![]() Quel soulagement," Peter murmurs, draping his arm around me. No slush," I say, happy to be wearing heels and a light cardigan after months of rubber boots and puffy winter coats. It's one of the many things I admire about Peter-his fine taste coupled with his firm belief that life is too short for unexceptional wine. After several stops and starts, winter finally seems over for good, and the balmy spring night is made warmer by the two bottles of Opus One we downed like water. You can run but you can't hide.īut those words, that night, my secret, are the farthest things from my mind as Peter and I stroll down Bleecker Street following a lingering dinner at Lupa, one of our favorite restaurants in the city. ![]() I should have remembered those words that started it all, on that sweltering night so long ago: Hey, Marian. I never forgot what happened, not for a single day, yet I was also convinced that sometimes, the past really was the past. I didn't even discuss it with my mother, the only person who was there when it all went down, almost as if we took an unspoken vow of silence, willing ourselves to let go, move on. Not to my closest friends in my most intoxicated moments or to my boyfriend Peter in our most intimate ones. ![]() But I truly believed I was the exception to such portents, and never once breathed the smallest mention of my nearly two decadelong secret to anyone. ![]() ![]() That in the end, only the truth will set you free. That they can poison relationships and divide families. ![]()
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