Page 114 of Under Southern Stars
Nate: What exactly did you lie about?
I stare at the question, at a loss for how to explain the magnitude of my deception without sounding like a complete asshole. How can I condense generations of family wealth, my deliberate concealment, and Sophia’s justified sense of betrayal into a text message?
I finally type:
Jack: Can't go into details. Just know it wasn't anything harmful but it was fundamental. An omission that changed how she sees me.
Even that feels inadequate. I add:
Jack: On a scale of 1-10, how fucked am I?
His response is immediate and brutally honest:
Nate: 11. But not necessarily permanently fucked.
I bark out a laugh despite myself. Leave it to an ER nurse to deliver the unvarnished truth.
His follow-up hits even harder:
Nate: Look, I'm the last guy who should give relationship advice. But I know Sophia. She doesn't do games. If you fucked up so bad it doesn't fit in a text, you better just own it and then pray as hard as you can to whatever deity will listen.
The straightforward assessment is like a splash of cold water. No platitudes, no false reassurance. Just the truth I need to hear.
