“Oh, sure. I’m sorry.” I carefully pulled out and watched her ease off the bed.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, giving me a sheepish grin as she headed for the bathroom.
“Take your time.” I pulled myself together and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
Could I do this? Was I really going to admit everything? Was I ready for what her reaction was going to be? Tears and pity and sorrow and pleading with me to have the surgery—and that was if she forgave me for keeping it from her all weekend. She’d be a mess at dinner, unable to explain why, and our last night together would be ruined.
Then there was the thing she’d said about power. You were all manly and dominant and strong. Power is sexy. If she knew the truth, she’d never see me that way again. She’d see me as sick and weak and at the mercy of other people. Smarter people. Like Finn.
The bathroom door opened, and she came out looking as perfect as she had when she’d walked in. “All good,” she said, her smile fading as she got closer to me. “You okay?”
I stood up. “I’m fine. Ready to go?”
Her head tilted to one side. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”
“It was nothing,” I lied. The disappointment in her face gutted me.
“It didn’t sound like nothing. Come on, tell me.” She slipped her arms around my waist.
“I just—wanted you to know how much this weekend has meant to me. That’s all.”
She smiled up at me. “Me, too.”
“Should we head out?”
“Yes.” But she hesitated. “There’s nothing else you want to tell me?”
“No.” I could hardly meet her eyes. “That was it. I’ll just use the bathroom real quick, and then we’ll go.”
“Okay.” She let go of me, and I hurried into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I avoided the mirror.
What the fuck was I going to do?
Dinner was a struggle.
Not because of the company—Maren’s sisters seemed great, and everyone was making an effort with me, but my head was not in the game.
“So, Dallas, I hear you’re a tattoo artist?”
I blinked at the guy who’d asked the question. Walter, his name was, although it was hard not to think of him as Buzz after Maren’s stories. He was tall and thin and professorial-looking, clean shaven with neatly combed sandy blond hair and wire-rim glasses. “Yes.”
“That must be interesting work.”
“Yeah.” When I didn’t go on, Maren spoke up.
“Dallas is amazingly talented. He used to draw things on people with a Sharpie at parties in high school. He once did this incredible design on my arm I never wanted to wash off.”
“I remember that.” Emme nodded enthusiastically. “Mom was so mad at you.”
“She was.” Maren laughed. “Every time she saw it, she would groan and tell me to go put long sleeves on.”
“Ever do any tattoos of bees?” Walter asked. “I’ve sometimes thought about getting one.”
“Can’t say that I have.”
The conversation stalled.
“Nate, do you have any tattoos?” Maren asked Emme’s fiancé. He was dark-haired and thicker through the chest and shoulders than Walter, and he had a little bit of facial hair, but I was willing to bet he was not the type to have ink under his expensive suit. I hadn’t tattooed a lot of lawyers in my life.
“I don’t,” he said. “I’m actually not a huge fan of needles near my skin.”
Emme looked at him. “You’re afraid of needles? I didn’t know that.”
“I said I wasn’t a fan of needles, not that I was afraid of them. Big difference.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right.”
The oldest sister, Stella, tried to draw me out a different way. “So you’re in Portland, I hear? How do you like it out there?”
“I like it.”
“I’ve never been there,” she went on, “but I’ve heard it’s really nice.”
“I’d like to visit Oregon wine country,” said Emme. “I love Willamette Valley pinot noir. Have you ever done any winery tours or anything?”
“No.” From my right I could sense Maren’s unease with my failure to make conversation, so I tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t.
My appetite wasn’t good, so when the food came I took a few bites, but mostly just pushed it around on my plate.
“Do you not like the lamb?” Maren asked quietly. “I can share my gnocchi with you if you’d like.”
“No, thanks. The lamb is good. I guess I’m just not that hungry.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile.
Everyone else at the table chatted easily, and it was obvious the three sisters were very close. They teased each other without being mean, and were quick to praise one another’s talents and accomplishments. Stella spoke glowingly of Emme’s knack for taking an empty space and turning it into a bride’s dream come true, even on a budget, and Maren blushed when Emme complimented her volunteer efforts at schools in underserved communities in rural areas. “Those kids would never have the opportunity to take a yoga class at a studio,” she said. “And did she tell you about how she got one company to donate mats to a women’s shelter?”
“No.” I looked at Maren, whose cheeks grew even pinker.
“She did. And then she went there and taught classes for free, not just yoga but mindfulness and meditation and—what was the other one, Mare?”
“Affirmations.”
“Oh, right.” Emme laughed. “I still remember my affirmation from when you dragged me to that class.” She sat up taller and recited it proudly. “I am deserving of a supportive, loving, awesome relationship.”
“And see? It worked.” Maren gestured at Emme and Nate. “Once you said it enough, it created the right kind of energy for the relationship to happen.”
“The right person helped, too,” Emme said, patting Nate on the arm.
The right person. I looked at the other guys at the table—a college professor and an attorney, neither of whom, presumably, had a brain tumor or a gigantic secret he was keeping from the woman next to him—and felt like a fucking disaster. These were good guys. They had everything to offer. They’d done everything right. They were smart and honest and played by the rules, and life had rewarded them for it.
Why can’t you be more like your brother? my parents used to ask me. I’d hated it. I didn’t know why I couldn’t be more like him. I just wasn’t. But sitting there at that table, I wished more than anything I had been.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck in this lie, stuck in this impossible situation where I had to either forfeit the love of my life or drag her down a dark, miserable road.
I looked over at her, and she smiled at me. She was so beautiful it hurt. So good to people around her. So loyal to everyone she loved. If I didn’t set her free, she’d waste all her time trying to take care of me.
I wasn’t worth it.
Fourteen
Maren
“He’s really cute, Maren,” Stella said to me in the restaurant bathroom where the three of us stood in front of the mirror. “But he’s so quiet. Not at all what I was imagining.”
“Same,” said Emme, pulling the cap off her red lipstick. “I thought he was more outgoing.”
“He normally is.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s not acting like himself at all.”
“Maybe he doesn’t feel good,” Stella suggested, fussing with her hair. “Does he have a headache today?”
“He did this morning. Maybe that’s it.” My eyes filled with tears. “But there’s something he’s not telling me, you guys. I can feel it.”
“Like what?” Stella turned to me, concern in her eyes.
“I don’t know.” I took a shaky breath. “But I think it might be what you said—epilepsy.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said, giving me a sheepish grin as she headed for the bathroom.
“Take your time.” I pulled myself together and sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
Could I do this? Was I really going to admit everything? Was I ready for what her reaction was going to be? Tears and pity and sorrow and pleading with me to have the surgery—and that was if she forgave me for keeping it from her all weekend. She’d be a mess at dinner, unable to explain why, and our last night together would be ruined.
Then there was the thing she’d said about power. You were all manly and dominant and strong. Power is sexy. If she knew the truth, she’d never see me that way again. She’d see me as sick and weak and at the mercy of other people. Smarter people. Like Finn.
The bathroom door opened, and she came out looking as perfect as she had when she’d walked in. “All good,” she said, her smile fading as she got closer to me. “You okay?”
I stood up. “I’m fine. Ready to go?”
Her head tilted to one side. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”
“It was nothing,” I lied. The disappointment in her face gutted me.
“It didn’t sound like nothing. Come on, tell me.” She slipped her arms around my waist.
“I just—wanted you to know how much this weekend has meant to me. That’s all.”
She smiled up at me. “Me, too.”
“Should we head out?”
“Yes.” But she hesitated. “There’s nothing else you want to tell me?”
“No.” I could hardly meet her eyes. “That was it. I’ll just use the bathroom real quick, and then we’ll go.”
“Okay.” She let go of me, and I hurried into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I avoided the mirror.
What the fuck was I going to do?
Dinner was a struggle.
Not because of the company—Maren’s sisters seemed great, and everyone was making an effort with me, but my head was not in the game.
“So, Dallas, I hear you’re a tattoo artist?”
I blinked at the guy who’d asked the question. Walter, his name was, although it was hard not to think of him as Buzz after Maren’s stories. He was tall and thin and professorial-looking, clean shaven with neatly combed sandy blond hair and wire-rim glasses. “Yes.”
“That must be interesting work.”
“Yeah.” When I didn’t go on, Maren spoke up.
“Dallas is amazingly talented. He used to draw things on people with a Sharpie at parties in high school. He once did this incredible design on my arm I never wanted to wash off.”
“I remember that.” Emme nodded enthusiastically. “Mom was so mad at you.”
“She was.” Maren laughed. “Every time she saw it, she would groan and tell me to go put long sleeves on.”
“Ever do any tattoos of bees?” Walter asked. “I’ve sometimes thought about getting one.”
“Can’t say that I have.”
The conversation stalled.
“Nate, do you have any tattoos?” Maren asked Emme’s fiancé. He was dark-haired and thicker through the chest and shoulders than Walter, and he had a little bit of facial hair, but I was willing to bet he was not the type to have ink under his expensive suit. I hadn’t tattooed a lot of lawyers in my life.
“I don’t,” he said. “I’m actually not a huge fan of needles near my skin.”
Emme looked at him. “You’re afraid of needles? I didn’t know that.”
“I said I wasn’t a fan of needles, not that I was afraid of them. Big difference.”
She rolled her eyes. “Right.”
The oldest sister, Stella, tried to draw me out a different way. “So you’re in Portland, I hear? How do you like it out there?”
“I like it.”
“I’ve never been there,” she went on, “but I’ve heard it’s really nice.”
“I’d like to visit Oregon wine country,” said Emme. “I love Willamette Valley pinot noir. Have you ever done any winery tours or anything?”
“No.” From my right I could sense Maren’s unease with my failure to make conversation, so I tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t.
My appetite wasn’t good, so when the food came I took a few bites, but mostly just pushed it around on my plate.
“Do you not like the lamb?” Maren asked quietly. “I can share my gnocchi with you if you’d like.”
“No, thanks. The lamb is good. I guess I’m just not that hungry.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” I tried to give her a reassuring smile.
Everyone else at the table chatted easily, and it was obvious the three sisters were very close. They teased each other without being mean, and were quick to praise one another’s talents and accomplishments. Stella spoke glowingly of Emme’s knack for taking an empty space and turning it into a bride’s dream come true, even on a budget, and Maren blushed when Emme complimented her volunteer efforts at schools in underserved communities in rural areas. “Those kids would never have the opportunity to take a yoga class at a studio,” she said. “And did she tell you about how she got one company to donate mats to a women’s shelter?”
“No.” I looked at Maren, whose cheeks grew even pinker.
“She did. And then she went there and taught classes for free, not just yoga but mindfulness and meditation and—what was the other one, Mare?”
“Affirmations.”
“Oh, right.” Emme laughed. “I still remember my affirmation from when you dragged me to that class.” She sat up taller and recited it proudly. “I am deserving of a supportive, loving, awesome relationship.”
“And see? It worked.” Maren gestured at Emme and Nate. “Once you said it enough, it created the right kind of energy for the relationship to happen.”
“The right person helped, too,” Emme said, patting Nate on the arm.
The right person. I looked at the other guys at the table—a college professor and an attorney, neither of whom, presumably, had a brain tumor or a gigantic secret he was keeping from the woman next to him—and felt like a fucking disaster. These were good guys. They had everything to offer. They’d done everything right. They were smart and honest and played by the rules, and life had rewarded them for it.
Why can’t you be more like your brother? my parents used to ask me. I’d hated it. I didn’t know why I couldn’t be more like him. I just wasn’t. But sitting there at that table, I wished more than anything I had been.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck in this lie, stuck in this impossible situation where I had to either forfeit the love of my life or drag her down a dark, miserable road.
I looked over at her, and she smiled at me. She was so beautiful it hurt. So good to people around her. So loyal to everyone she loved. If I didn’t set her free, she’d waste all her time trying to take care of me.
I wasn’t worth it.
Fourteen
Maren
“He’s really cute, Maren,” Stella said to me in the restaurant bathroom where the three of us stood in front of the mirror. “But he’s so quiet. Not at all what I was imagining.”
“Same,” said Emme, pulling the cap off her red lipstick. “I thought he was more outgoing.”
“He normally is.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s not acting like himself at all.”
“Maybe he doesn’t feel good,” Stella suggested, fussing with her hair. “Does he have a headache today?”
“He did this morning. Maybe that’s it.” My eyes filled with tears. “But there’s something he’s not telling me, you guys. I can feel it.”
“Like what?” Stella turned to me, concern in her eyes.
“I don’t know.” I took a shaky breath. “But I think it might be what you said—epilepsy.”
