“I think we should probably just go.” I held on to Trixie’s collar so she couldn’t take off again. “I’m sorry. I don’t think this is going to work for me.”
“What isn’t going to work? Dinner?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said again. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. All I knew was I needed to leave. I needed to be back in my house.
“It’s freezing out here,” Evan said. He put his arm around my shoulders, and to my surprise, I didn’t push him away. I let him lead us back to his deck and into the house, mostly because I wasn’t sure I was in any shape to drive. Scout and Trixie wiggled around in the kitchen like they’d been apart for years. Evan removed our jackets and led me to the living room, where he sat me down on the couch. He pushed a blanket toward me, then turned to the fireplace, pressed a button on a remote control, and it roared to life. I stared at the clutter on his coffee table, feeling numb, as Evan grabbed a few old towels from his linen closet and dried off Trixie’s fur. When he was finished, apparently exhausted by their outing, Trixie and Scout both lay down on the enormous dog bed in front of the fire, and Evan came over to sit by me.
He was quiet a moment, then finally spoke. “Can you tell me what happened out there?” When I didn’t answer, when I simply pulled the warm blanket up under my chin, he sighed. “Are you mad at me? Do you think it’s my fault that she ran off?”
This got my attention. “No,” I said. “Of course not. It’s just . . . it’s me.”
“What’s you?” His voice was so gentle, so kind, it made me want to weep.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said, keeping my tone low and controlled. “I don’t . . . I haven’t talked about it with anyone. Ever.” Am I really going to do this? Am I going to tell him about my past?
“You can talk to me,” he said. “Maybe it would help.”
I finally looked at him. His dark blond hair was slightly wavy and grew just over his ears; he needed a haircut. “I don’t know if I can,” I said.
“Try,” he answered, and so along with my heart, I opened my mouth, and told him everything I’d done wrong. I told him about Michael, about my first pregnancy, how my mother pushed us away. I told him about living in my car, begging for money; about getting pregnant with Natalie and everything that came after the night I was arrested at the grocery store.
When it came to describing the decision I’d made about giving up custody of my girls, my voice took on a slightly robotic tone, as though a computer were dictating the details of the experience to Evan instead of me. I used the same tone to tell him the rest of my story, how I ended up back in prison, about the little girl in the park and how sure I’d been she was my older daughter. I explained how Randy took me under his wing and how Trixie basically saved my life when Blake beat me. I told him how I kept my life simple now, as a way to keep myself safe. I told him that when Trixie had disappeared tonight, I’d felt like I did the last day I’d seen my daughters—like my edges had worked loose and I was about to come undone.
Evan didn’t say a word while I spoke. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t ask questions. He kept his eyes on me the entire time. His face simply held an expression of concern, of interest in what I had to say. When I finally quieted, we both sat in silence for a few moments, and I waited for him to tell me that I should leave and not come back. That I clearly had issues I needed to deal with.
Instead, he reached out to pull down the blanket I’d tucked around me so he could hold my hand. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“For what?” I asked. The words came out strangled. Sorry he met me? Sorry this wasn’t going to work?
“For everything you’ve been through,” he said. He reached up with his free hand and cradled the side of my face. His skin was warm and callused, but I found myself closing my eyes and pushing my cheek into his palm.
“Quick,” I said. “Tell me something horrible about yourself.” I was only half-joking; part of me really wanted to know Evan’s ugliest mistake—that he, too, knew what it was to feel a brutal sense of shame.
He dropped his hand and sighed. “Well,” he said, “I cheated on my ex-wife.” He waited a moment. “With her best friend.”
“Lots of people cheat,” I said, thinking that his one transgression didn’t even come close to matching all the things I’d done wrong.
“Yeah,” he said. “But that doesn’t make it any less shitty. I hate being that guy . . . the cheating asshole cliché. If I could go back and change it, I would. But since I can’t, I had to learn to be okay with the fact that I fucked up, because at some point, everyone does. I think the key is to learn from what you’ve done wrong, and try to do better.” He locked his eyes on mine. “Which it sounds like you’ve done. You’ve had to be so strong.”