Page 89 of Look, Don't Touch

Beside Easter and Lane Wright were two tiny headstones for a boy named Henry Lane Wright who lived for two days and a girl named Easter Prin Wright who lived for five. Both of them would have been older than my aunt, had they lived, by more than a decade.

“Damn.”

“Yeah, she had several miscarriages too. They didn’t bury them back in those days or even mention them. I only know because of old medical records I found when cleaning out their house.” Nat shivers. “It’s a big part of the reason I didn’t want to have kids. I was scared to lose them.”

She takes a big gulp of air. “After we sold the old farm, your mother and I moved to New York.” Her eyes sparkle with fresh tears, but a big smile stretches her mouth. Memories dance behind her eyes. “We were both going to be models. We were identical twins, after all. We were going to rule the world. Take fashion by the balls.” Her swallow is huge. “We were well on the way too. Together and separately, we landed an agency, big brand deals, and walked in Fashion Week. Things were looking up, but your mom wasn’t. She was depressed. Big crowds cranked her anxiety. Tight schedules made her snappy.”

Nat’s gaze finds me. “She missed home. The small community where everyone knew everyone. She missed her friends and her boyfriend.”

My dad.

“They started dating in?—”

“Middle school, I know. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen and she was everywhere he looked.” I grin at her. “Because there were two of you, only he didn't know that because he’d moved here from Ohio in seventh grade. He fell in love with her talking in the back of the science classroom when they were supposed to be dissecting a frog, and the rest is history, as he always said.”

“It was. Honestly, I was surprised when she agreed to go with me, but it only lasted a few months before she came back. They married a couple of months later, and you were born by the time she was nineteen.”

“That’s so young.”

Nat shrugs. “It wasn’t out of the norm back then. But I was terrified when I heard she was pregnant. I was so worried, but you came, and you were perfect.” She beams at me. “Ten fingers. Ten toes.”

“Low bar.”

“And the cutest nose I ever saw.” She bops me on it.

“You’re bound to lose a finger if you keep doing that.” I smirk.

She bops me again and then drags me down until we stand in front of my parents’ graves.

Beau Curtis Fitzpatrick

September 10, 1972 - September 10, 2004

Aria Wright Fitzpatrick

December 20, 1972 - September 10, 2004

“My dad’s fucking birthday.”

“Yeah” Nat’s stunning gray hair shimmers as her head shakes.

“What a bastard.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“Should they even be buried next to each other?” Now that I’m older and have a bit of perspective, I’m seeing things I never thought about. I have a mind to exhume and separate them.

“They were happy together, with you, for a long time.”

“Until they weren’t,” I grumble. “Why didn’t she just file for divorce?” I might kick rocks at her headstone if there were any to speak of. I’ve wondered, as I have many times in the past two decades, if it was because of me. If she didn’t want to break off their marriage because it would have hurt me. Sure, it would have. Only a hell of a lot less than what happened.

“Why did she have to cheat?” I practically growl.

“You know better than most why people cheat.”

I do. As a therapist, I’ve seen it all. Pre-cheating, mid-cheating, post-cheating. Couples clinging to something that used to be, instead of facing what is and trying to repair it or let it go.

“The farm was a lot of work. She wanted to sell it and move to the city. Your dad loved it and he loved your mother. He was looking for a middle ground, and she, I don’t know what she was looking for.” Nat sighs. “I wish she’d told me, so I could have helped her.”

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