Page 18 of Ten Years and Then…
“You thought. You kept telling me, and—well, you were right.” She had told him, over and over. “It was—God, it was amazing. She was amazing. She was so … I don’t even know. So—everything.”
“I want to know,” Bianca said. “Tell me everything. Well, almost everything. Keep it PG, if you don’t mind. And don’t roll your eyes at me!” She knew him too well. “I know you haven’t forgiven me for going on and on about Paolo that one time, but in my defense I was very drunk and he was very handsome.” She’d shown him a Polaroid of Paolo at Thanksgiving a couple of months after her trip to Italy, and he couldn’t really argue.
“Strictly PG, I promise.” He proceeded to recap the night and the morning for her, omitting the most physical details, but not skipping the part about how little he’d known, and how sweet she’d been about it.
“That girl…”
“Nora.”
“Nora really must have been something. I’m so thrilled for you. You deserve this, Danny.” There was a lengthy pause. He couldn’t guess what she was hesitating to say. “Just—trust me, you know I’ve been there. Take it one step at a time. One date at a time. Don’t get ahead of yourself. You know we both do that. Enjoy every minute with her, and if it’s going to be more, then it will be, but let that happen in its own time. Remember how I scared Alex off?” That had been a year ago, last October. He’d missed the dorm Halloween party talking to Bee for probably three hours. “Don’t do that. Please, just enjoy this and let the future take care of itself. Promise me, Danny.”
He hadn’t been thinking ahead—not yet, anyway. But he had to be honest with himself, those thoughts would have started bubbling up by this afternoon. “I promise, Bee. But you might have to remind me every so often.”
“You know I will, Danny. Now go get yourself some breakfast. Love you!”
Nora, a half hour later
What the hell was wrong with Rachel?
No. What was wrong with her? Why had she snapped at someone who had never been anything but good to her, never lied to her? Someone who was the closest thing to a confidant she’d ever had.
It wasn’t as though Rachel had said anything she didn’t know, even if she’d never really given it much thought. Why would she have? Nobody sat there and dwelled on what their parents were like when they were dating, right? That was weird.
Rachel had even told her on occasion that she had her father’s temperament—and temper. Always when she’d needed to hear it, too. Without her aunt’s words, she probably would have gotten herself expelled from high school half a dozen times.
Or worse than expelled. Rachel had talked her down the last week of sophomore year, after she’d learned that Eileen Renfro was the one who’d broken into her locker and stolen the locket Bill Jenkins had given her. She had been so angry—even now, more than two years later, she could feel her heartbeat spiking just thinking about Eileen—and Rachel had kept her from doing something she would have regretted.
Most of the time, it was wonderful to have someone who knew you that well, and would be honest with you no matter what. Every once in a while, though, it really sucked.
Rachel meant well, and she was much too perceptive. But that didn’t mean she was infallible.
Yes, Nora shared some traits with her father.
Yes, she wore her heart on her sleeve.
Yes, she sometimes—often—acted before she thought.
But she wasn’t her father’s clone. She was herself. And just because her father blew up his marriage—with plenty of help from her mother—that didn’t mean that she was doomed to follow in his footsteps.
She’d call Rachel back later and apologize for being so rude and horrible, and that would be the end of it. She wouldn’t plead her case, because there was nothing to plead, was there? Rachel had made an observation, and it was wrong, and in time she’d see that. What else needed to be said?
Now, though, it was almost ten o’clock and her father was probably wondering what was up with her.
Sure enough, the phone rang just as she put a hand on it to pick it up and call him. “Morning, Pumpkin.”
Nora didn’t really like his nickname for her. It had barely been cute when she was in kindergarten. But she always smiled at it anyway. At least he was trying. That counted for something. “Hi, Dad. Sorry I didn’t call you, I overslept this morning.”
He laughed, more than her words deserved. That was something else that hadn’t ever really been cute. “Working too hard?”
For an instant, she debated actually telling him about Daniel, about—with a lot of editing—last night. She didn’t like how little her father really knew her. Maybe it was on her to bridge the gap and tell him something real. Something that for once he’d actually understand since he’d lived it himself, too.
Then she ran quickly through the many, many ways that conversation could—probably would—go horribly wrong and leave her feeling guilty or angry or depressed or flat-out hopeless. Or most likely all of them at once.
“Well, I am.” It was even true. She’d worked far harder this semester than she ever had in high school. And—to her surprise—she’d enjoyed the work.
“But I had dinner with a friend last night, and we stayed up late talking. You know how that is.” That was also, technically, true, despite being completely dishonest.
She had become very skilled at that sort of lying truth-telling with her parents. And all her high school teachers and classmates. And her roommate here, too.
