Thank You for Listening(70)

She sat up. “What time is it?” She fumbled in her pocket.

“Probably ten or so,” Nick answered, but Sewanee already had her phone out. 10:30. 10:30! She’d been crying for, what, an hour? She stood up, shakily, her hand clinging to Nick’s shoulder. “I have to make a call.”

“Of course.” He probably thought she needed to call family, and she did. She did. But first, this.

She moved away from him then, about twenty feet. She pulled up her text chain with Brock and started typing. I’m so sorry. You won’t believe this, but a family 911 . . . She paused. Deleted. Started again. I had an emergency and I’m so sorry for the super late notice but I won’t be able to Everything felt inadequate. She owed him more than a text. He’d have questions and she wanted to be able to answer them. She wanted to hear his voice and, more importantly, she wanted him to hear hers. To hear how sorry she was. That she wasn’t getting cold feet. That it was a matter of timing, nothing else. After all these months, she finally wanted to talk to him.

So, she took a steadying breath, tapped his name, and pressed the phone icon. She brought it to her ear.

First ring.

Second ring.

There was a ring in the garden, too.

Third ring.

Again, in the garden. Annoying.

She put a finger in her ear and looked around. She saw Nick stand up, turn away from her, and answer his phone.

In her phone, Brock finally picked up. “Sarah?” That familiar richness, that burned caramel, of eighty thousand downloads and counting.

Relieved, Sewanee said, “Yes, hi.”

“Well, hello.” His voice came through her phone.

And, also, simultaneously, across the night air.

He continued, “I’m glad you called. I might be a bit late.”

His voice was in stereo.

“Something unexpected came up. I’ll explain when I see you.”

Again, stereo.

Her eye stayed glued to Nick’s back. “Did you hear me?”

A word finally dropped from her mouth. “Brock?”

Again. Stereo: “Yes?”

Immediately, she said, into the phone, “Nick?”

Automatically, he answered, into the phone, “Yes?”

Silence. Deafening silence.

Then she shouted, finally, across the courtyard, “What the fuck?”





Chapter Twelve


“The Reckoning”

NICK SPUN AROUND.

They stared at each other.

They lowered their phones. Or, more accurately, their phones lowered themselves.

Nick was the first to speak. What he said was, “Holy mother of shite.”

Sewanee had a whole dump truck of things to say, but the hydraulics were broken.

So Nick said, again, “Holy mother of shite!”

Then he grinned. He grinned and then he threw back his head and he hooted. He clasped his hands in front of his chest and laughed. He grabbed his head and spun around and did a little jig.

Then he moved toward her, his eyes twinkling like Christmas morning. Like the gift of his dreams lay unwrapped at his feet.

She stepped back.

Way back.

He froze.

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, a dog guarding a bone.

Nick’s smile faded slightly. “What?”

“What?” she said, incredulously. “What?!” she said, more incredulously. “Who are you?”

Sewanee watched him attempt to banish the smile, to give the circumstance the sobriety she needed. It only made him look like he’d licked a sour ball. “I’m me. Nick!” He couldn’t do it. The smile came back with a vengeance. And a laugh for good measure. “Don’t you see how incredible–”

Her finger shot up. “Wait. Stop. Questions.”

His arms went out. “I’m all yours.”

Sewanee took a breath. “June French’s nephew?”

“Yes!”

“And?”

He nodded. Once. “Yes. I am also Brock McNight.” He said it in Brock’s voice.

“What.”

He said it again, and again in Brock’s voice. “I am also Brock Mc–”

“No, no, no, no, no, no don’t do that.”

“All right.” His arms lifted, reaching toward her. “And you’re Sewanee Chester. And Sarah Westholme.” It wasn’t a question. “Fantastic. Nice to meet both of you.” He gestured at the bench, stiffly, like his arm didn’t belong to him. “Shall we sit?”

She didn’t move.

“Or we could stand. Standing is good.” He watched her, waiting for a signal.

She sat.

Nick placed himself carefully at the other end. He pointed at the large space between them. “Now there’s room for all four of us.” At her silence, he said, “Right, too soon.”

“Could have been ‘a wee bit’ more honest, too?” she said, tightly.

He shook his head lightly. “Yes, let’s clear everything up. One: I don’t work for a venture capital firm. That’s my dad, my biological dad, he does that.”

“And the accent?”

“Well.” He spoke the next words with a stronger burr. “I do tend to thicken it up a bit when I’m looking to meet someone. Women do love a good accent, you know.”