Does it?
I shake off that thought and stand. I will trust my instincts. I will trust myself. A new resolve straightens my spine.
“We’re in this together, Dean. Together. It’s no one’s fault. There’s no blame to throw around.” I take a hard breath, knowing he has to hear the unvarnished truth. “There is no way to protect me.”
He backs up, as if my words have hit him.
“I have to be there with you the entire time,” I persist. “I have to. I want to help your family, if I can. I want your parents to accept the fact that I’m your wife. I want them all to understand that we’re together.”
We need to understand that too, this new definition of together.
Dean drags a hand through his hair, his body corded with strain. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to stay here.” I spread my hands out. Time is running short. We need to get to the airport. He needs to get to California. My heart is pounding.
“If you leave without me, Dean, I’ll just get another flight tomorrow and follow you.” I snap my suitcase closed. “One way or another, I’m going.”
He curses sharply, then turns to go into the living room. A few seconds later, I hear him talking on the phone again.
I turn on my laptop and send emails to Allie, my supervisor Samantha at the Mirror Lake Historical Museum, and the head of circulation at the library where I volunteer. I tell them all I have a family emergency and will let them know as soon as possible when I expect to return.
I call Kelsey and leave a message asking her to collect our mail and water my plants. I take Liv’s Manifesto from my desk and put it into my satchel, then get my coat.
Dean is tense with anger and doesn’t speak to me as we head to the airport. It hasn’t snowed in a few days, so the roads are clear. Though there’s not much traffic, it takes almost an hour and a half to get to the airport. The motion of the car makes my stomach roll with queasiness. I inhale a few deep breaths and try to ignore the unpleasant sensation.
At the airport, Dean forks over way too much money for two available first-class seats, and we go through the process of boarding the plane. Before the plane leaves the gate, I take out my notebook and add to my manifesto:
Then I turn to a fresh page and draw a picture:
I tear the page off, fold it, and pass it to Dean. He opens it and gives me a sideways glance. He takes my pen, scribbles a response, and passes the note back:
“Why did you draw Michigan?” I ask.
He frowns. “It’s a mitten.”
“Oh.” I peer at the picture again. “Sure it is.”
“I’m about ready to spank you,” he mutters.
“Promises, promises.”
I smile at him, warmed by the heat flaring in his eyes. I put the note in my satchel and settle back, tucking my hand into his. His fingers close around mine.
Though takeoff is uneventful, the movement and altitude jolt my stomach again. Less than a quarter of the way into the flight, my nausea surges with a force that catches me off guard. I push past Dean and make it to the bathroom in time to retch into the toilet. My throat burns. I rinse out my mouth and wipe my face with a wet paper towel.
“You okay?” Dean is watching me with concern when I emerge.
“Must be motion sickness.” I sink into my seat again and close my eyes. I hear Dean speaking with the flight attendant, who then brings me some crackers and ginger ale.
I press a hand to my chest and breathe. The stale air worsens the sick feeling, and the smell of flowery perfume from one of the female passengers sticks in my nose. My stomach tumbles.
“What do you need?” Dean pushes my hair away from my damp forehead.
“Nothing. Just keep the barf bag handy.”
I spend the rest of the four-hour flight battling the nausea and reconsidering my insistence on coming along. When the plane begins to descend, the queasiness intensifies, but I’m so relieved at the idea of landing that I manage to withstand it.
When we get off the plane at San Jose airport, I go into the bathroom to splash water on my face and freshen up. After reassuring Dean that I feel better with my feet on the ground again, we collect our bags and get a rental car.
The brightness of the California sun is a shock after the winter cold of Mirror Lake. There’s a chill in the air, but everything is glassy and green. A haze hangs over the hills surrounding Silicon Valley. Traffic snakes over the multilane freeways.
The West family home is located between the wealthy suburbs of Saratoga and Los Gatos. A palatial Spanish-style house on a lot flourishing with palm and desert trees, it exudes status and money. The low-pitched, red-tile roof contrasts with stucco siding and arched windows, and lush, green plants grow along the front walkway.
Dean pulls the rental car next to a sedan parked on the circular drive.
“Don’t know whose car that is,” he says.