I cross my arms in front of my chest. The edge of the seat belt rubs uncomfortably against a raw spot on my wrist. “I’m busy. The coursework is demanding.”

Which is true, and yet not true. I cleared a few days to visit Jonah in Scotland. If I wanted to get back to New Orleans more often, I could.

Yes, I’m the most emotionally honest member of my family, but that’s not saying much.

Chloe actually laughs at me. “Is your ‘coursework’ the reason you didn’t come see us the last time you were in New Orleans?”

“Chloe—”

“No, tell me. I want to know. You used to like me. I remember how we used to play, and how I put your hair in curlers for you—” Her voice has become hoarse, and I realize she’s on the verge of tears. “When did you start hating me?”

“I don’t hate you. You’re my sister, Chloe. I love you.”

“Then why don’t you ever come home?”

Something inside me snaps. “You know why!”

For a few moments we drive along in silence; the only sound is Rihanna on the radio. Then Chloe shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re still hung up on Anthony after all these years.”

I swear to God, right now I could put my fist through the windshield. “Never, ever have I been ‘hung up’ on Anthony.”

“Then why did you make up all those vicious stories about him?”

“They weren’t stories.”

This is as close as Chloe and I have come to discussing what Anthony did since the week before her wedding, when I made the mistake of bringing it up. I thought I might be able to talk her out of making the worst mistake of her life. No such luck. Even before I’d gotten the whole story out of my mouth, she became even more convinced that I was a liar, one who had it out for her beloved Anthony.

Maybe I should try again, this moment. Simply start with Anthony and me on the sofa, Titanic on the TV, the beer can in his hand. Tell her every detail, from the way he yanked down my leggings to the way he called me a “good girl” for simply lying there and crying. Would she recognize any of that? Or does Anthony save his cruelty for women who aren’t his wife?

Down deep, though, I know it will do no good. Chloe believes Anthony. She doesn’t believe me. Second verse, same as the first.

“You’re right,” Chloe finally says as she parks on the street in front of our house; she’s so ready to get me out of her car she doesn’t even bother with the driveway. “We’re all upset and tired today. Let’s forget about this.”

Everyone else in my family chooses to forget. I’m the one cursed to remember.

The weight settles over me. I feel ungrateful, childish, for caring about anything else after I just found out Dad’s going to make it—but even that happiness doesn’t shield me from the hard truths: My family remains as toxic as it ever was. Anthony will be waiting for me back at the house with a grin on his face, and for Libby’s sake, I will have to be polite to my rapist, again. My exhaustion and my sorrow bear down on me at the same time, and suddenly I feel too heavy and sad to even get out of the car.

But there’s Libby, waving both arms as she runs around in the yard. “Aunt Vivi! Come and swing with me!”

So I get out. When I open the car door, it bumps the white carriage stone. Sure enough, there’s a small scuff on the golden surface of Chloe’s luxury car. She breathes out sharply through her nose but says nothing. Instead she jams her hands into the pockets of her quilted vest and heads straight up the walk, her golden hair swinging behind her as she goes. Even at a difficult time like this, her jeans are neatly pressed, her boots match her Prada bag, and her nails are perfect. Chloe doesn’t let anything touch her. Her shell is her shield.

As much as I want to despise her for that, I envy it, too. I could use a shield around now.

I follow her up the path to my parents’ front door. Anthony leans against one of the tall columns in front, watching. Probably Chloe thinks he’s looking at their daughter, but he’s looking at me. His smile always makes me remember the things he said that night.

You don’t want them to catch us, do you?

Good girl.

My steps falter. Struggling for composure, I turn toward Libby instead. She’s running in circles around the oak tree in the front yard, and I try to summon the energy to chase her. Before I can, though, she stops and points. “Who’s that?”

I lift my head to see a taxicab pulling off, and Jonah standing on the sidewalk, his dark suitcase by his feet.

It’s not as if I forgot he was coming. But until this moment, I didn’t realize how badly I wanted him to be here. How much I needed him. At this moment, I feel safe—from Anthony, from my screwed-up family, even from the ghosts in my own mind. It’s as if I had been drowning until this moment, when I finally broke the surface and breathed in fresh air.

Jonah came here for me.

I take one step toward him, another, and then I’m running. Jonah steps through the gate in time to catch me in his arms. I don’t speak. I don’t cry. I just let him hold me. It’s enough.

Thirty

Jonah whispers in my ear, “Your dad?”

My breath catches in my throat, but I manage to answer. “He made it through. He’ll be okay.”

“Good.” Jonah brushes my hair back, kisses my forehead. “That’s good.”

I nod as I snuggle further into his embrace. Even the scent of his skin comforts me. Jonah’s arms are my fortress. His fingers brush against my cheek, and I turn my head to kiss them lightly.

Libby’s voice calls out again, even louder. “Aunt Vivi, who is that? Do you know him?”

That makes me laugh, and I even see Jonah smile. “Of course I know him, sweetie. This is my friend Jonah.”

“Hi,” Jonah says. Apparently he reserves his hellos for little children. But I can’t resent it, not when I hear how gently he speaks to her. “I came to visit Vivienne. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

Obviously Libby likes being asked her opinion on this subject. Her chubby little face becomes grave. “It’s all right, but you have to help me color later.”

Jonah gets a deer-in-the-headlights look. I whisper, “A little rusty with your Crayolas?”

“You’re the artist,” he says.

It’s only a small joke. But it’s such a relief to smile, to let everything else fade into the background for a moment.

On the porch stand Anthony, hands in his pockets, and Chloe, one arm slung possessively around her husband’s shoulders. Neither of them seems ready to welcome Jonah with open arms—or to welcome him at all. I glance up at Jonah. “Ready to run the gauntlet?”

He picks up his suitcase and takes my hand. “I’ve walked through a lava field,” he says. “I think I can handle this.”

•   •   •

“Well,” Chloe says as I show Jonah inside. “I hardly expected you to bring a date for the occasion, Vivienne.”

“I’m here for moral support.” Jonah holds out his hand. “Jonah Marks.”

Sometimes “Southern hospitality” is just another term for hypocrisy. But those good manners are carved into Chloe so deeply that she can’t resist them. With a small, pursed smile, she says, “Chloe Charles Whedon. This is my husband, Anthony, and our daughter, Olivia.”

“Call me Libby.” Already Libby thinks she’s made a conquest. “Are you Aunt Vivi’s boyfriend?”

“You’d have to ask your aunt about that.” He looks away from her just long enough to smile at me.

Anthony steps forward, almost a swagger. “What line are you in, Jonah? In soybeans, myself.”

Chloe chimes in, “He’s so modest. Anthony would never tell you his family runs the largest soybean farms in Tennessee and Mississippi.”