“I’m not changing my mind. I’m not divorcing her. You can’t just snap my happiness away like it’s a toy I’m no longer allowed to play with.”
“We reacted and overreacted the way we did because it was warranted. We never asked you to end your marriage. And where is she, son? This woman you chose to give yourself to, knowing the damage it would do to your family and hers?”
I lift my eyes to hers.
“My wife is currently trying to salvage her relationship with her father, trying to earn back his trust. Meanwhile, we’re both trying to work around all of your fucking collective tantrums and mood shifts. So, where is my wife? In hell, that’s where she is. Blaming herself, punishing herself, because she doesn’t feel like she deserves happiness with me, because your fucking husband made her feel like she didn’t—along with her own fucking father, who still doesn’t!”
The first three weeks, we threw ourselves into work, her getting ready for the thirtieth edition of the paper while planning the party to honor him. Instead of rewarding her, Nate’s made it nearly impossible for us to connect. Filling her schedule, he’s sent her as a liaison for Hearst Media to every party, every convention, and every thing imaginable on the East Coast to keep her from joining me on tour. What’s worse? She’s allowed it. His ploy to keep her away from me, a calculated chess move as he forces her to pay penance for loving me. As of a week ago, she’s home. But, he’s kept her scrambling to keep up with his demands, all the while keeping her locked out personally. I have no doubt that right now, she’s only placating her father to try and get back to me while he does everything he can to hasten her future without me—continually driving an axe between us. Something is going on that I can’t place. At this point, I think we’re being polite to protect the other from what’s truly happening in each of our lives. Her more so than me since my accumulating resentment is the only thing I’m withholding.
She’s hiding, and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it—or I might lose her. Even as we make time to keep connected—every chance we get—I feel the drift, and because she’s allowing it, I’m losing wind.
I can’t fight alone. We’ve fought twice since we got married, and both times ended with her tears and my murmured apologies—even if I felt justified in my anger. She hasn’t so much as tried to come to see me because she believes she can still get through to him.
Every day I ache for her, and every single day she assures me of her returned affection. Though I believe her, I need something more because I feel like I’m swinging in the dark. Thirty years ago, Nate rivaled my father for the affection of the woman he held most dear. History is repeating itself now, and he’s doing it again, but this time he’s winning.
“She’s coming,” I inform my mother. “And when she does, it will be your choice to make.”
“This is supposed to be the happiest time of your life,” Mom says, shaking her head, her expression bleak. “I want that for you so much.”
“Yeah, I believe it’s called the honeymoon phase.” I finally look over to her. “Do you know my wife didn’t recognize my body on FaceTime the other night because Benji’s been to two shows and inked me, and I forgot to mention it. Does that sound like a good honeymoon to you?”
“I’m talking career-wise.”
“Having a blast,” I say dryly, tugging on my beer. “Can’t you tell?”
The silence that follows cuts us both as her expression falters and her eyes fill with tears.
“Mom, please don’t get upset.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do? I have no idea what to do here.”
“My fight is with Dad and with my wife’s father. I’m not in a good place.” I roll my head against the back of the couch. “Go back to your hotel, okay? Get some sleep, and we can have breakfast before we roll out tomorrow.”
“You’re pissed at me, too, and taking it out on your father because you’re scared of putting my health at risk. You’ve made a bad habit of doing that over the years. He’s not your enemy.”
“You always hurt the ones you love, right?” My chuckle lacks all humor.
“Easton, you have to understand that what you did was…” she shakes her head.
“What? What was it, Mom? Because you never fell in love and made a single impulsive decision?”
“Jesus, Easton. Do you think I ever anticipated this? There’s no fucking handbook for this. I’m sorry. The very last thing I ever wanted was for you to marry the daughter of my ex-fiancé.”
“And why is that?” I vent. “It’s not like I ever had the full story. I asked you months ago, and you skirted it. You couldn’t even say his name. I asked Dad the same. He did the same shit. Turns out, it wasn’t just me. You lied to the world, letting them think you and Dad lived out some romantic rock and roll fairytale. You totally omitted Nate. No wonder he hates you both.”
She clamps her hand over her mouth and speaks through it. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
“He shaped you as a writer, did he not?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “So, you’re blaming me for his reaction, but not your own actions?”
I grip the leather of the couch, my gaze dropping. “I blame myself for thinking our parents give enough of a fuck about our happiness to act like mature adults.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not,” I swallow back my drink. “But I don’t see what’s so damned impossible that the four of you can’t get over it, so my wife and I can move on with our lives.”
She drops her head and sighs before opening her purse, pulling out a large bound script, and tossing it on my lap.
“I omitted Nate because my agent reached out, and he wanted no part of it.”
I lift it to see the title. Drive.
My mom did write the fucking book, and you weren’t in it.
Only the version you know of.
“You really wrote a book about them both? It wasn’t just you and Dad?”
She nods.
“And Dad read this?” I hold it up.
“Yes, he did. He wanted to.”
“Jesus.”
“Son, I love you more than any soul on earth. I carried you in my body for nine grueling months. Your father and I gave you everything we could as parents. I’ll freely admit that you’re wise well beyond your years, and while you can write and sing a thousand songs about your perception of things, that’s all it is right now—your perception. Until you’ve actually lived through it, that’s all it will ever be. All I’m hearing right now is a rant about your perception of a person’s life to the person who actually fucking lived it. Experience is what truly shapes the soul, your own experience, and you haven’t gained enough or lived enough yet to fully form yours. So don’t tell me what I lived through and what you think you fucking know. I don’t give a damn about your perception of one of the hardest trials of my life. But if you want insight into what can never be fully experienced through words alone, that’s the full story. You want the truth. It’s all there. There’s your option to know exactly why the three of us—Nate included—have reacted the way we have and why we don’t mention the other in passing. It’s not because we hate each other, and it’s not because of one thing that happened. It’s a culmination of things that fucking hurt.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “So before you preach another word to me, know what the hell you’re talking about. Now you can invade my privacy the way Natalie did and no longer blame me for keeping my fucking personal life my own.”
She furiously wipes a tear from her face as I sit stunned, and shame sets in.
“Do you think I’m not sorry for hurting you and Dad? Because I am, but this,” I pick up the book, “is your past.”