Page 67 of The Roads We Follow

“Even honorable people make mistakes, Raegan,” he says. “It’s clear from my mom’s entries that she was struggling with loneliness, and as for Dorian, I can’t imagine being away from home for months at a time is easy on any marriage. The possibility of two people acting out of weakness seems like a viable option I shouldn’t overlook.”

I search his face, hating how logical he sounds about something so insufferable.

“But if he is your father, that would make Tav your...” I can’t say it. I can hardly even think it.

“I know what it would make him.” His voice is resolute as he stares off into the distance. “I didn’t realize how connected Tav’s family was—is—to yours.”

“I told you I’ve known him all my life.”

He nods and drops a pained gaze to my face, to my mouth. “You did.”

I shake my head, hoping to shake off this entire subject. “Let’s keep in mind that this is only speculation at this point. An educated guess. Nothing is confirmed yet. You need to talk to Mama.”

“I know.” He pushes a hand through his hair. “It just feels wrong talking to her before I get the chance to sit down with my dad.”

“I know, but you’re doing your best to navigate a difficult situation. There’s grace for that.” I give his arm a light squeeze before I take a step into the hallway. “I should go.”

I’m halfway down the aisle when he says, “We should exchange numbers. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” I smile and turn back. “We’ve barely been more than a bunk away from each other all week.”

His only answer is a smile, so I rattle off the digits to him before I step from the bus to a busy sidewalk in what looks to be the heart of downtown Wichita. My good humor quickly fades as soon as I duck into the nearest coffee shop and begin to mentally prepare for the conversation ahead. After I order myself an iced white mocha, I pull up the cryptic email I’d sent Chip late last night, informing him I’d be calling with news today.

My nerves take a nose dive. Am I really going to do this? As I study Chip’s simple reply ofCall me anytime, I’ll answer,my phone chimes with an incoming text from my newest contact.

Micah D., bus-driving ex-therapist:

I believe in you, Sunshine. You’ve got this.

I read his text over three times and can’t help but bite the smile from my bottom lip in response to his encouragement. I give his text a thumbs-up in reply and secure a corner table. The second I’m seated, I tap Chip’s contact.

Chip’s phone rings twice.

“Raegan?”

“Hey, Chip. How are you?”

“More than a little curious at your email, to say the least. Hang on just a minute; let me close my office door.” I hear the distinct sound of a door closing in the background and then, “Did you figure out who’s behind it?”

“I believe so, unfortunately,” I say. Cheater Peter’s smug grin comes into focus.

“And by that response, I take it it’s not someone you can negotiate with?” he asks.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’m sorry, I wish there was more I could do to help you.”

I take a deep breath and feel my palms grow slick around the cold disposable cup. Am I actually doing this? I could still back out, still pretend not to know a thing about a secret tell-all when it all hits the fan. And then what? Cower as I watch my already fracturedfamily deal with the aftermath of a scandal I could have assuaged with the mere stroke of my pen? And then I think of Micah’s text:I believe in you.You’ve got this.

“Actually, I think you can help me, Chip.” I wait two heartbeats and then push the rest of the words out. “What if we published a book about my family before the other one hits the shelves?”

There’s a beat of silence before Chips asks, “We as inyouandme?”

“Yes,” I confirm. “Weas in I write a book with exclusive content and eyewitness accounts regarding my mama’s early romance with music and with my father when she met him in the mid ’70s. He was the love of her life, and they were married for forty years when he passed away. I’ve never written nonfiction, but I know romance. It’s what I read and what I love to write. If you think that’s something Fog Harbor would be interested in acquiring, then I’d love for you to be my editor.”

There’s such a long silence that I pull the phone away from my ear to check the connection.

“I’m sorry, I’m just ... wow.” He laughs then, big and full and bright. “I don’t think I could be more shocked if you told me a pterodactyl was about to fly through my office window and deliver the sub sandwich I ordered for lunch.” He clears his throat. “Am I right to assume you’ve reconsidered your position on using a pen name? Because it will be your name as Luella’s daughter that will be the selling point on something like this.”

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