Page 111 of This Beautiful Lie
She burst into giggles and collapsed onto the grass, kicking her feet in the air until George perked his head up to watch her, his tail thumping against the blanket like he was in on the joke. The sound of her laughter lingered, sinking into the quiet places inside me I usually tried to keep locked away.
“You’re good with her,” Trisha said softly, breaking through my thoughts.
I turned around and lifted a brow in her direction. “She makes it easy.”
She tilted her head, watching me for a moment before casually asking, “Do you want kids?”
The question landed heavier than it should have, pressing into old wounds. I looked away, because long ago, a nineteen-year-old girl had convinced me I didn’t deserve a second chance. She’d whispered that if I couldn’t handle motherhood once, I had no right to try again—that my failure was permanent, proof etched into my skin like tattoos.
For years, I believed her. I carried that shame like it was truth, letting it shape every answer, every excuse. I told myself what I always did: that I could barely keep myself alive some days, let alone a child. That some people just weren’t meant to be mothers.
But this time, the words caught in my throat and wouldn’t come out.
Because now, I could see it differently. Maybe it wasn’t as simple as failing or not failing. Maybe it was about circumstances—the choices you make when your back is against the wall, when survival outweighs every other dream. Maybe being nineteen, broke, and alone wasn’t the same thing as being here, now, older, wiser, and with someone who would hold me up if I started to drown.
And for the first time in a long time, I realized my view had shifted. It wasn’t black and white. It never had been.
My throat tightened as I stared down at the grass, swallowing hard against the image that filled my mind—Dean in the yard, sleeves rolled, chasing children across the grass while George bounded after them, Dean’s laugh carrying through the air like something too good to lose. And me, standing at the porch with my arms crossed, smiling so hard it hurt.
The thought nearly undid me.
Trisha must have noticed the shift in my expression because her voice softened. “Vivienne?”
Before I could respond, Emma plopped onto the blanket with a dramatic sigh. “Your dog snores louder than my grandpa.”
Trisha and I both laughed, and the heaviness between us scattered.
We packed up not long after that, heading back toward the lodge. Emma skipped ahead, talking about ice cream before we’d even reached the kitchen. Inside, the cool air hummed with the sound of people moving about, grabbing popsicles from the freezer.
That was when I saw him. A familiar profile. A voice I knew as well as my own.
John.
My heart stuttered, then crashed hard against my ribs. He stood near the counter, deep in conversation with one of Dean’s aunts, his posture alert, watchful, on edge.
For a second, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then panic kicked in, hot and sharp, propelling me forward across the room in a rush.
He turned just as I pulled him into a hug, his expression tight with concern.
“Em,” he muttered under his breath, low enough for only me to hear. “What the hell is going on?”
I forced a bright smile, looping my arms around him before anyone else could hear the panic rattling inside me. “Please,play along,” I whispered quickly, my lips brushing his ear. “I’ll explain everything when we’re alone. Just—please.”
When I pulled back, Vivienne’s smile was already fixed on my face—bright, untouchable, the kind that hid the panic clawing at my ribs.
Dean’s aunt studied us, her brows drawing together. “Oh, Vivienne! Of course,” she said suddenly, her expression easing as if she’d just solved a puzzle. “You’rethe tall brunette he was looking for.” She gave a quick laugh, shaking her head. “When he was asking, he looked so serious, I immediately thought it was some kind of missing person’s case. Had me half ready to call the sheriff.”
My laugh slipped out, light and practiced. I tucked my arm through John’s, the gesture a little too tight. “Martha, this is my brother John. Sometimes he can be a little dramatic.”
Martha chuckled, sounding relieved.
John’s sharp eyes flicked to mine, full of questions I wasn’t ready to answer. “Right,” he said slowly, “Vivienne.” He said the name like he was testing it on his tongue.
I widened my eyes just slightly, the silentpleasehanging in the air between us.
Martha smiled, seemingly oblivious to the underlying tension. “I didn’t realize you were having visitors, Vivienne, I would have had a cabin ready if I’d known.”
“Oh, he’s not?—”
