Page 8

It’s bad enough that I showed up a few hours ago and shook the already unstable foundation of Scarlett’s life here. I hate that she feels any kind of obligation to me.

“I’m sure. This is a weird situation all around, but we might as well make the best of it,” she says, as we head back toward the car.

“Thanks, Scar.”

I was so focused on finding Scarlett that I didn’t pay much attention to Clover Pines the first time I drove to her place. The town is a winter wonderland, with snow dusting everything, and lights that twinkle as the sun dips below the horizon. I notice more pun-named businesses as we make our way back to Scarlett’s, and she points out people as we pass, giving me the small-town special:

“That’s Kellie Willis. Her husband’s in prison for insurance fraud.”

“Drew and Collin Isbell. They paid to rebuild half the town after a fire in the Nineties.”

“Braedon Barclay—he went through a magician phase. Rumor has it, he’s the one who made our bio teacher’s car disappear when we were sixteen. They never found it.”

“Have you always lived here?” I ask, looking over at her as we stop at the town’s sole red light. I swallow as I take in her profile, lit up by the sunset. Her face is glowing, the gold flecks in her eyes and hair sparkling like embers.

I force myself to look away.

“Yeah. My parents are both from here, too. They have a canola farm, but my brother mostly runs it now. It was a great place to grow up, and it’s gorgeous at this time of year. They sell Christmas trees and have tons of decorations. They have a food truck with soup, hot chocolate, and coffee, a family photo booth, Christmas music … That kind of stuff. The kids love running around out there.”

“What are they like? The kids, I mean.”

If I thought the sunset lit her up, it’s nothing compared to the smile that stretches over her face at my question. “They’re incredible. I’m their mom, so I know I’m biased, but they really are amazing. Caitlin is confident and stubborn, but so thoughtful and kind. And smart—seriously, she blows my mind on a daily basis. They both do. James is more shy. He likes to observe everything and everyone, and he thinks the world of Caitlin. Anything she does, he wants to do, too. They’re best friends.”

“They sound amazing. Were you and Landon like that growing up?”

“Yeah, we’ve always been close. And he’s great with the kids. I swear he was made to be an uncle. Caitlin’s really into horses at the moment, and he got one of those horse simulator game things so they could play together. And James likes helping out with the farm stuff.”

It doesn’t escape my notice that I asked her a question about her, and she immediately brought the conversation back to her kids.

I park outside her house and turn off the car. “What about you? What do you do for fun?”

She looks like a deer caught in headlights. “Oh, you know. A little of everything. Keeping up with an eight-year-old and a four-year-old is pretty fun. What about you?”

Deflected again. Interesting. The less she gives, the more I want to know. We’ve spoken more or less nonstop for hours, but everything she’s told me has been about how her life intersects with someone else’s: her children, my dad, her family, even the townsfolk. But nothing about just Scarlett.

I’m staying in Clover Pines to get to know my half-siblings, but there’s something about Scarlett that I can’t quite put my finger on—something calling to me, to find the pieces of the Scarlett-shaped puzzle she seems so hesitant to give up.

A puzzle I have no business being this interested in.

4

Scarlett

I close the front door behind me, leaving Killian inside my house. My family is going to be pissed when they find out I invited him to stay; Piper will probably suggest some kind of weapon or hidden camera, in case he turns out to be a serial killer with really convincing contacts, but there’s just something about him that makes me think I can trust him.

Of course, I trusted his dad too, and look where that got me. I’m not sure what’s messier—this situation, or my jumbled feelings, giving me a literal headache.

My kids deserve to know their family. Their relationship with Dom is practically nonexistent. He disrupts their routine every time he calls, and, though James barely remembers him, Caitlin is old enough to remember what it was like when he was around more. And old enough to realize that he calls less and less as time goes on. When she was younger, explaining that he worked in Ireland was enough to stop her questions, but a few months ago she asked why he doesn’t just move here, since he doesn’t have any family in Ireland. I had no answer. Now, I do.

I cross the street to Piper’s house, my toes freezing. My winter boots gave out last year, so I have two pairs of socks on inside the old Ariats I’ve had since I was seventeen. My feet grew a little with each pregnancy, and they’re pretty snug, especially with the extra socks. Still, I don’t rush inside. I lean against the door, taking a deep breath and forcing back the tears that would really like to fall. Come hell or high water, I have to be okay when I walk in there. No matter how many times Dom has let me down, how many nights I’ve lain in bed fighting tears of frustration, feeling alone, wondering how I was going to buy groceries or pay my electric bill, I’ve never let my kids see it. I’ve never said a bad word against their dad, and I’m not going to start now. No matter who Dom is, he gave me them. And even if it makes me a shitty person, knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t go back in time and change anything.

I wipe my face, steel myself, and open Piper’s front door. The familiar sound of Caitlin singing along to the theme tune of their favorite TV show of the moment tells me the kids are in Piper’s den, but I can hear footsteps in the kitchen. Piper looks up as I enter. She’s eating a pickle straight out of the jar with a mismatched pair of chopsticks, and drops the pickle back into the jar with a splash at the sight of me.

“Tell me everything.”

I half-groan, half-sob, and hop up on a bar stool. Piper sits opposite me, folding her hands expectantly, but not patiently.

“He has a wife, Pipes,” I say, and I hate how fucking small my voice sounds. My best friend’s face falls, sympathy shining in her eyes. “A wife who has cancer, and a whole family that I had no idea about. I’m the other woman.”