“Oh, really?” I say, smiling back at him. “And why do you love that?”
“Because. She puts you in your place.”
“Yeah. But there’s a lot of hyperbole with her, too.”
“Really?” Teddy raises his eyebrows, then takes a sip of beer. “So you don’t actually glamp?” I can tell he’s suppressing a smile.
“Oh, stop it,” I say, as it occurs to me that he’s probably a little more clever than I’ve given him credit for.
“You know I’m teasing you,” he says.
“Yeah. But you think I’m a snob,” I say.
“Think?” Teddy grins. “Shoot. I know you are.”
I say his name in a whiny voice, the sound of it putting me right back in high school.
“Let’s put it this way,” Teddy says, as I hold my breath. “You definitely like the finer things in life.” He speaks slowly, as if choosing his words diplomatically, but I still hear a euphemism for materialism.
I must look embarrassed because he adds, “Hey—I get it. I’d drive an Aston Martin if I could.”
I smile, comforted by this admission.
“And anyway…I know you’re a good person, Nina,” he says.
I’m not sure whether this statement is true, but I believe in this moment that Teddy thinks it is, and hearing it heals my heart a little. More important, it gives me hope for the son I’ve raised.
“Thank you, Teddy,” I say.
He nods as we stare at each other for a few seconds. Then he says, “I’m really sorry about your marriage….Divorce is hard….It’s a little bit like death…or…a house burning down to the ground.”
I give him a sad smile, digesting the analogy. “Yeah. I haven’t really processed it yet, but I know it will be difficult.”
“And just to warn you? It’ll probably get a lot harder before it gets easier….At least that’s the way it was for me. But it helps to know you’re doing the right thing.”
“That’s just it,” I say. “I mean…it’s complicated. Yet also not.”
“I know. People always want to boil divorce down to one thing. A one-line explanation. ‘He cheated.’ ‘She’s an alcoholic.’ ‘He gambles.’ ‘She spends too much.’ It’s usually not that simple. But you still just know it’s right….”
I can’t tell whether he’s asking me what happened, or just thinking aloud. “Yeah,” I say. “Our issues have been gradual—and cumulative. There’s probably not a tagline. But if I had to come up with one—I’d say we just don’t share the same values anymore. Maybe we never did….”
Teddy nods. “Yeah. Well, you’ll figure it out. You’re the smartest girl I’ve ever met.”
“Oh, c’mon. We both know Julie’s way smarter,” I say, still feeling flattered. I also realize how much I’ve been craving compliments about things other than my looks—all I ever get from Kirk.
“Julie’s up there,” Teddy says. “But she married a man who puts a uniform on every day and stayed in Bristol. She can’t be that smart, right?” He smiles and sips his beer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, wondering whether he’s being self-deprecating or revealing his own insecurities.
“I’m kidding,” Teddy says, taking another sip.
“Well, look,” I say, just in case. “You’re right. Julie married a fireman and stayed in Bristol. I married a rich guy and live in Belle Meade. And who’s happier?”
Teddy shrugs, as if it’s a close contest.
“?‘Not I, said the little red hen,’?” I say, one of my mother’s expressions.
Teddy frowns, looking deep in thought.
“What are you thinking?” I ask him.
“Honestly?”
“Yeah. Of course. Tell me.”
He lowers his eyes. “I was just thinking about you breaking up with me.”
“I didn’t break up with you,” I say, knowing that’s exactly what I did. “We just…broke up.”
Teddy meets my gaze, then, not bothering to dispute a basic fact, says, “On some level, you didn’t think I was good enough for you. You wanted more. It’s okay. You can admit it.”
“That’s not true,” I answer quickly and emphatically.
“Then what was it?” he says. “Was it Kirk? Had you already met him?”
“No,” I say. “I promise. That wasn’t it.”
“Then why? Not that it matters at this point…”
My stomach in knots, I’m at a loss for what to tell him other than the truth. In a million years I would never have imagined sitting on my parents’ porch with Teddy, twenty-some years later, telling him how I was raped. But that’s exactly what I do. I report the facts, like a journalist, trying to get through the story without breaking down.
“So you see? I didn’t think you weren’t good enough for me,” I finish, feeling eighteen again—Finch’s age. A brokenhearted eighteen. “I felt I wasn’t good enough for you.”
“Oh my God, Nina,” Teddy whispers, his eyes filling with tears. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah. That was the point,” I say. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“You should’ve told me. I would have been there for you.”
“I know,” I say, wishing I could go back in time. Wishing I could do so many things differently.
Iforgot to close my blinds before bed last night, and the first thing I see when I wake up is Dad outside my window, crouched on our front porch with the garden hose, a big brush, and a bucket. The sleeves of his sweatshirt are pushed up, and his intense scrubbing motion reminds me of watching him saw or sand in his workshop. With a sickening hunch of what’s happening, I get out of bed and go over to the window. That’s when I see the neon orange letters sprayed onto the front porch. SLU is all that remains, but I know what letter is missing, and what the word once was.
I feel as if I’m going to throw up—literally—so I run to my bathroom, flip open the lid of the toilet, and wait. Nothing happens, fear and dread replacing my nausea. I walk back out to the hall, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, then open the front door, feeling the chill of the spring morning.
Dad, who is still on his hands and knees, glances up at me and says, “Go back in the house.” His voice is calm, but I know from experience not to be fooled. We are in the eye of a really bad storm.
I tell myself that I need to follow his instructions, but I just stand there. I just stand there, staring. Most of the U is now gone, leaving only the SL. There are so many things I could be thinking right now, but I find myself feeling extreme gratitude that the paint is washable when it could have been permanent. Somehow I know that Dad isn’t seeing that bright side.
“I said go back in the house!” Dad raises his voice this time but does not look up at me.
I back away a few steps, retreating inside, then run to my bedroom to get my phone. I have no new messages, nothing that came in since I last checked, sometime in the middle of the night. I quickly dial Finch.
“Good morning,” he says, sounding day-after-sex chipper.
“No, it’s not,” I say, watching Dad from the window again. He is standing now, spraying the area with the hose, the nozzle on the most concentrated setting. Orange-tinted sudsy water runs down the steps and onto the edges of our lawn.
“What’s wrong?” Finch asks.
“Somebody spray-painted our porch,” I say.
“Huh?” he says.
“Like, with graffiti. Someone vandalized our property. Our porch.”
“Oh, shhit,” Finch says. “What’d they write?”
It takes me a second to answer. “Slut,” I make myself say, feeling a wave of shame. “My dad’s out there cleaning it off right now. He’s so pissed.”
“God. That sucks. I feel terrible.”
“It’s not your fault,” I mumble, my face burning. “I bet it was Polly.”
“I’m sure it was….Do y’all have cameras?”
“No,” I say, thinking of the Brownings’ security alarm—and all the nice things inside their house that need to be protected.
“Maybe your neighbors do?”
“Pretty sure they don’t,” I say, feeling a twinge of annoyance. I get that he’s just trying to be helpful—but he has to know that nobody has security cameras in my neighborhood.
“I’ll call Polly,” he says. “I’ll get the truth out of her.”