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I glanced up and down the sidewalk. A street vendor was selling tacos on the corner, and the savory smell of meat and corn tortillas wafted toward me. I pictured my mother pacing the kitchen, which she always did when she was upset.
“His family is insane,” she pointed out.
“He’s distanced himself from them.”
“And they’ve cut him off. That doesn’t mean the effects will go away. I just don’t understand. You and Will? Are you acting out because of your dad and me?”
“Mom, I’m twenty-three. I’m not acting out. This is my life.”
She let out a long sigh. “Why him?”
I closed my eyes. “Because we love each other.”
“Oh, Andie.” Sympathy warmed her voice. I wondered how my mom and my aunt had turned out so differently. “There are a hundred reasons why this is a terrible idea.”
“Name them for me, Mom. Because I promise, I’ve thought of them all.”
“There are other men out there. Men who come without complications.”
“Really? Who comes without complications?”
She laughed reluctantly. “You have a point. But if you pursue a relationship with Will, you have a very hard road ahead of you.”
“I’m not afraid.”
We said “goodbye” and “I love you.”
The truth was out.
I sat down on a bench, took a notebook from my embroidered purse, and began to write. After five dry years, the words started to come. Slowly at first, then in spurts, and finally picking up the pace to a waterfall.
For the first time since I was eighteen, I shed the fear of being watched, tracked, followed, and wrote from the heart. I wrote about Will’s world and the woods behind my house. I wrote what I had to say.
My mother called up my aunt and uncle to yell at them about my job, which accomplished nothing. But it made me feel better to know that my mom had my back.
Several days later, as Will remained adamant about not returning to his old life, a local gossip column ran a piece about him. About us. William Randolph, scion of the Randolph media empire, had run off with his poor, penniless cousin and been disowned by his father. The scandal! The shame! Meg, who read gossip columns religiously, showed it to us, while Emily tried to brighten the mood by pouring wine to celebrate the announcement.
“Do you think Spence and Pax did this?” I murmured.
Will shook his head. “I trust them. But I wouldn’t put it past my parents.”
In a strange way, it was a relief. I’d been afraid for so long of this secret coming out. Afraid of the family influence, their power over my job, their power over Will himself. Now all of that had shattered. Light streamed in. We could see the sky. We could breathe.
At Will’s new job, he worked harder than he’d ever worked in his life. His late nights matched mine — his at the office, mine at home, as I pounded out essays to pitch to publications as a freelance writer.
Eventually, I found a job at a new small press that was beneath the notice of any media titans. The pay was lower, but the duties were lighter, giving me time to keep writing in the evenings.
When I sold my first essay, Will insisted on buying a bottle of champagne.
The chilled liquid fizzed over my naked skin in the bathtub. Will’s hot tongue followed. As he pulled me down to share, the icy prickle brought back the first time we’d done this, at a fancy hotel a year ago, sneaking around with no sense of a future.
Now, we were in our own apartment.
As soon as we could afford it, we’d moved out of the apartment with Meg and Emily into our own place. It was small and cozy, and I knew it was an adjustment for Will, a far cry from the luxurious apartment that his parents had set up for him after graduation.
But it was ours.
Inside its walls, we could do anything we wanted.
