“Who is the father?” I felt very far removed from the conversation, like we were talking about other people.
Billy looked taken aback by my question, like it confused him. “She didn’t tell you?”
“No. Is it—”
I couldn’t speak the words. I couldn’t ask. Growing up, I’d reconciled myself to the fact that Darrell Winston was my father. He was a piece of trash, but Razor Dennings . . .
“Darrell.” Billy closed the album and crossed to me, setting it on the side table. “Darrell and Christine. They are your biological parents.”
I breathed out, closing my eyes, and leaned back in the chair. I never thought I’d see the day I was actually relieved that Darrell Winston was my father. And now I knew that asshole not only beat on my momma, but cheated on her as well . . . and kept the collateral damage under her roof.
Such. A. Bastard.
But then again, I’d always thought the good in me came from my mother, from Bethany.
“It doesn’t matter, Beau.” The urgency in Billy’s voice had me opening my eyes. My brother—my half-brother—was sitting in the chair opposite mine, his elbows on his knees, leaning toward me. “You were Momma’s. Duane is Momma’s. She didn’t tell you because she didn’t want you to think differently.”
“Why did she tell you?”
Billy’s eyes lowered to his hands. “She didn’t. I found the adoption paperwork and I confronted her about it.”
“You didn’t remember? Her not being pregnant? Coming home with two babies?”
He shook his head. “No. I was barely six. Jethro was barely seven. She’d been telling us for a while she was going to have another baby. Then she left one afternoon, said to take good care of Ashley while she was gone. She came back the next day and she had two babies. She said she was doubly blessed.”
I closed my eyes again. I couldn’t stand it. My throat worked. I couldn’t swallow.
“It didn’t occur to me,” Billy continued, his tone faraway. “And if it didn’t occur to me, then you know it didn’t occur to Jethro.”
I didn’t move. Part of me hoped this was a dream, a nightmare, and I clung to that hope. I mentally shook myself, told myself to wake up. I didn’t.
“Beau—”
“Stop talking. Please.”
What was I going to do now? This wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt like the end of mine. I wanted to feel betrayed by Momma—Bethany—but I didn’t. I felt grateful. I never wanted to know the truth, and I wish I didn’t.
“She’s a terrible person.” Again, my mouth was forming words without me deciding what to say.
“Momma?”
“No. Christine.” I lifted my eyelids, and peered at my brother. “Last year, she was going to let Razor cut on Duane.”
“What?” Billy stiffened. “When was this?”
I waved his question away. I didn’t have the energy to answer his questions. “She was going to let him carve his name in Duane. She was going to let him. She didn’t do a thing to stop him.”
Billy continued to glare at me, and I could see he was holding himself back from asking for more details.
“I don’t want that woman to be my mother.” I shook my head. “I don’t want her to be Duane’s mother.”
“Don’t tell him.” Billy’s eyebrows ticked up, his expression stark, like he was issuing me an order. “You save him from what you’re feeling. Don’t you tell him. He doesn’t need to know.”
He’s your responsibility, I’m counting on you. You keep him safe.
“Where does the good come from?” I asked. “How can we be good if those are our parents?”
Billy’s features softened considerably. Not with pity, but with understanding.
“No. Don’t think that. You and Duane, and . . . Claire for that matter, you’re the best people I know. You three have that in common.”
Claire.
I started, sitting up straight. “Claire.”
Billy pressed his lips together like he was grinding his teeth.
“Claire is my sister.”
He nodded, just once. I noticed a shift in him, like he was withdrawing, stepping away even though he sat perfectly still.
“Does she know?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Billy shook his head, his voice rough and ragged.
I thought on that. I’d known Claire my whole life, mostly in periphery. She’d been Jethro’s and Cletus’s friend. I didn’t know her as well as either of them.
Would she want to know me?
And how could I tell her the truth without telling Duane as well?
* * *
“Look who finally decided to show up.” Cletus greeted me with both hands on his hips, standing just outside the garage. “I was about to send out a search party, but none of Hank’s exotic dancers are awake at this time of day.” Cletus paused thoughtfully, and then added, “Except Hannah.”
I walked past my brother and into the garage, heading straight for the stairs leading to the second floor. Billy had taken me to Daisy’s for a cup of coffee and a doughnut, then dropped me off at the shop. We hadn’t spoken much, and I wasn’t hungry, but sitting with someone who knew the truth and understood the depth and breadth of my dilemma made a heap of difference.
It was like being caught in a storm, blinded by rain and wind and darkness of my own making, of my own wishes and longings.
My mother is alive.
But she’s not Bethany.
I have another sister.
But she can never know.
My mind was still a mess, but there was shit that needed doing. Oil needed to be changed. Tires needed to be rotated. I figured I could work on cars and work through the morning’s revelations at the same time.
Thankfully, Cletus didn’t follow me up the stairs. I was able to change in relative peace until the sound of someone shutting the door had me looking over my shoulder.
It was Shelly. I blinked, startled, because I’d completely forgotten about her. I’d been so wrapped up in my own mess, it was like she’d faded into the background of my thoughts.
Oh. So that’s what it’s like. And now I feel like an asshole.
“Hi.” She was giving me her almost smile. “I was worried about you.”
“I’m sorry. I, uh,” I hesitated, licking my lips. I didn’t want to lie. But I couldn’t tell her the truth either. No one else could know, not until I decided what to do.
She crossed to me until she was standing directly in front of me, her lovely gaze moving over my face. “I have something I was supposed to give you, but I forgot.”
“Oh?”
Shelly passed me a folded piece of paper, and then snatched her hands back. “For Friday, for our appointment. It’s about exposure therapy, also sometimes called flooding therapy.”
Opening and then scanning the paper, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“And I lied,” she added in a rush. “I didn’t forget to give you the paper. I wanted to, but I worried about it, after last week and how I behaved with my brother. I didn’t want you to feel pressured to help.”
I lifted my gaze to hers, taking solace in the now precious-to-me double skip of my heart.