Page 118 of Modern Romance January 2025 5-8
“Why? Because the way that you lived, and the things that you did were closer to what your father found acceptable? It seems to me like you were a child who could simply do the things laid out before him, and because of that you avoided the worst of what your father was, until you fully realized just how monstrous of a man he was. Your sister couldn’t fall in line, so she didn’t have those years of being able to fool herself. But what you did was not easier, and it doesn’t mean that he was any kinder to you. It just didn’t manifest itself in the same way.”
“I am stronger, and I should’ve been stronger for her. I should’ve realized. I should have had insight.”
“You didn’t. You were just a child. Even if you were twenty years old, you were a child. Under your father’s thumb, with no real sense of the world and how it was. So I’m going to ask you again. What if you let him win? Because what do you gain by continuing to fight this? At least right now. At least now... You’re free. Because here we are, out in the middle of nowhere, and we aren’t going to let anyone know what’s happening.”
“It will look as if I’m hiding.”
“That’s fine. I’ve asked the work wives to handle it. They will. The thing is, your grief has just been dredged up to the surface, and it’s actually completely all right if you don’t engage in playing games with the media to get back at your father.”
He was silent for a moment. “They will think that my silence is an admission of guilt.”
“Some people will. But when we actually do speak, perhaps people will see this for what it is. You’re the one that actually cares. You’re the one that can’t bear to use your sister’s memory like this.”
“Everything I do is for my sister’s memory.”
“I know that. But that’s different. It’s different than this. Different than the way that he is trying to destroy you over the top of her story. Her reputation.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“I have made us a picnic. And I think that we should have it.”
His expression contorted into one of horror. “I do not want to go on a picnic. I don’t want to go on a picnic even when I can see, much less so now. Are you going to lead me around like a stumbling fool in the daisies? With a basket?”
“There are no daisies.”
His lip curled in disgust. “What is the purpose of this?”
“I think that the purpose of it, perhaps, is to get you out of your own head. You are not going to heal as long as you’re sitting here in distress.”
“I am not in distress.”
“You could’ve fooled me. You were, only moments ago threatening to drink yourself to death. I think maybe some perspective is in order.”
“I think you might need to be able to see in order to have perspective.”
“And I think that you are being a cantankerous fool.”
“Enough,” he said sharply. “I will have a picnic with you. But you must endeavor to be less ridiculous.”
“Oh, well I’ll try.”
She walked over to the bed and rested her hand against his. Instantly, the contact between them sent an arrow of desire through her. She wanted him. Still. In the stillness, the silence, the space of this moment, she might even want him more than she had that night when it was a fantasy. Pure and perfect and lovely.
This was sharp, awful and weighted.
And yet...
She felt lonely, standing there touching his hand, looking at him, wishing that they could be closer, wishing that she could be further away. She saw something like desolation in his dark eyes and she wondered if he felt it too.
“Come on,” she said, tugging his hand gently.
He stood, and she laced her fingers through his. “I’ll make sure that you get there okay.”
“And I have to trust that you’re not leading me into a field of daisies.”
“Most people would be more worried about a hornet’s nest.”
“Not me. I’m much more concerned about softness.”