Page 10 of Truly, Madly, Deeply

“I caught him with a girl, pants down. Off, actually.”

Mom gasped. “You Poor Thing.”

“In flagrante delicto.” Dad tutted and shook his head. “Good riddance. From the moment I met him, I knew that boy was Unworthy of Your Love, Pumpkin.”

“Stan,” Mom chided.

Dad held up his hands. “You didn’t like him, either.”

“Our thoughts on Justin aside, six years is a long time to be with someone. The last thing Truly needs to hear right now is I told you so.”

“I’m okay. Seriously. You can put the kid gloves away.”

“See, Diane? Our Broadway Baby is made of sturdier stuff.”

Mom pursed her lips. “I just want you to know that it’s okay if you aren’t okay.”

“Thanks. But I just really, really want to move on.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dad said. “Never fear, A Hero Is Coming. Or heroine. You know your mother and I just want you to be happy.”

“Thank you. Now, no offense, can we talk about literally anything else? What’s new with you?”

Mom drained her mimosa. “Interesting Questions. Let’s see... I was named vice chair of the Laurelhurst Community Horticulture Society. Which is something.”

“Mom!” She set her fork down so she could squeeze Mom’s arm. “That’s more than something. That’s amazing. Uh...” Sondheim, Sondheim... “I’m So Happy for you.”

“Thank You So Much.” Mom reached out, squeezing Truly back. “As for your father—”

“Truly, your mother and I have decided to take some time apart.”

She held her breath, waiting for the punch line, for the Sondheim that never came.

They had one rule, one rule only. The circumstances had never mattered; not once had there been an exception. Not when Truly had had friends over, not when she’d had strep and couldn’t speak and had to rely on her phone’s text-to-voice reader. She’d still been expected to communicate in stupid showtunes.

Her fork clattered against her plate. “That’s not funny.”

“Truly—”

“Stop saying my name,” she snapped. “You’re saying my name like you’re expecting me to have a breakdown or something. Which is stupid. Because you’re kidding, right?” Her throat ached, sore and stuffed like she’d swallowed a cotton ball. “Right?”

Mom looked at Dad and he gazed back, a furtive look passing between them.

Truly screwed her eyes shut. “I Must Be Dreaming.”

Despite bitching and moaning about this game, this tradition, Truly clung to it. There was safety in the predictability. If Sondheim didn’t write it, it couldn’t happen.

Someone rested a hand on Truly’s knee, fingers gentle, palm soft, metal rings skin-warmed. Mom. “Honey, it’s... it’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Dad quickly agreed. “Your mother and I, we love each other.”

“Very much. And we love you.”

“More than anything.” Dad’s hand came down, warm and solid against her shoulder, squeezing gently. “You are The Best Thing That Has Ever Happened to us.”

“And We’re Gonna Be All Right.” Mom jostled her lightly. “So, No Sad Songs, okay?”

No Sad—

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