Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I’m late. Or at least, I’m going to be. It takes ten minutes to get from here to the university, but I’m supposed to be at my committee meeting in five. I quickly change into something more presentable, throw my hair in a bun, and grab an apple to eat in the car.
Before I can think too much about it, I shove the sealed urn in my oversized purse and head outside.
A car pulls up in front of the house just as I’m turning to lock the door.
Jeremy climbs out, pulling a rolling suitcase behind him.
I’m so shocked I freeze with my hand still on the key in the lock.
The apple, still balanced between my teeth.
He saunters up the walkway, wraps both arms around me, and pulls me into him.
“Hey, Nutter.” When he pulls back, he gently chucks his knuckles against my chin.
I grab the apple out of my mouth. “Why are you here?”
“I came as soon as I heard.” He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “Joan didn’t see fit to tell me until last night. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner, baby girl.”
I can’t think of what to say. My brain is stuck on the inconsistency of seeing him. He’s never been here before. And now he’s standing on the front porch, broad stance filling the space. Looking down at me. I’m a little kid again. Looking up at a giant.
“I’m gonna take care of everything.” He reaches past me and turns the key in the door.
This isn’t right. He doesn’t get to do this.
“Let’s go inside so we can talk through the details. We’ll want to be sure we give people at least a few days notice. It won’t be a big crowd, so that helps. We should be able to find a small place that will work well.”
“What?” It’s all I can manage to squeak out around the tension and the pounding in my head. What’s he doing here?
“I know, baby girl. It’s a lot. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to take care of all the planning so you don’t need to worry.”
Planning?
He opens the door and, with a hand on my back, gently pushes me inside. I clench my jaw.
“Where’ve you been going to church? Have you already talked to the pastor? If not, I can call them about the memorial.”
Wait, memorial? Is that what he’s talking about? How can he possibly think he has any right to plan a memorial for the woman he cheated on for more than a decade?
“I can’t do this right now.” I swivel away from his touch and back out to the porch.
“We can’t wait. It’s already been a week. You can’t hold off a memorial for too long. It’s etiquette.”
“Who cares about fucking etiquette!” I clamp my hand over my mouth. I haven’t yelled at him in years, not since I was a little girl.
Jeremy’s eyebrows pinch together. “I know you’re upset, so I’m going to ignore the unladylike cursing, but really, Hazel, there are ways these things have to be done.”
I’ve had enough. “Why do you even care? She wasn’t your wife. This isn’t your concern.”
Mom didn’t want a big memorial. We joked about how I could honor her after she was gone, but in the end I knew what she wanted was for me and Aunt Joan to sprinkle her ashes at the beach. But not yet. I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.
“You’re still my daughter. I’m concerned about you.”
“Some way of showing it.” I try to walk away, but he takes my elbow and moves in front of me, blocking the sidewalk.
“Is this still about the affair? It’s been ten years, Hazel. Your mom forgave me. We’ve all moved on. You can’t still be upset about it.”
“I can’t?” I advance on him and raise a finger to his chest. The wall I’ve so carefully maintained to keep me in his good graces shatters.
“That. Right there. That’s why I can’t move on.
It’s not about the affair. It’s about how you always tell me what I can and can’t feel.
You make me feel like too much and not enough all at once.
Nothing I feel is valid. Nothing I do is good enough.
You act like you know me so well and like you want the best for me, but if you really wanted the best for me, you’d let me grieve my own way.
You don’t get to wrap me up in a nice pretty package anymore.
You don’t get to swoop in and act like everything between us is perfect and you’re going to save me from myself.
I don’t need saving. ‘Cause guess what? I’m not a baby girl.
I’m not a Nutter. I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman, and, yeah, I have big feelings.
I’m sensitive and can’t always stay in the nice, neat, convenient box you tried to put me in.
I’m a mess. Mom loved me for it. And she’s gone.
You don’t get to barge in here and take over. You don’t get to replace her.”
Jeremy gapes at me. But he stays silent for once.
“I’m late. I need to go.” Ripping away from him, I power walk to my car.
As I drive away, I try not to think about the fact that I left Jeremy standing in my doorway, holding the keys to my house. It all feels too overwhelming. I just need to get to my committee meeting.
I pull into the university parking lot fifteen minutes late and completely frazzled. I run the entire way to the reserved room. Dr. Paatel and the rest of the committee are already there, and it’s clear they aren’t happy I kept them waiting.
“Miss Berton.” A tall blonde woman I recognize as the chair of the department stands and motions for me to take the seat at the head of the conference table.
My heart beats wild in my chest. My nails bite into the palm of my hand, and I try to let the pain ground me.
“Tell us about your inspiration,” Dr. Figero says, jumping right in the moment I sit down. He taught a Russian lit lecture my first year of graduate school. “Why did you write this novel?”
Should I stand up? What kind of answer are they looking for? I didn’t prepare for this question. I didn’t prepare at all. My palms are sweating, heart racing. But my mind is numbingly quiet. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Why this novel? What were your inspirations?”
I take a breath, trying to get myself under control. “The idea… intrigued me, I guess? I’m not sure.”
I know exactly why I chose this story, but the truth gets stuck in my throat.
I wrote it for Mom. She’d probably like the romance novel better, but I didn’t realize that when I started my thesis.
I wanted to tell a story resembling hers.
I also wanted to stick it to Jeremy and impress him at the same time.
Live up to something better than the overemotional sweet baby girl he sees me as.
Something stronger. Harder. More intellectual.
I had secret dreams that my thesis novel would get published and get recognition of some sort.
Win an award. Make a bestseller list. Something.
I know that won’t happen. The book’s not as good as I imagined it’d be.
I can see the confirmation of that on the faces of the professors staring back at me.
They accept my answer and shoot more questions at me. Some about particular things in the novel itself and some about my process for writing it. They’re kind, but not exuberant.
In the end, they approve the novel, but I can’t help feeling like I barely squeaked by.
After they congratulate me, they stand, and disperse.
Dr. Paatel and I are the last people in the room.
He holds the door open, motioning for me to walk through.
I scramble to my feet, clutching my purse, with Mom’s urn inside.
“Tell me about this other book you’re working on,” Dr. Paatel says as we walk out.
“Huh?”
“You’re writing another book, aren’t you?”
Oh, right. I forgot Cosmos told him I was writing two books at once. I wave a hand in the air like I’m shooing away a fly, or the very thought of the romance novel sitting at home on my nightstand. “It’s nothing.”
“Writing a book is never nothing.”
“It’s just… not very good.”
He glances over at me as we turn the corner and head toward the doors that will take us outside the building. “If I can be quite frank… neither is your thesis.” His voice is gentle even though the words are stark.
“But… you just approved it.”
“I did. It’s not bad. There’s nothing truly wrong with it. You made the adjustments I suggested, but it’s still…” He pauses like he’s searching for the right word, or hesitant to say the word he wants to use. Then, he shrugs. “It’s boring.”
Unable to contain myself, I laugh for the first time since Mom’s death. It’s not really funny, but it’s all just too much. “I know,” I wheeze. “You’re right.”
Dr. Paatal gives me a concerned look. I compose myself, fidgeting with the strap of my purse, the heavy weight of the urn resting against my leg.
“That’s not to say that you’re a boring writer, Hazel,” Dr. Paatal says, almost stern. “I’ve been your advisor for two years, and I know what you’re capable of. I’m just not sure you’re really playing to your strengths or passionate about your subject. So, tell me about this other book.”
Am I passionate about the romance novel? No, not really. I mean, what does that even mean—passionate? I enjoyed writing it. But it’s not like I’m trying to say something important. I just wanted to write a good story. “It’s... a romance.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Well, it’s not, you know…” I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s just a romance.”
He gives me a knowing smile. “Send it to me.”
My face burns with embarrassment. I absolutely cannot let Dr. Paatel read my romance novel. I’d never be able to look at him again. “You don’t have to do that. I can’t—”
“Stop.” He turns to face me and sets a hand on my shoulder in a fatherly gesture. “You’re a promising writer, Hazel. I want to read it.”
“But it’s—”
“You can’t scandalize me, Miss Berton. I’ve been married for twenty-nine years, have four children, and my wife has an entire floor-to-ceiling bookshelf dedicated solely to romance novels.”
“Really?” I can’t picture the older, put-together woman I met at the ice cream place having a library of romance novels.
Dr. Paatal pats my shoulder and smiles. “I look forward to reading it.”