. Her story is a series of dead ends and tangents, but I transcribe it all, knowing I’ll need to make sense of it later.
“I had a headlight out, so the accident was my fault. I fled. It was instinct, self-preservation. I didn’t find out he’d died until days later when I saw it in the paper.
That’s when I learned about the kid he left behind.
I probably should have turned myself in, but my daughter was a baby then, and her dad was a deadbeat.
So I didn’t want to feed my kid to the foster care system.
Instead, I made amends my own way and made sure my daughter was raised to be better than me.
” Natalia takes a sip of her iced tea, her hand slipping around the condensation, her knuckles pale as she grips the glass.
“For decades, I anonymously sent cash to the guy’s wife and son.
And I raised my girl.” Natalia is silent for several minutes, but Beau waits. He’s a patient interviewer.
“My daughter, she grew up to be a teacher. You may have heard of her.” Natalia grabs a stack of newspaper clippings from the wooden end table and waves them toward Beau.
He leans forward and takes them from her shaking hands.
He skims the articles and then passes them to me.
I scan the headlines as Beau continues with the interview: “ Area teacher saves school from gunman,” “Teacher’s quick thinking averts tragedy,” “Children are safe at home tonight thanks to brave schoolteacher. ”
I remember this incident. The gunman came into the cafeteria during lunch, and a teacher knocked him out from behind with a metal folding chair.
He got off one shot. It clipped the principal in the shoulder, but there were no other casualties.
It could have been catastrophic. I find the teacher’s name in the second paragraph—Mandy Bridgewater.
“My daughter wouldn’t have been there that day.
You don’t grow up to be a hero if your mom is in jail for killing someone,” Natalia says.
“You wanted to know how choices change history? There’s a whole lot of kids who wouldn’t be here today.
” She lifts her chin and knocks her cane against the hardwood.
And wow. Maybe. But that’s some mental gymnastics she’s doing to justify her own immoral choice.
“My lie almost ate me alive. But as much as I regret my mistake, I don’t regret my secret,” Natalia says.
“Why share it now?” Beau asks, his voice like a salve.
“I’m not a young woman, Mr. Augustin. And not a healthy one either.
I’m sending a letter to the family tomorrow—because my doctor told me the treatment stopped working.
” She points to a sealed envelope on the coffee table.
“They say the truth will set you free. I don’t know about all that.
Because people don’t deal with the truth all that well.
We use it for vengeance. An eye for an eye, making the whole world blind.
But I’m running out of time to try my luck at making my peace.
And I thought maybe you’d do my truth some justice. ”
The sound of Georgina’s piercing bark is still ringing in my ears when Beau turns into a gravel lot.
The red neon sign of the greasy-spoon diner spells D——er , the i and n burned out, forcing us to use our imaginations to fill in the blanks.
My imagination is filling in the blanks with E.
coli and salmonella. But I’m not about to complain.
There aren’t any other choices in this wasteland.
My stomach is bursting with sour sludge after I ate all those li hing mui on the way here; I need sustenance and nutrients to balance it out.
I pull my backpack out of the car before following Beau inside, sending a prayer to the weather gods that “Der” has AC, but it does not—proving no god anywhere has answered any of my prayers.
Der is a relic of a restaurant with peeling, checkered linoleum and seafoam-green vinyl booths. The grease hovers in the air, coats the surfaces, invades my nostrils as I peer into the kitchen. Sorry, stomach lining. You’re not getting any help here.
Beau slides into a booth and grabs a menu, his face pinched into an expression more sullen than usual.
I plop down across from him and struggle with the menu, which is the size of poster board. “Do you think we’ll get vegetables on this trip at some point?”
“There’s a salad on the menu,” he says.
“Really?” I fumble with the menu and knock his in the process. He scowls at me. “You should have snacked in the car,” I say. “Lani packed snacks because she knows you get hangry.”
“I’m not hangry,” he snaps.
“How can you be so charming to Natalia, a literal killer, and be so grumpy to me?”
“Natalia is helping me with my book.”
“ I’m helping you with your book.”
He shakes his head, but his lips curl into a small smile. “Natalia didn’t frame me for using crayons on her bedroom wall.”
“I was six,” I say, holding back a giggle.
“It may have worked had you not written, ‘B-O-W was here.’”
“Your capacity to remember every wrong I’ve ever done is ... something.”
“I’m sure I don’t remember every wrong.” Beau grins. “I’m a historian, not a savant.”
I shake my head, although I’m enjoying his teasing. It’s better than monosyllabic. But the interview is still sitting with me. “What do you think about Natalia? About her deciding in hindsight that not confessing meant her daughter became a hero years later.”
“You don’t think the ends justify the means?” he asks.
I drop my voice and lean forward. “That poor family had no closure. It’s not like Natalia’s lie was a victimless crime. You disagree?”
“Not necessarily. But I want to approach the book without bias. I’ll let the readers decide.”
“I think the man’s widow and child get to decide. What if the child grew up to be a mass shooter because of his trauma? Does it nullify Mandy’s good deed?”
Beau sighs and rubs his temples. “I’m not writing this book to pass judgment.” There it is again, and something about that comment strikes me as more personal than professional.
“Why are you writing this book?”
Beau waves the server over and doesn’t answer me. A thin guy, with a man bun and an apron, approaches from the counter.
“What can I get ya?”
“The spinach salad,” I say.
The server, Dan his name tag says, shakes his head. “You don’t want that, trust me.”
“O-kay,” I laugh. “What do I want?” Nothing like a man to tell a woman what she does and doesn’t want. I need vitamins and minerals. But I’ve been a server, which leads me to trust him. I’d rather lose my suffragette badge than my stomach contents.
Dan bites his lip and tilts his chin. “The burger’s all right. Grilled cheese if you don’t eat meat. Also, the fries are legit.”
“Burger and fries it is.” I smile and notice his fantastic blue eyes—a blend of Tiffany boxes and the diamonds they enclose.
“You got it.” His focus lingers on me as he takes my menu.
Beau clears his throat. “I’ll have a chicken sandwich. And water.”
Dan nods, looking Beau up and down before sauntering away. Beau glares after him.
“You have two speeds,” Beau grumbles under his breath.
“Dare I ask?”
“Fight or flirt.”
“I’m sorry?”
“What do I want?” he mimics in a register too high.
“You think I was flirting?” I chuckle. “Oh, Beau, if that’s your idea of flirting, your radar is malfunctioning, but I’m happy to give you lessons.”
“I don’t need lessons.” His cheeks pink softly.
“You might. I’m sure someone will flirt with you—someday.” I’m sure people flirt with the man all the time. But he probably doesn’t notice.
He glares at me with a surly expression, which could also be considered smoldering. Poor Beau. His late-stage hotness must be wasted on a bunch of introverted PhDs too distracted by academia to notice his pouty lips.
But then I gasp. “Oh my God. Your students.”
He folds his arms across his chest, making his biceps pop. They’re defined, with raised veins working hard to feed all that muscle. “What about my students?”
“I bet they flirt with you all the time. ‘When are your office hours, Professor?’ ‘You’re so smart, Dr. Augustin.’ ‘Is my thesis good for you, Professor?’”
“Gross, Phe.” He frowns and fiddles with the napkin dispenser.
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true. I bet you’re dressed in jackets with elbow patches in your students’ fantasies.”
He groans. “They’re barely legal.”
“I’m not implying that you encourage it.
But c’mon. Of course they objectify you.
Teacher fantasies are canon. Hotness isn’t even required.
” The issue with teasing him is that it sears the images into my brain.
I’ve never had a teacher kink, but Professor Augustin is doing it for me.
He’s had such a glow-up during our long estrangement that he looks like a hot stranger—and I need to remind myself that the history between us is thicker than his gorgeous head of hair.
Unlike some anonymous dude at a bar, I already know all the reasons Beau and I aren’t compatible: temperament, intellect, animosity.
Now if I can only convince my libido he’s not for me.
“Only you could manage to insult me while objectifying me.”
“Oh, please. I didn’t say you weren’t hot. You look like a Hollywood heartthrob playing the part of an academic. You’re probably the subject of coed fan fiction starring Professor Benedict August.”
“Are you always this crass?”
If he thinks this is crass, he really doesn’t want to know what I’m thinking. “Are you always this prudish?”
His gaze collides with mine, and something heavy passes between us.
“No,” he says in a tone that makes the little hairs on my arms stand up and a warmth brew somewhere it shouldn’t. Because I immediately imagine him in a hundred nonprudish scenarios—most of them sans clothes.
Well then.
I look away first and don’t say anything until the food comes.
I can’t tell whether it’s the ice maker or the vending machine hissing outside my motel window.
Whatever it is, it’s in its last days. We’re in Lebec for the night, a tiny town at the base of the Grapevine off the 5.
Like Barstow, it’s desolate. California is spoiled with beauty, but so far, this road trip is doing its best to prove otherwise.
Beau took control of the radio on the way out of Barstow and didn’t speak much on the two-hour drive.
There was nothing to distract me but flat plains interrupted by clusters of gas stations and fast-food chains.
We parted ways in the lobby when he handed me a key.
I heard Beau leave his motel room a few moments ago when the door adjacent to mine slammed shut.
He must have left to grab dinner. He didn’t invite me along, which is probably for the best. Bad things happen when we spend too much time together: bickering, irritation, fantasies.
And this has been a ton of togetherness.
I’ll catch up on my day job, clean up my notes from this morning, and distract myself with TV while I work.
The motel has basic cable. My choices are CSI , Dateline , and some new medical procedural like Grey’s Anatomy but isn’t Grey’s Anatomy .
I search for a show not fixated on death.
I land on HGTV, which tries to convince me I can remodel an entire home for $40,000.
Meanwhile, my real estate agent leaves me a voicemail detailing the number of Benjamins I will have to shell out to make modest repairs on Dad’s house before selling.
I turn off the TV and throw the remote across the bed.
The quiet settles into my bones like fog.
I’ve lived alone for years. But it didn’t ever feel so lonely.
I check my phone. I don’t have any texts or messages from anyone but clients.
I hover over the voicemail button. The devil on my shoulder is enticing me to pour alcohol on my raw wounds.
My angel ... well, I’ve never had an angel. I press play.
“Ophelia, love, it’s your dear old dad, checking in.
How was your date? I hope he wasn’t a prick like the last one who showed you a photo of his ex-girlfriend and asked to split the bill on your soda and his three beers.
Either way, call me when you get home. I saw a story the other day about catfishing and want to make sure you aren’t, you know, caught.
Okay ... well, I love you. Call me. No matter how late. ”
I press play.
“ Ophelia, love, it’s your dear old dad— ” but I’m startled by a knock at my door, and I drop the phone.
I freeze. “Who is it?” I yell.
“Creepy dude with bad intentions.” Beau’s voice seeps through the door in a monotone.
I slide across the bed and open the door. He shoves a brown paper bag into my chest before I get it all the way open.
“Be ready at eight.” Beau stalks off to his room.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” I call after him.
I open the bag to find a large spinach salad and the last of Lani’s macadamia nut cookies.