Page 85 of Dear Debbie

He falters, like he’s not sure if he should continue, but then he plows forward. “It’s more than just a drinking problem. I…I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sneaking off to AA meetings without telling you.”

“For how long?”

“I’ve known since college.”

“Since college? And you never told me?”

“I know.” He hangs his head. “I’m sorry, Debbie. I’m so sorry. I was…I was ashamed, and that’s why I kept it from you. I should have told you the truth from the start, but you’re always so perfect and amazing and…and I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

He manages to raise his eyes to meet mine. He should have told me sooner, but I also understand why he didn’t. I can’t throw stones. And now?

It’s my turn.

“I was raped in college,” I say. “That’s why I dropped out.”

His jaw drops open. He stares at me for several seconds—too long—until I almost wish I hadn’t told him. But just when I’m about to try to figure out a way to take it back (“Ha-ha, wasn’t that a funny joke?”), he reaches over and pulls me into another tight hug. There are no words, only his warm, comforting body pressed against mine.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are slightly damp. “I think,” he says, “we need couples therapy.”

A laugh bubbles out of me. No freaking kidding.

“There’s something I need to ask you though.” He rubs the back of his neck. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

“Okay…”

His brows scrunch together. “Do you promise to tell me the truth?”

“I promise,” I say, hoping it’s a promise I can keep.

“Did you shoot Ken Bryant with my gun?”

I flinch. He must have gone over to Ken’s house. He must’ve seen him lying dead with the bullet wound in his head. He thinks I might have killed him, but instead of calling the police, he ran to find me.

“I swear on our children’s lives”—I place a hand on my chest—“I did not shoot Ken Bryant with your gun.”

And it’s true.

I used Jesse’s gun.

“Thank God.” He believes me. His body goes limp with relief. “I was worried that…well…” He heaves a sigh. “In that case, we better call the police when we get back home.”

I nod slowly.

“Also,” he adds, “my gun is missing from the safe. Do you know what happened to it?”

That’s another softball that I can answer truthfully. “I got rid of it.”

“You got rid of it?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I told you, you’re more likely to shoot a family member than an intruder.”

Cooper just shakes his head. It’s something we’ll have to talk out in therapy. And I have a feeling after tonight that he won’t be eager to have a gun in the house.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t have to ask me a second time.

EPILOGUE