Part 26 (1/2)

J a n e t G u r t l e r on until my feet bleed. Maybe walking all the way home, but my b.u.t.t is Velcroed to the cus.h.i.+on.

”Is she here with you? Your mom?”

”No. I came with...friends.” And then, in spite of everything, a tiny smile tugs at my lips. Amy and Adam are friends. Real friends.

And I know, when I return to the hostel, they're going to be there for me. They're going to help me get through this. ”They're at the Stingray Hostel. That's where we're staying.” I should have let them come along.

She nods. ”Are you in college?”

”No. I start my senior year of high school in September.”

We stare at each other.

”I didn't know,” I say, ”that Bob didn't know about me. My mom...” It sounds stupid. I sound stupid. I am so over my head here, it's not even funny. I stand up. ”I should go.”

I have the real story now, and it's certainly not the story I thought it was. I've seen him. But the truth is, you can't leave someone you don't know about.

She scoops up the cat and stands. ”No.” She touches my arm.

”You shouldn't go. Let me talk to Bob for a minute. I'm his wife, by the way. I'll be right back. Sit.” She points at the chair, and as if I'm a puppy in obedience school, my b.u.t.t drops back in the seat. She walks out again, and I hear a low buzz of voices outside the den.

I have no idea what to do. I wring my hands together and glance down at my purse. I want to take out my phone. Tweet this moment. Make it funny, less traumatic. The stupidity of it all. My mom and her lies. Omission is lying. Only bigger. Way bigger.

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e Now I know why she's been frantically texting me. But she let it go too long. Again.

I imagine ways I can turn this horrible, embarra.s.sing encounter into a tweet my followers will enjoy. Camille pops back into the den. Her face is impossible to read. She walks over and sits in the chair beside me. ”How long are you here?” she asks.

”We're leaving Sunday.”

”He's going to want to talk to you, to see you. But...” Her lips press tight and something flashes in her eyes. Anger? ”He's gone for a run.”

I stare at her, blinking. ”Pardon me?”

She sighs. ”He runs when he's stressed. He's pretty overwhelmed.”

She laughs, but the sound is tinged with bitterness. ”I have no idea how long he'll be gone. Could be half an hour. Could be four hours. He does marathons, so he can run a long time.”

”He left?” I shake my head. It makes no sense. I stand up, put my purse over my shoulder, squish my eyebrows together. Bob White just found out he has a daughter so he's leaving to go for a run. It's perfect. Exercise to Bob must equal wine to Mom. He may not have abandoned me when I was a baby, but he certainly did just now.

”Can you leave me some contact info so we can call you later? I know he's going to want to talk to you. He just needs...to process.”

An inappropriate giggle tickles the inside of my nose. Maybe my mom was right to not tell him about me. Maybe he would have run off the first time. It's ridiculous. I'm more than a little freaked out myself, but I'm not running away. ”No,” I tell Camille, and the urge to laugh vanishes.

”Morgan,” Camille says. ”He'll come around.” She walks closer, 173.

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J a n e t G u r t l e r puts her hand on my shoulder. ”This is a big deal. Leaving wasn't the best idea. But this is how he deals, with exercise.” She shakes her head. ”It's a shock after eighteen years. He needs to process it.

Neither one of you is the bad guy here.”

I duck away from her hand and retrace my footsteps toward the front door. She's implying my mom is the bad guy, and that's certainly what every arrow is pointing to. But despite what she's done, despite it all, she's still my mom. How am I going to deal with that? Everything is mixed up. This scenario is so different from anything I imagined or even tried not to imagine, I don't know how to process it.

”Maybe she had a good reason for not telling me about him,” I say to Camille. ”Maybe he would have taken off like this the first time.”

”No. This is different. He's not gone forever. He's gone to think.

Listen, he's not perfect. Who is? But he's not a bad man.”

I hurry toward the front door. She's right behind me. ”The twins'

dad is in their lives. So why did my mom choose not to tell Bob?”

My mom stayed. She raised me without any help. I put my hand on the front door handle.

”There is nothing about Bob that should worry you. I promise you that.” I turn the k.n.o.b. ”This wasn't his fault. Morgan? Can you leave me your number? Please?”

I push the front door, wanting to say no, but I can't. I ramble off my cell number but she doesn't write it down, she only nods.

I wonder how she'll remember, if she'll forget or mess it up. I'm hopeful she will and worried she will at the same time.

”I'm sorry,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes. ”For both of you. He's a good man, Morgan. And you seem like a nice girl.”

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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e ”Thank you,” I manage and close the door behind me. I pull out my phone and write a tweet.

My dad didn't even know I was born.

And then I glance up and stop on the sidewalk when I see what's outside.

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chapter sixteen.

10. Never rely on a backup system.