Claire and Griffen pick me up from the airport Sunday night. Emotionally bankrupt from the last few days, I answer their well-meaning questions with monosyllables until they give up trying to reach me.

Once home, I thank them for the ride and escape to my room. And later, alone in bed, I stare sleeplessly at the shadows on the ceiling. I think about my mother, who sobbed while the ashes were scattered yesterday, but mostly I think about the untold story of Richard and Alexandria Eliot.

I know they met in his senior year and her sophomore one at UC Berkeley. He saw her dancing in a university production. He fell in love. Or lust. Either way, he doggedly pursued her over the following year, until she at last succumbed to his charms. Despite his proposal six months later, she made him wait until she graduated to get married.

His poems about her, compiled in the book Alexandria, capture a vast range of emotion. Obsession and desire. Love and comfort. They’re in turns darkly arresting, gut-wrenching, and achingly sweet. Every one of them is unquestionably masterful.

My mother was an attentive, joyful caretaker to my brother and me. Not once did either of us feel a lack of love. And yet, she’s always been a private person; to this day, there are depths to her that I’ve never dared explore. Memories that remain puzzling. Finding a locked box in her nightstand. Hearing her crying softly in her bedroom while my father was on a book tour.

There was a moment in the car on the way back from the funeral that I almost asked if she’d had an affair. But her pain was so obvious, I couldn’t bring myself to add to it. Over the course of the drive, my need became secondary to the blossoming acceptance that whatever happened between her and my father, she loved him as much as he loved her.

And suddenly, I have to know.

Pulling my phone from the nightstand, I call James before I can talk myself out of it. It rings twice.

“Iris,” he says softly.

My heart pounding, I ask, “Did she really have an affair?”

He’s quiet for several moments. “According to Richard, when Derrick was four and you were one, Alexandria asked your grandmother over one morning to watch you while she ran errands. It wasn’t uncommon, but that day she left the house and didn’t return. When Richard came home, it was to his worried mother-in-law. As the night wore on, he became more distraught. He drove for hours looking for her but couldn’t find her. He called every hospital in the area and even reported her missing. Two days later, she returned. She wouldn’t tell him where she’d been and acted like nothing was amiss.”

“God,” I whisper.

He sighs sadly. “Shortly afterward, Richard found letters in a locked box in her nightstand. They were from her high school sweetheart, and it was clear the man still had feelings for her. Richard confronted her about them, about that weekend. She never denied his accusations. But she never admitted an affair, either.”

I don’t say anything.

I can’t.

Because suddenly, I see the past in a new light. The years of her polite, emotional distance from him at the dinner table. His impassioned bouts of temper behind closed doors. Her eventually move to the guest room. His growing habit of staying overnight near the university before finally, a friend of my mother’s had spotted him with the first of many young women.

Rubbing my forehead, I say, “I wanted to ask her Saturday. But I just… couldn’t.”

He hums in understanding. “I don’t blame you, love.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say tiredly.

“Iris…”

So much longing in the word.

I hang up.

* * *

I spend Thanksgiving with Claire’s family, who live north of Seattle in Everett. This isn’t the first holiday meal I’ve crashed—more like the tenth—but her parents and kid brother love me.

In their cluttered, warm home, I find something I’ve always wanted and lacked: a cohesive, loving, and honest rapport. No family is perfect, of course, and I’ve witnessed enough petty fights to know the McHenry’s aren’t the Cleavers, but at the end of the day, they belong to each other. They’re a real family.

Before dinner, as I’m helping pour gravy into boats, Claire’s mom, Marsha, asks why I didn’t fly home. The only response I can think of is, “Too much work with finals approaching.”

It’s not really true, as I haven’t been doing anything besides schoolwork, but I’m sane enough to know the truth is a little too muddled for polite conversation.

“You need to stop working so hard,” says Griffen amiably. “It’s making the rest of us look bad.”

I smirk. “I’m coming for you, 4.0.”

He chuckles. “I should have volunteered to have Beckett be my proofreader on the first day of class.”

I nod, my smile edging toward brittle. “It’s a blessing and a curse, really. He shreds everything I give him to pieces, but my skin’s thicker now.” I shrug. “He’s made me a better writer, so it’s been worth it.”

As Marsha leaves the room with a bowl of salad, Griffen clears his throat. “Are you… doing okay with that? Working with him?”

I shrug. “It’s a little weird, but since we got back from the funeral he’s been the consummate professional. And no offense, but I think he grades me harder than anyone.”

Griffen nods, smiling brightly. “Oh, I know. You’re the best writer of the bunch, and everything you turn in comes back with way more red scribbles than anyone else’s. Now that I think of it, I take back my earlier statement. I’m really glad he’s not my proofreader.”

A knot of tension I wasn’t aware of unravels at his words. “Thanks for noticing and for the complement, but I don’t think it’s true. You’re an exceptional writer.”

Claire enters the room from the dining room. “Sounds like a love fest in here. I like it.” She wraps her arms around Griffen’s waist. “Dinner’s ready, kids. Oh, and be prepared for Jeremy to rant about animal cruelty while dad carves the turkey. Vegetarianism is his new thing. Just smile and nod.”

Laughing, I grab my glass of champagne and follow them to the dining room.

Jeremy’s spiel is as entertaining as expected, especially when he finds out that Griffen was raised on a functioning farm, complete with slaughterhouse. Although sixteen-year-old Jeremy probably has no clue, the rest of us can’t help noticing the admiring gleam in his eye as Griffen shares about farm life.

Later, Claire and I make a wager on how long the vegetarianism will last. She bets one more day. I have a little more faith in Jeremy’s idealism and bet a week.

After desert of apple crumble, homemade ice-cream, and delicious french-pressed coffee, Griffen drives me back to the city.

When he pulls up to my apartment building, I jokingly ask, “You going to be okay without Claire this weekend?”

“I’m going to miss her a lot,” he answers seriously. “It’s our first weekend apart since we got together. But honestly I’m more worried about you. Are you going to be okay?”

“Touché,” I say with a smile. “I think I’ll live. Mainly because Claire stocked the fridge for me yesterday.”

He laughs. “That doesn’t surprise me. Well, if you need a ride anywhere, give me a call. I’ll be writing all weekend.”

“Will do.” I open the door, then grin at him. “Just so you now, I’m godmother to your first baby.”

To my surprise, he blushes. “I’ll always owe you a debt of gratitude for introducing us. She’s incredible.”

I nod. “She is. Goodnight, Griff. Thanks for the ride.”

“Sure thing.”

I step into the cold and hustle into my building. In my apartment, I flip on lights and quickly adjust the heater to Human Living Here. As I’m taking off my coat, my phone buzzes. I grab my purse off the couch and rummage inside until I find it.

The alert is a three-word text from James.

Check your email

It’s the first time he’s contacted me outside of school in two weeks, and I can’t help the nervous flutter in my belly. My thumb shakes a little as I open email on my device and see an unread message from j.s.beck. The subject line is Eliot—final draft, and the body of the message is empty.

I don’t bother opening the attachment on my phone, but run to my room and power up my laptop. Pulling up my email, I download the attached file, then open it in my word processor. There’s no title page, just a dedication. I run the tip of my finger across the words:

“Prick,” I whisper through a smile.

Kicking off my shoes, I curl my legs beneath me and settle the laptop on my thighs. Over the next hours, my reading pauses only once, and then only because I’m crying so hard I can’t see.

In his witty, crisp, elegant way, James has given me an unlocked portal to the heart and mind of a father I never really knew. The tale is grave and also beautiful. Joyful, yet ultimately heartbreaking. And when it’s finished, I stare at the final sentences until they blur.

As I reach for my phone, I don’t care that it’s two o’clock in the morning. I know he’s waiting. And he is.

“So?” he asks lightly, though I hear the thread of nervousness.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He sighs heavily. “You’re welcome, of course. Iris—”

“I want the letters,” I blurt.

“Of course. They’re yours. Do you want me to bring them? This weekend? Or, wait, are you here or in California? I could send them. Wherever you want.”

His uncharacteristic babbling makes me smile. “I’m here. Maybe you can bring them by tomorrow?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

I take a deep breath. “James?”

“Yes?” he asks mutedly.

“It’s missing something.”

“I decided that story isn’t mine to tell.”

Thinking he’s misunderstanding me, I say, “I’m not talking about what happened between my parents.”

There was no mention of my mother’s alleged affair, and I know that despite her initial agreement, she’s since refused to speak with him about my father.

“I know, love,” he murmurs. “I won’t tell your story because it’s yours. And you’re writing it, aren’t you?”

Goosebumps lift across my body. “How do you—”

“I saw you in the student union on Monday.”

My mouth snaps closed so hard my teeth clack. I had lunch on Monday with Dr. Lisa Thompson, the faculty director of SARVA—Sexual Assault and Relationship Violence Activists—to find out more about the organization. And to gain a better understanding of the emotional Pandora’s box that sits half-opened in my gut.

With roundabout questioning—a tactic I doubt was lost on Dr. Thompson—I’d discovered that blocking of sexual assault for months or even years isn’t uncommon. Nor are the vivid punches of emotion that have been battering me for the last two weeks: shame, unfocused fear, white-hot anger.

Though the memories of the assault itself are still hazy, the emotional echoes slap me at the oddest times. While showering. Doing laundry. Brushing my teeth.

In order to manage them, to not fall apart and stay in bed for the next decade, I’ve been utilizing the only coping mechanism I have.

Writing.

A little breathlessly, I tell James, “You’re a stalker.”

“To the ends of the earth, my little muse.”

My heart trips, then gallops. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

“Yes, you have. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “You—you’re—”

“A prick,” he says lightly. “Do you have a draft yet?”

Dragging a hand down my flushed face, I reply, “Rough, yes.”

“Let me read it.”

“No!”

“Let me pitch it to my agent?”

“No!”

He chuckles. “I don’t actually need your permission.”

My breath goes choppy; panic closes around my chest. “James, I can’t do this,” I speak in a rush, hardly aware of my words. “I can’t be yours. I can’t. I don’t know what we had, but it’s over. You need to move on.”

“You don't mean that,” he says softly, the words so full of pain that my stomach clenches. I grip the phone so hard a knuckle pops.

“I do mean it.”

And then I do something really stupid. Because I don’t know how else to protect myself. How to manage the tumult in my heart, the damage of the past, and the shadowy unknown of the future. I lie through my teeth.

“I’m seeing someone. We have our third date this weekend. I like him a lot.”

The words are clear, flawless. Even I can’t tell that I’m a lying sack of shit.

His laughter is harsh in my ear. “Who?”

“You don’t know him. I met him in the city.”

There’s a beat of silence. “You’re fucking serious.” Low, pained laughter. “Unbelievable. Just like that, you’re throwing us away. Why?”

You’re too much. Too confusing. I’m too afraid.

A silent sob seizes my chest. I choke it down and tell him part of the truth—or at least a truthful confession of my deepest fear.

“Whatever you feel for me, James, it’s not real. I think you had a fantasy of me in your head from my father, from the letters… You see what you want to see, a makeshift person. A broken girl you want to save.”

He groans past another low laugh. “You know what, Iris? Fine. You’re right. My obsession with you has run its course, anyway. I’m exhausted from trying to build something on quicksand. Take care of yourself.”

The line goes dead.

The sob claws free.