I can’t think of anything to say, and we ride the rest of the way home in silence.

The house feels festive and cozy inside, a fire roaring in the fireplace. A big Christmas tree fills one corner of the living room, its branches decorated with white string lights and all of our old ornaments, even the gold-painted macaroni ones Nate and I made when we were little. Garlands with burlap ribbon weave through the banister of the staircase, and potted poinsettias are sprinkled throughout the downstairs. My breath catches at the sight of my mother’s porcelain crèche on the front hall table. It hasn’t been displayed at Christmas since she died; I didn’t even know my father had kept it.

“I—did you do all this?” My chest feels full as my eyes meet Nancy’s.

She nods. “I found boxes of these gorgeous ornaments and decorations in the basement. It’s our third Christmas together and your father never mentioned any of this existed!” She lets out a small laugh. “The poinsettias are from Home Depot. On Black Friday you can buy them there for only ninety-nine cents.”

“It looks beautiful,” I say sincerely, because it does. Not tacky, not overdone—simple and elegant and festive, just how my mother used to decorate for Christmas. Nancy also has some of my dad’s recent paintings displayed around the house, as Mom always did. He’s technically retired—he used to say Mom was his muse, and I know he found it hard to continue painting after she died—but his art is still a part of him.

“I love that crèche.” I point to the hallway. “It was my mother’s. But I haven’t seen it in years.”

Nancy holds my gaze for a moment, then blinks. “Do you want some wine?”

“Okay.” I slide onto one of the kitchen island’s stools and watch as Nancy uncorks a bottle. The red liquid glugs through the mouth as she pours.

Nancy passes a glass to me, and I take a large sip. The wine is earthy and smooth down my throat.

“Gamay,” Nancy says. “Similar to Pinot Noir.”

“It’s good.”

Nancy looks toward the crèche and exhales. “I can’t imagine how much you must miss her.”

I stare at the countertop, the wine heating my chest.

“It’s gotten easier with time,” I say finally. “But Christmas is always hard.”

“Always.” Nancy gazes into the bowl of her glass. “My mother passed away when I was twenty-seven. Car crash.”

“I didn’t realize it was a car crash.” I look up at her. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Nancy shakes her head. “Hey. Having her for twenty-seven years beats twelve. You got dealt the harder hand, Skye. But I get what you mean about the Christmas thing. I miss my mom so much this time of year. And around her birthday.”

“Yeah, her birthday, too.” I take another sip of wine, feel it loosen my limbs. “I mean, being that young when my mom died, I feel like I remember her less and less. But then I see things like the crèche and…”

“The memory comes rushing back.” Nancy finishes my sentence. “So strongly it’s overwhelming.”

“Exactly. And then I think about how long it’s been, and how much of my life I’ve lived without her, and I just wish—I just wish more than anything that I could call her, you know? Just to check in and get some advice. Especially during a time like this.”

When I see the tears in Nancy’s eyes, I have to blink back my own.

“That’s what I miss most, too. I’m fifty-one years old, and I’ll never stop missing talking to my mother on the phone.” Nancy reaches for the bottle and refills both of our glasses. “I know it’s not the same. Not even close. But why don’t you try me? Maybe I can give you some advice. Tell me how you’re feeling about everything.”

I hesitate. I’ve never had a real heart-to-heart with Nancy before.

“Only if you feel like it,” she adds quickly. “I mean, no pressure.”

“Okay.” I nod and take another sip, feeling suddenly emboldened by the wine, or my stepmother’s emotional disclosure, or some combination of both. “Well, there’s a big part of all this that I haven’t been able to talk about with anyone. Maybe … maybe I could tell you.”

Nancy’s hazel eyes widen gratefully, glassy and red around the rims. “I’m all ears, Skye.”

“But you have to promise not to tell anyone what I’m about to say. That’s the thing … no one can know. Not even my dad. He would want to tell Davis, and Davis can’t know.”

“You have my word. This stays between us.”

I believe her. I take a deep breath, then explain everything. I tell her about Heather Michaels’s history with my mom and Heather’s brother’s death, which Nancy has already heard some of from my father. I tell her about the Moleskine journal and the letter I got in the mail. I even tell her about Max LaPointe and his emails, and how I no longer think they’re from him. I let it all tumble off my chest, and it’s such a relief to share it with someone other than Dr. Salam and Andie that I barely register how strange it is that that person is Nancy.

“Oh, Skye.” Nancy refills my glass for the third time, and I realize that I’m a little drunk. “You know, your dad doesn’t talk much about the year they spent in Langs Valley, but from the little he has said, it’s clear that your mom carried some serious guilt over what happened to Heather’s brother.”

“He was saying the same thing to me a few weeks ago.” I nod. “I had no idea—when Mom was alive, I mean. I just wish I knew what really happened.”

“So does your dad.” Nancy sips her wine. “I’m so sorry you’re dealing with this. It’s impossible to make sense of, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I twist the long stem of the glass with my fingers. “And yet, when it comes to Burke and me, some days I think it’s possible that he really does love me. That the things he said in his letter and in the Moleskine are true. That maybe he can’t tell me about Heather’s involvement because he knows I could use it against him in court, and he doesn’t want to bring her down, too, for the sake of their kids. And I know it sounds crazy because, even if Burke does love me, I could never be with someone who willingly deceived me like that. So none of this should even matter. But it just does.”

Nancy’s face softens, color flushing to the apples of her cheeks, and I realize just how pretty she is. “It’s not crazy, sweetheart. It’s not crazy at all. What’s happened is crazy, but it doesn’t make your emotions any less real. I mean, you love this man, Skye. Don’t you?”

A dull pain presses behind my eyes and forehead. “Of course.”

“And if there’s a chance he loves you, too … well, that’s everything.”

“Maybe, but it’s still not enough. Love isn’t enough. I know that, deep down, but I need to make myself know it. If that makes sense.”

“It does.” Nancy nods. She tops off our glasses, draining the rest of the bottle. I listen to the hum of the dishwasher and wish, for the billionth time, that everything were different.

“You know, I’d been divorced for eleven years when I met your father,” Nancy says after several moments of silence. “I’d been on so many dates—my friends bugged me incessantly to get back out there, and so I did. I dated for years, and I met so many different types of men, and nothing stuck. I’d basically given up hope that I’d ever find love again. When I met your dad, I didn’t want to fall for him. I’d always known I didn’t want to be with a widower, not if he had kids. I didn’t want to be anyone’s stepmom who’d lost their mother. My father got remarried a few years after my mother died, and I hated it. I hated her. It just destroyed me and I couldn’t accept it. And the last thing I wanted was to be that person to anyone else. So I stopped seeing your dad for a while.”

“You did?” I glance at Nancy, surprised. “I didn’t know that. But then … what happened?”

“I was miserable without him because I’d fallen in love with him.” She shrugs. “And I realized that life is tough, and there’s so much we can’t control, so when you can, you’ve got to choose love. Even when it’s the hardest choice, even when it feels absolutely impossible, you’ve got to choose it. You’ve got to keep choosing love and fighting for it, over and over, no matter what. There’s no other way, really.”

Nancy’s words seep into my heart, weighing there. A tear slides down my cheek, catching in the crease of my nose.

“Do you think my dad believes that, too?”

“I have no doubt that he does.” She smiles softly. “Your father’s been through the wringer. He knows all too well that love, regardless of the way it presents itself, is a miracle.”

“Thanks, Nancy.” Her name suddenly feels different on my tongue. I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch to you, I want to tell her, but as I fight the words loose, the back door suddenly slams. A moment later my dad appears in the kitchen, a plastic bag in each hand.