Blood Sugar(72)

After one of our long sunset runs, when my thighs ached and my heart pounded so hard my thoughts were mercifully drowned out, Roman turned to me. “Can I tell you something?”

I panted, “Well, yeah. You have to now.”

My heart thumped even harder. I was worried and expected the worst. The past year had taught me to always expect the worst, which I hated about my new self. I had turned into a pessimist. Roman saw my expression.

“No, no. It’s not bad. It’s fun. Kind of. It’s stupid. It’s about Jake and Melody, from college. They got divorced a few years ago.”

Those old wounds seemed so shallow to me, so insignificant and superficial compared to the deep wounds I now faced. Perspective and age could not be rushed.

I said, “I’m not shocked.”

He said, “Some leggy pregnant flight attendant showed up at the front door of their Victorian revival, claiming Jake was the father of her unborn baby. He denied, denied, denied. Melody believed him until the woman had the kid, named him Theo, and got a court-ordered DNA test.”

“And . . . ?”

“And the DNA was a match to Jake.”

“Duh.” I took a beat. “But how do you know all this?”

Roman looked sheepish. “Yeah. I’m about to tell you that part. Melody was so furious with him, she wanted all sorts of revenge. So before she officially left him for good, she looked me up and she called me. She said Jake still despised me since I ratted him out in college, and she needed to unleash some rage. Onto my dick.”

“She did not say that.”

“Well, no. Not a direct quote. But it was implied.”

“So . . . ?”

“So I met her in Vegas. And we didn’t leave the hotel suite once all weekend.”

“Ahhhh. You finally got the girl.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, I’m not mad. It’s just amazing to me how given enough time life has a way of working itself out.”

“I wanted so badly to call you! I almost did, literally from the hotel bathroom. I knew you would appreciate the epilogue. But I got scared.”

“Scared of what?”

Roman shrugged. “I guess not knowing if you still hated me was easier than making the call and finding out for sure that you still did.”

I understood. “Schr?dinger’s cat.”

“Smarty-pants.”

I smiled at Roman. And asked, “Did you ever see her again?”

“Fuck no.”

I laughed. My heartbeat was now slow enough to pick up the pace again and race Roman home. Where I would continue to expect the worst.





CHAPTER 49


    JESULA



I had three more days of true freedom ahead of me. It was pouring rain. Miami had beautiful tropical storms that came through almost every afternoon, raging for an hour and then retreating into the sky without a trace like they had never existed at all. I looked out my window and watched as the billowing clouds slowly crept over my roof. And my doorbell rang. I had installed security cameras since my front yard was often vandalized, and reporters and strangers and haters and curious tourists always lingered outside. But I couldn’t imagine who would choose to stand out there in this storm. I looked and saw it was Roman. He wasn’t supposed to be back in Miami until tomorrow. And he hadn’t called to warn me he was coming sooner. Something very bad must have happened. Something so bad he had to tell me in person. Like cancer.

He was soaked, his wet dress shirt clinging to his abs. One of his curls flopped in front of his eye because it was now straightened with the weight of water. Without a word he grabbed me. He picked me up off the floor and spun me around, and raindrops careened off him and hit everything from my grandmother’s tiny clocks to Mr. Cat’s fluttering tail. My pathetic-looking sweatpants and faded T-shirt with no bra were now also soaked. Roman set me down.

He said, “Get dressed. We’ve been summoned to the judge’s chambers.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then why do you seem happy?”

“I’m just a happy guy. Throw on something.” He took inventory of me. “Normal-looking.”

Since most clients paid him $1,000 an hour, and I was now curious, I didn’t want to waste any time. I threw reputable clothes on my body, grabbed my nice but not too flashy purse, and we headed out my purple door.

The judge’s office was extremely masculine. Leather-bound law tomes placed neatly in sturdy bookcases lined one entire wall. The large desk in the center of the small room was burl oak. The throw rug underneath it was drab olive. The desk was covered with enough papers and folders to demonstrate that the judge worked hard, and was arranged in a way that conveyed he respected order. Peeking out from behind a large brass lamp on the corner of the desk was a picture frame. It caught my eye because it was pink, and nothing else in the room was brightly colored. I craned my neck and saw a child’s drawing inside the frame. Clearly cherished, it was the only personal item the judge seemed to have in his office. The drawing read, in multicolored bubble letters, “World’s Best Grandpa.”

The man in fact looked like the world’s best grandpa. When I walked into the room and saw him for the first time, I wanted to sit on his lap and tell him what I wished for for Christmas. Which was to have Jason back and to not have to be in that office at all. The judge had a full head of gray hair and twinkling gray eyes that matched in color. We had that in common. I then saw, sitting in the corner in a mismatched chair clearly brought in to provide enough seating for everyone, Jesula.