Chapter 8: What the Room Heard When It Was Empty
They left in stages.
The cousins first, then the caterers, then the venue staff.
Two of Nia's friends hesitated near the door and she looked at them and they went.
Diane was the last to move, and she did not go far — she positioned herself just outside the ballroom doors, which did not close all the way.
Mom stayed.
I looked at her and she shook her head once, very slightly.
The way she used to when I was twelve and told her I was fine when I wasn't.
She wasn't going anywhere.
I let it go.
I sat down at the nearest table.
Place settings still perfectly arranged.
Folded napkins.
Untouched water glasses.
Someone's name card in front of me that wasn't mine.
Nia stood across the table.
She didn't sit.
"You lied to me every day for two years," I said.
"By omission."
"Nia."
She pulled out the chair and sat down.
"Yes.
I lied to you every day for two years."
"About your brother.
About my father.
About the money.
About why your mother was writing letters threatening mine."
"Yes."
"Was there anything else?"
She looked at the tablecloth.
Her finger traced the edge of a fold in the linen.
"The first time we ran into each other — at the gallery opening.
That wasn't an accident."
I felt it land.
Dull and heavy, like something settling into the wrong place permanently.
"You arranged it."
"Marcus told me where you'd be.
I went.
I told myself I just wanted to see you.
That I wouldn't approach you." A pause.
"And then I saw you standing there looking at that painting for eleven minutes without moving, and I—" She stopped.
"And you came over anyway."
"Yes."
"So the whole thing.
From the beginning."
"Not the whole thing.
Not once we started.
What happened after that night was real, Michael.
I need you to believe that, even if you believe nothing else."
"I don't know what I believe right now."
She nodded.
She did not argue.
I looked at my mother.
She was seated a few tables away, hands folded in her lap, giving us space while also being close enough to step in.
That was exactly who she had always been.
I had somehow allowed myself to be slowly moved away from that.
"She wrote you two threatening letters," I said to Nia.
"I didn't ask her to write them."
"Did you know she was going to?"
A pause that lasted one second too long.
"I knew she was going to do something," Nia said.
"I didn't ask for details.
I told myself that was different from being involved."
"That's not different."
"I know."
"And today.
Marcus going to her house.
Taking her phone."
"I found out this morning that he was planning to go.
I told him not to.
He went anyway." She looked up.
"I should have called you the moment I found out.
I should have warned you.
I didn't, because I thought — I thought I could still hold it together long enough to get through the ceremony and then figure out the rest." Her voice cracked at the end of that sentence.
Just slightly.
She pressed her lips together.
"That was wrong.
That was the worst thing I did today, and I know it."
A long silence.
"What do you want, Nia?" My voice came out tired.
Not angry.
Just tired.
She looked at me for a long time.
"I want to start over," she said.
"I know that's not a reasonable thing to ask for.
I know I don't have the right to ask for it.
But that's the truth."
"You can't start over with lies in the foundation."
"I know."
"The lies don't disappear because you've named them."
"I know that too."
I stood up from the table.
Walked to the window at the far end of the ballroom.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
The street was wet and reflecting the last of the afternoon light, and everything out there looked ordinary and unaware, which somehow made it worse.
I heard Mom's chair move.
Her footsteps crossed the room and she came to stand beside me, not saying anything, just there.
After a moment, I heard Nia stand up as well.
"Michael," she said from behind me.
"There's one more thing."
I didn't turn around.
"The account," she said.
"The money from your father's estate.
I never spent any of it.
I told my mother I wouldn't." A pause.
"I was going to tell you about it after the wedding.
I know that sounds—"
"It sounds like another version of 'I'll tell you later,'" I said.
"Yes," she said quietly.
"It does."
I kept looking out the window.
"I need time," I said.
"I need you to go home.
I need your mother to go home.
And I need you to give me room to think."
A long silence.
"Okay," Nia said.
Her heels crossed the floor.
The ballroom doors opened and closed.
Mom didn't say anything.
May you like
She just put her hand on my back, between my shoulder blades, the way she used to when I was very young and something had gone wrong and she knew words weren't what I needed yet.
We stood there together while the light outside faded off the wet street.
