Page 29

The subject line simply says,Question. When I open the message, it’s short.
Just following up on this.
I notice that John has responded to an older email he sent, and I scroll down to read it.
A friend at Monarch tells me you’re writing a memoir. I’d love to pitch for it if you’re open to it. Please let me know.
I look at the date—March 12. The day after that first catastrophic Zoom with the Monarch team, when someone mentioned how they should have pitched Calder instead. I stretch back into my memory for the name. Tyler Blakewood.
Before I can change my mind, I click respond.
Tell me what you have in mind.
Then I hit Send.
***
Unable to sleep after that, I stare at the ceiling, turning over how to talk to Tom about this because he’s always been the person I turn to. He’dcome with me to the Calder trial, sat behind me while the judge read his verdict, and then taken me to get drunk afterward. He’d counseled me, consoled me, listened to me, and even when he hadn’t agreed with my decisions—he’d advised strongly against that social media rant—he was always on my side.
I sit up and grab my phone, my fingers hesitating over the blank text screen, unsure of what to say. Of how to stay vague without unraveling all the lies I’ve told.
Instead, I grab my laptop and open it, transcribing a conversation with my father earlier today, zeroing in on a small exchange I’d wanted to revisit. It was about my parents, and it matched what others have always said about my father—that he was jealous. Volatile.
I shove my AirPods into my ears and rewind the recording back to the beginning of the segment, trying not to think about why John Calder is pitching for a book that is already under contract. Whether Monarch is letting me fail first before pulling the project from me. Which would likely force me to pay back my advance.
My voice resonates in my ears, and I push my worry away, focusing on work I know I can do better than John Calder.
Vincent: I used to sit on your mother’s porch, waiting for her to get home from track practice. I’d tell myself I just wanted to see her, but I was insecure. I wanted to make sure she’d been where she said she’d been.
Olivia: Did you do that often?
VT: Often enough.
O: And was she? Where she’d said she’d been?
VT: My mother had something she’d say whenever Poppy got too nosy: Sometimes, when you go looking for something, you might not like what you find.
O: That doesn’t answer the question.
VT: Sometimes your mother lied to me. Mostly because she didn’t want to upset me or make me jealous about things that didn’t matter, like her workouts with Mr. Stewart, which seemed to take up all her free time and energy.
O: Did you argue a lot?
VT: Not any more or less than other sixteen-year-olds flush with young love.
O: So was your mother right? Did you find something you didn’t like?
VT: Probably. I don’t remember.
O: I need you to try. The memoir has to open you up so others can see your vulnerabilities. It’s how readers will know you’re telling the truth.
VT: You’re the liar, Lydia, not me.
The recording ends there, but I can still feel the shock, the shift from conversation to anger. The pain of hearing him spit her name at me, a warning.
But I’m also struck by the image of my father, sneaking out to check up on his girlfriend. Not trusting her. Following her. Obsessing over where she said she had been, and checking to make sure that was true.
Vincent