Chapters (38)
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- epilogue
“You don’t know that. You’re too young to make decisions so huge.”
I sighed and stood up, glorious makeout session forgotten.
He shook his head and held out his arms. “Where were we?”
“It was a good stopping point,” I replied. “We’re moving too fast here.” I returned to my chair and picked up my wine.
He nodded cheerfully. “I agree. I didn’t bring you here to hook up tonight, Ronni. I never bring women to the lakehouse on a first date. This place is special to me, and I just wanted to sit and talk—get to know you— in the moonlight, I swear.” He looked into my eyes. “I’m going for that beer now. When I get back I want your life story, Ronni Johnson.”
I wondered if there was enough chardonnay in the world, and figured I might as well find out. I was halfway through the bottle when Rick returned. He set a small cooler of beer next to his chair and looked at me expectantly.
“There’s not much to tell, Rick. I did not have a happy childhood. I’d like to leave it at that and talk about movies or music or global warming. Any other subject you’d care to name.”
“Have another glass of wine.” He reached over and filled my glass helpfully. “I want to know all about you, Ronni. Please.”
No one in my current life knew about my past. I’d opened up to Violet, of course, crying with her on more than one occasion. I took a deep breath and drained half the wine. “Okay,” I began, closing my eyes, “it may not be what you want to hear.”
“Try me.”
“My mother spent my early years pursuing whiskey and pills instead of paying attention to me. I was removed to foster care at five. I don’t know who my father is. I was passed around from family to family and never knew what a stable home looked like until the Johnsons adopted me. I was a teenager by then.”
“So Johnson is not your real last name?”
I glared at him. “It’s real to me.”
“What’s on your birth certificate?”
“Veronica Jean Edwards.”
“How old was your mother when you were born?”
“Sixteen.”
“And you have no idea where she is?”
“I don’t want to know, Rick. She is dead to me.”
“One more question: what is her first name?”
“Jocelyn.”
He stood and leaned over the railing, rubbing his head and looking across the water. “I thought you looked like her,” he said quietly.
I swallowed something sharp and felt it lodge in my throat.