Chapter 8 - Heather

Chapter 8

Heather

Paracas, Peru

"And you said yes? Even though you were only eighteen?" Heather wasn't convinced of the romance of it. Jimmy Keays was nothing but red flags.

"I was nineteen by the time we had the wedding." Bon was a million miles away, smiling at memories of times long past. "It was a cute little wedding. I wore a mini dress I bought from Penney's. It was ice blue and just the most darling thing. I had good legs back then."

Personally, Heather would have run a mile from a man like Jimmy Keays. Boy like Jimmy Keays, she amended.

"We were young," Bon said, her voice warm with memory, "and in a rush, as young people are."

Heather wasn't sure she'd ever been in that kind of rush. But then, she supposed, she hadn't grown up in Shitsville.

"We were so happy," Bon said, still all dreamy and far away. "You never saw two people who fit together as well as me and Jimmy Keays. I'm not sure I've ever felt such simple, strong love since. It just was, and it was good. Nothing's ever the same as your first real love, but when your first love is lightning . . . well, it's a hard act to follow."

Heather's first love hadn't been lightning. She wasn't even sure it had been love.

"Mom said Jimmy left . . ." Heather broke off as she saw the cloud cross Bon's face. Maybe it was best not to go there. Maybe it was best to stop the story here, in the brightest, happiest moment. Because Jimmy Keays hadn't been The One, had he? Lightning or no lightning. If he had been The One, he never would have left her. That was part of the deal.

"Yes, he left," Bon sighed. "I never even saw it coming."

Heather didn't see how that was possible. How could she not have suspected he might run? Judging by the story Bon just told, Jimmy Keays was practically the poster boy for men who leave . . . Impulsive, reckless, rootless . . . Or rather, he was the poster boy for one kind of man who leaves. Heather's father was another kind. Maybe a worse kind, because he'd left without ever really leaving.

"But that was Jimmy," Bon said, staring at the glitter of the ocean in the distance. "He was complicated. And I think it might have been different if he'd known about the baby."

"Wait. What? You were pregnant when he left?" This was news to Heather. She'd thought Mom was Bon's first kid.

"I most certainly was. Knocked up, all alone, and back living with Pa in Shitsville." Bon cracked a bitter smile. "I was so mad at Jimmy Keays about that. Madder than I've ever been before or since."

What happened to the baby? Had she lost it, or given it up? Heather searched Bon's face, looking for answers. "And did he ever turn up again?" Heather didn't know why she asked. She knew the answer, even without being told.

"Jimmy? No," Bon said softly. "When Jimmy left, he left for good."

"What a bastard." Heather felt a white-hot lick of rage on Bon's behalf. What was wrong with him? Who walked away from a woman who loved him, and who walked away from lightning? Lightning didn't happen every day.

Oh, listen to her. Until recently she wouldn't have believed in lightning . . .

Unbidden, the memory of Romeo kissing her after their run across the Bridge of Sighs surfaced, and Heather's heart tumbled over.

"Jimmy wasn't a bastard. He was just young and couldn't do better. He had a lot of demons." Bon took a sip of her wine. Her hand shook. Not much, but enough that Heather noticed it.

She knew she should drop it, but Heather had to know about the baby. "What happened, Bon? To Jimmy's baby? Did you have it . . . or not?"

Bon gave her an odd look. "Of course I had the baby. It was all I had left of Jimmy, and of us."

"But . . . where . . . I mean, who? What happened to it?"

"What do you mean what happened to it?" Bon seemed genuinely surprised by the question. "You know what happened to her. She's your mom."

* * *

"How could you not tell me?" Heather had gone straight to Mom's villa. She'd pounded on the door until Mom let her in. "Jimmy Keays is your father? Not Grandpa?"

"I didn't tell you because it doesn't matter." Mom was firm. She didn't want to talk about Jimmy Keays.

Heather refused to drop it. She followed Mom into her room, feeling hot and cold and just weird. "But this means Grandpa wasn't my grandpa!"

Mom rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Heather. Jimmy Keays wasn't my father. Dad was my father. For God's sake, I never even met Jimmy Keays. He ran off before I was born!" She headed for the bathroom and reached for her toothbrush.

"But—"

"No, no but. And no more. I refuse to waste time talking about a man who never showed any interest in me." Mom squirted a splat of toothpaste on her brush.

"Bon said he left before she knew she was pregnant, so how could he show any interest in you? He didn't even know you existed." Heather sat on the edge of the bathtub. She had no intention of letting the subject drop.

"Well, he sure didn't show any interest in your grandmother, then, did he? He brushed off his wedding vows, he brushed off the fact that Mom might have been pregnant, even though, surely, he knew how babies were made. And he just up and left. So, I don't see that he deserves any of my time or energy."

Mom was immovable on the subject. She thrust her toothbrush in her mouth and scrubbed fiercely. Heather had been upended. Grandpa wasn't her biological grandfather. He was Mom's stepfather. Aunt Jacqui was Mom's half sister. It was shocking.

Jimmy K-E-A-Y-S from Minneapolis, Minnesota, the man covered in red flags, was her grandfather. Not quiet, solid, sweet Dale Waller, the man she'd known and loved as her grandfather. Jimmy Keays, a person she'd never met, was in her blood. And Grandpa wasn't.

And they'd never told her.

Why not tell her? She examined her mother's face in the bathroom mirror, wondering if Mom resembled Jimmy at all, and in which ways. Mom was so much like Bon that it was hard to tell. Mom had Bon's periwinkle-blue eyes, not silvery ones like Jimmy Keays, and her hair wasn't brown and gold, but dark, like Bon's. She did have a slight dent in her chin, though. Heather was burning to see a photograph of Jimmy Keays. She wanted to see his face. Did she look like him at all? What would she have thought of him if she'd met him? Would she have been as charmed by him as Bon had been? And what would he think if he learned that he had a daughter and grandchildren that he'd never known about?

Didn't he deserve to know about them? He might have been a horrible husband, but he was still family.

Just like Dad.

The thought clung to her like a burr as they went down to dinner. It pricked her so much that she almost pulled out her phone and messaged her father. But what would she write? I miss you? And what if he didn't message back? That would hurt more than she could deal with right now.

She missed Dad so much. It was a familiar feeling, because Dad ran as hot and cold with her as he did with Mom, and he always had, even when Heather was a kid. But when he ran hot . . . there was nothing better in the world than being the center of his attention. It was like filling your veins with sunshine. But his sun always set, and it seemed to hurt Heather worse and worse each time it did. She put her phone back in her pocket, without messaging him.

That night, as Bon lay snoring in the twin bed next to her, Heather searched the web for a trace of Jimmy Keays. Was he still alive? What had he done with his life? Who had he become? Had he ever remarried? Did he have other children?

But Heather couldn't tell if any of the Jimmy Keays she searched was the Jimmy Keays. She thought about the way Jimmy had called all the dental clinics in Phoenix, looking for Bon, and wondered if she could do the same, calling all the Jimmy Keays she found online.

Unable to sleep, she messaged her brother. You up? I have the gossip to end all gossip.

But he didn't message back. He was probably on night shift.

Hey, Juliet, you awake?Heather jerked as Romeo's message landed on her screen, right in her hot little hand.

She hurriedly typed back, before he disappeared. Wide awake.

Can you see the moon?

Heather most certainly could not see the moon, as Bon had drawn the blackout blinds.

Go outside and look at the moon.

It's the middle of the night, she typed, but she was already out of bed and heading for the door. She'd do anything Romeo suggested at this point. She wished she knew his real name, so she could go hunting for him online, the way she'd hunted for Jimmy Keays.

She could just ask him his name . . . but for some reason it felt risky.

Part of the point, weirdo. The moon is often found at night.

Heather opened the door to a wash of russet-tinged light. It was bright-bright-bright outside. Time slowed the way it often did when Romeo was involved, and she stepped outside and off the terrace onto the lawn, gazing skyward. Above, the sky was so thick with stars that the darkness could barely peer through. And directly overhead was a swollen full moon; it looked like it was on fire, a reddish-orange ball so close that she felt she could see its scars and craters. Heather could hear waves pounding on the red beach at the edge of Resort World, a yearning, forceful percussion that made her blood race. The night was full of red magic. No wonder she couldn't sleep—this wasn't a night for sleeping.

It's the Flower Moon. A blood supermoon.

Heather had a hard time looking away from the moon to read the message.

The Inca believed a Jaguar was trying to eat the moon during an eclipse, he wrote.

Eclipse? I thought you said it was a supermoon?The red moon was reflected in the screen of the phone as she typed.

A blood moon is an eclipse.

Heather looked up at the sky. Then typed back, But there's no eclipse?

There is. We're between the moon and the sun right now. What you're seeing is the reflection of all the sunrises and sunsets happening on earth right at this moment. Somewhere right now, the sun rises as it sets. And the moon is watching.

Wow. Heather took in the collected light of sunrise and sunset the world over, lighting the dark face of the moon. The crash of the waves filled the night. How do you know all this?

I'm curious.

Objectively so, huh?Heather had a lump in her throat. Every nerve of her body yearned to be with him right now. She felt, somehow, that she was in the wrong place. That she'd missed her fate. It was a deeply unnerving feeling, overwhelmingly strong.

Are you curious?he asked.

Yes. She was. She was curious about him. Who was he? What made him the type of person who watched the moon? Why was he in Peru alone? Where was he going after this? What did his home look like? What did his life look like?

If she was brave, she'd ask him about himself right now.

Hell, what was wrong with her? She couldn't bring herself to message Dad, and she couldn't bring herself to ask Romeo an outright question about himself . . .

I'm as curious as the next person, she wrote. But was it true? She'd never asked Bon about her childhood, or about Jimmy before. And she'd never asked Dad any questions at all. She'd somehow known without asking why he used to sneak out to the garage to make phone calls at night, and why he was late home so often, and why Mom was crying when he went out of town on "conferences." But she'd never asked him about it, not even when he turned up to visit her in Chicago, with a woman in tow. Was that a lack of curiosity, or a well-developed sense of self-preservation?

Maybe both.

Heather remembered being fourteen and running into her father at the mall. He'd been with a woman, a young, peppy-looking brunette who was in tight jeans and an even tighter T-shirt. They'd been holding hands. Heather had frozen on the escalator, praying her friends wouldn't notice her father down there on the ground floor, walking along, holding hands with a woman who wasn't Heather's mom. Dad had seen Heather too. Had met her eye. He gave no indication that he recognized her; he didn't smile, or nod, or anything. But he let go of the peppy woman's hand.

And Heather had never said anything about it. She never saw the woman again and never knew if her father had either.

But she imagined he had. She'd lain wakeful at night, every muscle tensed, listening for raised voices, waiting for Mom to find out and erupt in pain. Heather imagined her dad and the woman at the mall, going to the same cinema he took Heather to, sharing popcorn, just like he did with Heather. And then she imagined worse things, until her stomach hurt so badly that she thought maybe she had stomach cancer or something.

In the mornings, she'd be exhausted from lack of sleep and possible stomach cancer, and she'd sit next to Dad at the breakfast bar, eating her cereal while he read the paper, never once asking him a single question about the woman at the mall.

And now she could barely even message her father to say hello.

Heather waited for Romeo's dots to appear, but her cell screen was still.

She had curiosity, damn it. She did. She burned with curiosity. About Dad and why he did what he did, about whether he still loved her even when he sapped the sunshine from her veins, and about him: Romeo. She wanted to know his name, and what he did for a living; she wanted to know where he lived, and why he'd broken up with the ex-girlfriend.

Only it seemed weirdly intimate to ask. Too much time had passed, and now it meant too much when she asked. It showed him what she was feeling, when she didn't quite know how he was feeling.

Where are you?she wrote instead.

A photo appeared on her screen. Moonlit sand; a bowl of dunes around a desert oasis; sparkling town lights clustered amid the dark palms. And the huge reddish moon of collected sunrises and sunsets hanging over it all like a burning heart.

I'm sitting on the crest of a sand hill in Huacachina, watching the moon. You still by the bay in Paracas?

Heather looked around Resort World. Sort of.

Missing me, weirdo? Want me to wait here for you to catch up?

Heather's stomach was somehow heavy and floating all at once. She glanced back at the villa, for a moment tempted to ditch Mom and Bon and to run and catch him up. I wish, she eventually typed, but family, remember?

I remember. But it was worth a try.

The phone went silent.

Romeo?

Nothing. Heather felt a wild beating panic.

Romeo?

Don't fret. I am wherefore art.

Funny. But was there an edge to it, or was she imagining it?

I wish I was on that sandhill with you, she wrote.

Me too. Last chance, Juliet. I have to meet someone in Nazca, so if I don't see you before then, we're out of luck.

Nazca. That was only two stops ahead . . . only one stop for him . . .

Heather felt the pull of him like the moon on the tides. But she stayed where she was, on the grass in Resort World, staring at the burning moon and feeling that disturbing frisson. The one that told her fate was slipping away.

* * *

A day later she was in Huacachina herself, filing off the Peru Hop with the other Hoppers. But too late, because he was gone. He'd sent her a photo from the road; he was back on another red Peru Hop bus, already bound for Nazca.

I had a great time with you, Juliet. Make sure those Capulets treat you right. And enjoy Peru x

And that was it. He was moving on. The magic was over.

How could he just sign off like that? Didn't what they had mean anything to him? Heather refused to believe that this was casual. It was too intense for casual. She didn't feel casual aboutit.

"You're very quiet," Bon told her, as they took in the tiny little resort town around the greenish waters of the Huacachina oasis.

"She's still ruminating over Jimmy Keays," Mom complained. "I don't know why you had to go stirring that pot, after all these years."

Mom had been in a foul temper all day. For all her protestations that she didn't care about Jimmy Keays, he'd clearly gotten under her skin. Because no one else was talking about him anymore. She was the one bringing him up.

"I didn't stir any pot. I shared my life with my granddaughter," Bon protested. "Stop ruining a beautiful moment. You know what you need, Sandra, is a little sexting. You should learn from Heather's example. If you had a guy messaging you the way Heather does, you wouldn't be so wound up all the time."

Mom scowled. "Mom. Don't."

"Don't what? Tell you the plain truth? You're pent up. You need to release some of that frustration in a way that doesn't involve screeching at the rest of us."

"I knew I shouldn't have come on this vacation. I knew exactly what it would be like. Why did I come?"

"I don't know," Heather said bluntly. "Because as far as I can see you're having no fun at all, and you're ruining it for the rest of us." She was in a bad mood too, and she was sick to death of Mom's bitching. She'd given up her last chance with Romeo for this, and all Mom could do was complain.

Heather was feeling heartsick as she took in the sandhills around the green oasis and the moonless blue sky. She felt like she'd screwed something up that should never have been screwed up. She could have been here in Huacachina yesterday, in time to sit beside Romeo on these dunes . . . she could have seen him at least one more time . . . But she hadn't. Because she was here for them. Because Bon had booked this trip, and had paid for it, and all Bon wanted was a little fun for her birthday, after a horrible, lonely few months. And it wasn't too much to ask, for your family to be there for you when you needed them, was it?

"I know things have been bad with Dad," Heather continued, unable to stop herself from unloading her feelings on her mother. "I know you're having a shocking time and it's an effort to even get out of bed in the morning. I know all that. And I'm sorry. But can you please at least try? Goddamn it, Mom, you're not the only one having a hard time."

Mom started to cry. And this time it was the full ugly cry. "Your dad met someone," she blurted.

"I know," Heather said tightly, feeling the usual wave of stress at her mother's tears, "that's what started this whole mess, remember?"

"No, I mean he's met someone. He wants to marry her." There she went. Ugly cry. "He wants to marry her."

Heather frowned. "What?" She glanced at Bon, who was oddly silent. "What's she talking about?"

Bon cleared her throat. "Why don't we go somewhere a little more private . . . ?"

"Oh, fuck private!" Mom exploded wetly. "What's private anymore, when it's all up on Facebook!"

Heather's head was spinning. "What's up on Facebook?"

"Honey . . ." Bon approached Mom gingerly and tried to embrace her, but Mom shook her off.

"No. I don't want your goddamn pity."

Bon didn't listen and hugged her anyway. Heather watched as Mom stiffened, rigid as a board, but something about Bon's unyielding affection must have gotten through, because Mom abruptly melted, collapsing against Bon's shoulder, sobbing fit to burst. Heather felt a hot stab of pure jealousy. Mom got comforted.

"What the hell is happening?" Heather demanded.

Bon flapped a hand at her. "There's time for that later. Let's just get her sorted first. Why don't you go look around Huacachina and I'll take her to the hotel."

Bon wanted her to go sightseeing? "What the hell is this about Dad?"

"Heather, honey. Give her a chance to calm herself and then we'll talk about it. Why don't you meet us back at the hotel in an hour?"

"Mom?" Heather felt stirrings of panic as she listened to the deep body wrack of her mother's sobs. What did she mean Heather's father was getting married? To whom?

It couldn't be true. He would have told Heather if he was getting married.

Only . . . maybe he wouldn't have . . .

Heather felt a scary black hole start to swirl in the middle of her, and that old familiar stomach cancer ache was back. How little did she mean to him? Little enough to turn cold on her and to not answer her calls, little enough that he didn't even tell her he was getting married?

He couldn't get married! He was still married. To Mom.

"Come on, Sandra, you're upsetting Heather," Bon said firmly. "Get yourself in hand."

Heather felt a messed-up welter of feeling as she watched Bon lead Mom away. They kept doing this to her. They threw their feelings at her and then they left. And now she was holding all these feelings that she couldn't even name. And they wanted her to go sightseeing?

Heather felt like kicking something.

So she called her brother.

"Did you know Dad was getting married?" she demanded as soon as he picked up.

"Is that the gossip you wanted to tell me? Because yeah, I knew. Thank God he finally told you. I've been pestering him for weeks."

"Wait. What? Weeks?" Heather felt a surge of emotion so strong she had to walk it off. She strode around the sandy edge of the tiny green oasis. It was so small she had to do laps; there were people out on the water in little boats watching her walk in circles.

"He didn't tell you that bit, huh?" Chris didn't sound pleased. "What did he do, pretend that it only just happened?"

"He didn't tell me anything. Mom spilled."

"Mom? So, he finally told her?"

"No." Heather picked up the pace, increasingly sure that what she was feeling was fury. "I think she found out on Facebook."

Chris swore. "I didn't know they'd put it on Facebook."

"Dad hasn't told me a thing. And apparently you didn't tell me anything either."

It wasn't the first time. Keeping Dad's secrets had kept them walled off from each other, and from Mom.

There was a deep, awkward silence. "No. Well. He asked me not to."

"Right. Well, if Dad asks you not to say anything, I guess you don't. Just like you always have."

"That's a low blow," Chris protested. "I mean, you knew he was cheating too, Heather. I'm not the only one who kept his secrets."

Heather felt like throwing up. The nervous energy bled out of her, and she sat in the sand like a dropped sack. "He's such a dick," she said weakly.

"Yeah," Chris sighed.

"So, who is it? The one he left Mom for?"

"He didn't leave Mom, Heather. She kicked him out."

"He was screwing around—it's the same difference."

"No, it's not. If it were up to him, he'd still be living at home, messing around. Ah, I really don't give a shit enough to argue the point. Frankly, I find our parents tiresome. So, ask me what you want to know and let's get this out of our system and moveon."

That was so like Chris. He had an ability to draw a line under things and move on. Heather didn't think she had the same gene.

"I assume it's same one? The one Mom found out about?" She pulled her legs up, curling into a ball and resting her forehead on her knees. Please don't let it be the same one. Please don't let it be the woman with the lip fillers and the shiny long hair. Please not the one who he'd brought to Chicago. Please.

"Yeah, Heaths, you know very well it's the same one. Her name's Megan. Meg."

Call me Meg, the woman had said, looking around Heather's awful little studio apartment, the one that had a view of a brick wall. Dad had visited the month before Heather had decided to move. And he'd brought his "friend." It wasn't the first "friend" Heather had met, and she'd assumed it wouldn't be the last. "I should have told Mom," Heather said weakly. "Why didn't I tell Mom?"

Why hadn't she ever told Mom? If she'd told her, maybe Mom wouldn't have wasted so much of her life on him.

"Where do I even start?" Chris sighed. "Because she didn't want to know? Because telling her would have meant delivering the blow? Because this was their pattern, and it was just how it was? Who thought they'd actually break up?"

Memories were lodged deep in Heather's body.

Mom lying on the stairs, not crying so much as keening, her face all screwed up, terrifying in her distress: Heather being the one to comfort her, to pick up the pieces, even though her own heart felt like someone had smashed it to pieces. Dad's utter inability to stop cheating, or to leave. Feeling that home was made of paper and might blow away at any moment. The endless carousel of drama her parents generated, fighting and making up; him lying, her looking the other way. Her needing, him rejecting. And Heather and Chris standing sentinel, guarding secrets, and waiting for the axe to fall. It was exhausting.

Sometimes Heather thought the nights her parents weren't fighting were worse than the nights they were. The threat of the inevitable was terrible. The echoing memory of the hurt they inflicted on each other, the way she and Chris were always collateral damage, the bone-deep knowledge of impending loss, that was always more real than any fleeting peace. Knowing she'd have to keep it together and be the grown-up.

"Tell me what you know," Heather said flatly to her brother.

And Chris did. Because he was the only other person in the world who understood. "This time is different. Meg's been around for years. Usually he moves on, you know? He and Mom blow up and argue about it, he promises to turn over a new leaf, he's good for a while, and then there's another woman. But Meg's been around for too long to be just a side thing. Hell, Heaths, this was always inevitable. Didn't I always say it?"

"Yeah." He had. Ever since they were in high school, Chris had been sure this was in the cards, that eventually Dad would find a woman who filled the black hole at the center of him better than Mom did. Because Mom was sick and tired of it, bitter and spiky and no longer adoring. And if there was one thing Dad needed, it was adoration.

"Dad needs to be the center, you know that," Chris sighed.

Even his absence was the center of everything, Heather thought, her stomach aching. Heather was his daughter, not his lover, but she was still one of his girls. She remembered the trips to the movies, just the two of them, him happily seeing every teen film she chose, buying her popcorn and Milk Duds, putting an arm around her as they walked back to the car. And when they drove home, he'd sing along to the radio, serenading her. In those moments she never doubted his love for her—it was the best feeling in the world. Dad was the one to take her to her first concert (Taylor Swift, amazing) and to buy her a ticket to her most recent (Harry Styles, even more amazing), and he'd given her guitar lessons, adjusting her fingers on the strings patiently. Music wasn't her thing, but he'd never shown an inch of disappointment in her. Not once. When they were together, he showered her with love. And it was so addictive that the withdrawal she felt when she didn't get it was incapacitating.

Dad would always be her absent center, Heather thought helplessly.

"And you said he gave Meg Nonna's ring?" Heather felt a pang at the thought of her grandmother's sweet pavé diamond ring on Meg's finger. Meg had never even met Nonna. While Mom had sat with her through her last days, for God's sake. It wasn't fair.

"Yeah."

"I guess they posted that on Facebook too," Heather said grimly. "Jesus. Poor Mom. No wonder she's been a maniac."

Chris sighed. "So Peru's not helping?"

"Not so far."

"Look, Heaths, I love you, but you need to disengage. Mom's not your responsibility. I know when we were kids you got her through tough times, but she's a grown adult and can look after herself. You can choose not to do it anymore."

"Fine for you to say. You're home in the States, not hopping about a foreign country with her on a stupid red bus." Heather rubbed her forehead against her knees, her gaze fixed on the sand between her feet. "And I had disengaged before Bon sprung this trip on me."

Chris laughed. "Nooooooooo. Oh no, you hadn't. You avoided. You're great at avoidance. But you certainly hadn't disengaged."

"Well, how do I do that, smart-ass? Have you managed to do it?"

"Better than you." He paused. "But you're right, that's easy to say when I'm a thousand miles away."

"Three and a half thousand miles," Heather corrected.

"Well, there you go. You just need to put three and a half thousand miles between yourself and Mom."

Heather groaned. "We're going to have to go to Dad's wedding, aren't we?"

"You don't have to do anything, Heather. You're a grown-ass adult."

"Well, will you go?"

"Probably. But only so I can drink my share of the inheritance. He owes me."

"This is so screwed."

"Look on the bright side: he hasn't told you yet. Maybe he won't tell you until after he's married to her, and you can skip the wedding entirely."

Heather felt hot tears prickle at the very thought of it. Chris had always escaped the partisanship, because Mom didn't confide in him in the same way she did with Heather. As a result, Dad tended to think Heather was in Mom's camp. So, it was entirely possible Dad would invite Chris to his wedding, but not Heather . . .

"At least he didn't marry that Pilates instructor. Remember her?" Chris was trying to cheer her up, in his usual dry way.

"Oh God, the Pilates instructor." Heather rubbed her tears away. "The one who spoke like a fitspo meme. Hashtag live your best life with someone else's husband."

"Or Miss Bolt. Imagine if he'd married Miss Bolt!"

Heather laughed despite herself. Miss Bolt had been Chris's freshman homeroom teacher. Dad had attended a lot of parent-teacher meetings that year.

"Dad is an emotional black hole, Heather. His gravitational pull can suck you in. Mom has spent her whole life risking an event horizon—don't you do it too. Let him be a black hole for someone else." Chris sounded tired.

"It's just hard, you know."

"That's what he said."

"Ew, Chris! That's so gross." But as usual he'd made her laugh.

"So, is this the epic gossip you wanted to tell me? That Dad's taking vows to cheat on someone other than Mom?"

"Oh. Noooooo. There's something else."

"Is Mom getting married too? Because nothing would surprise me anymore."

"Wanna bet?" It was a bet he would have lost, because Chris was just as floored as she'd been to hear about Jimmy Keays.

"What is wrong with our family?" he groaned.

"Too much to start listing."

"Right. Well, how about I call Mom right now, to take the heat off you for a bit? I imagine she's in a state, dealing with Dad and you finding all this out."

"You'd do that for me? Call her?"

"I would. On one condition: you promise me you won't be like the other women in our family. No shit men. You promise?"

"I promise," Heather said fervently.

"That includes Shawn. I don't like him, and I haven't even met him."

"One hundred percent."

"And, Heaths?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry Dad hasn't told you. That really sucks."

Heather scrubbed at her eyes. She didn't want to cry in public.

"And," he said softly, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you either."

* * *

"We're not staying," Bon told Heather when she reached the lobby of their hotel.

Heather had walked the tiny town for a good hour, hoping that between them, Bon and her brother could calm Mom's eruption. "What?"

Bon was surrounded by their bags. "I know you're probably keen to see Huacachina, but we're going." She checked the time on her phone screen. "Come on, help me get the luggage out before the Hop comes. I called them and told them we'll take the afternoon bus to Nazca."

Nazca. Heather's heart jumped. That's where Romeo was.

"Are we leaving Mom behind?" Heather asked, jangling with feelings.

"No, she's coming. She's just in the bathroom trying to find a way to look like she hasn't just cried her face off. Now, come on, grab some bags."

"Do you think we could have a day on this trip that isn't full of drama?" Heather begged, as she followed Bon, weighed down by packs and wheeling her suitcase. "And why exactly are we running off to Nazca already?"

"Because it's time for plan B!"

Heather dumped the packs under the awning outside the hotel. She had a sinking feeling. "And what, exactly, is plan B?"

"Plan B is where we knock some joy into your mother."

Heather shook her head. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

"By reminding her that she's still alive, damn it."

"Right. Well, if Peru hasn't done it, what on earth do you think will?"

Bon grinned.

"Oh no." Heather knew that look. "If this is about what I think it's about, you can forget it."

"In times of crisis you need life," Bon exclaimed. "Life, and love, and a good, sweet—"

"Okay, stop right there." Heather held a hand up.

"It's a fact. Trust me, I've been through it enough times."

"I don't think you and Mom are the same," Heather said tactfully. "Mom is a one-man woman."

"Well, she's a one-man woman who picked the wrong man and is now a no-man woman." Bon was blunt. "So, what's she got to lose?"

"Her dignity?" Heather suggested.

"Ha. What dignity? Her husband is posting all over Facebook about how he's never been in love before he met his latest fling. What do you think that does to a girl's dignity?"

"Maybe she doesn't need or want a man right now."

Bon considered that. Then she shrugged. "It's all I've got left."

Heather groaned. "Please don't."

"You'll change your mind when you see what plan B is."

Heather doubted it, but she couldn't be bothered arguing. She was utterly spent. It was a familiar feeling from childhood; you reached this point where you'd fried your emotional nerve endings. Shorted out. Gone blank.

She decided that she'd climb on the bus and just leave Bon toit.

Romeo was in Nazca . . .

A horrible thought occurred to her. He'd said his farewells, he'd told her he was meeting someone in Nazca . . . All of a sudden Heather was certain it was a woman. It made her feel sick to think about. He was meeting a woman, and she was going to show up like a creepy stalker. Like Shawn. Oh my God, she was going to be Shawn.

"Here she comes," Bon hissed. "Act normal."

"The word normal doesn't belong in the context of our family," Heather hissed back as Mom emerged from the hotel, her face shiny and red behind her sunglasses. She was slump shouldered and exhausted.

"We might need to give her a makeover when we get there," Bon murmured. "I wonder if they have a day spa or a salon . . ."

Heather ignored her. "Hey, Mom." She gave her mom a hug as she joined them by the luggage. "How are you feeling?" She'd lapsed back into false cheer and caretaking, she thought, feeling like she was watching herself from a great distance. Like she wasn't suffering too.

"Chris called," Mom sighed. "He said he told you the details. He said you didn't know either."

Abruptly, Heather realized that she was going to cry. It felt like it came out of nowhere, but of course it hadn't. She'd been pressing the tears down for the last couple of hours. She swallowed hard. "Yes," she said, her choked voice giving her away.

"Oh, honey," Mom said, squeezing her tighter.

Heather scrunched her eyes closed. She wanted her mom's sympathy so much it was a physical pain. She leaned into the hug.

"I can't believe he'd treat his own daughter like this." Mom was vicious with disgust.

Oh no. No. Heather didn't want to be turned into a weapon. She pulled away.

"Darling. None of this is your fault," Mom said fiercely.

"I didn't think it was," she snapped. Honestly. Heather took a deep breath. "Bon has a plan to cheer you up," she said quietly.

Bon wasn't pleased. She swatted Heather warningly on the butt. And not gently.

"It's supposed to be a surprise," Heather continued, ignoring Bon's pique. "But I told her that you might want to have something to look forward to on the drive."

"Heather!" Bon warned. "I want it to stay a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," Mom reminded her. "You know that. I get enough of them with Nick."

"We want to treat you to a spa day when we get to Nazca." Heather kept her voice even, ignoring the latest barb about her father. "Bon thought you could use some pampering."

"A spa day?" Mom blinked. "Do you think there'll be one in Nazca? It's remote, isn't it?"

"Since there seems to be a five-star hotel in every corner of this country, yes," Heather said. "Besides, it's a small city, not the complete middle of nowhere."

"You'll be a new woman, Sandra," Bon declared, "after a massage and a facial."

"What did I do to deserve you both?" Mom was overcome.

"Very nicely done," Bon whispered once Mom had hugged and kissed the life out of her and had greeted the arriving Peru Hop bus with a renewed smile. "I thought you were going to rat me out."

"I heartily approve of the spa idea," Heather whispered back. "It's the rest of the plan I don't like."

"You will. Once you see it in action." Bon was smug as she followed Mom onto the red bus.

"I doubt it."

The bus wasn't full, so they each took a row to themselves. Heather watched as Bon unpacked Junior's box and buckled him into the seat next to her. Heather didn't think she'd ever get used to the way Bon carried her dead husband around.

Heather put her headphones on, threw a playlist on shuffle, and tried to find her equilibrium. This was why she'd moved to Chicago, she reminded herself. To get away from her family. She loved them best from a distance; with a little space, she could keep herself on an even keel. She remembered what one of the e-therapists told her: you're on your raft, they're on their rafts; you're tethered together, but separate. When you hit whitewater and you feel like they'll smash you against the rocks, loosen that tether. You're responsible for keeping your raft afloat; that's your task; they're responsible for their own rafts and, in calm water, you can bring them close again, when there's no risk to your safety.

Heather visualized it. She was on her raft. And as the music curled around her, forming a private bubble, she felt herself slide out of the whitewater and along the tumbling stream. She was still afloat, she reminded herself, feeling calmer. Her task was to stay afloat. That was all she had to do.

Her mind drifted to Romeo. Heather rested her head against the window, feeling the bus's vibrations travel through her. She bet he was rafting on calm waters. With another woman tethered to him.