Trespassing(49)

Bella doesn’t take her wide-eyed glance from him as he talks about her best friend, and she continues to sip the frothy treat.

“So I don’t really know Nini,” he says, “but she drew me a picture once. On my sidewalk with chalk. Do you like to draw with chalk?”

“Nini did that once.”

“Yes. She did.”

They’re staring at each other across the table, each wearing an amused expression.

“So . . .” I should fill this silence, if only to drown the questions in my mind. “How long have you known Tasha?”

“Few years,” he says, while Bella interjects: “Nini’s seven.”

One corner of his mouth twitches up with a smile. “I guess she is seven, but I met her only a few years ago.”

“Tasha’s daughter . . .” I hedge to see if he fills in the blanks.

He nods. “Good-looking kid.”

“Her name is Nini?”

“Mimi, maybe?” He shrugs. “I don’t . . . the kid . . . I don’t have much occasion to talk with her.” His tongue wets his lips, and he says again, “Good-looking kid.”

It’s apparent to me now that’s all he knows about her. That she’s cute. Why couldn’t someone more observant have been feeding Papa Hemingway, the fattest cat on the planet? Someone who might’ve paid more attention to the children who live—used to live?—at the home I own.

The conversation is a bust if he doesn’t know anything, but I’m in it now. Maybe if I get him talking, he’ll let small details slip, ones he might not realize he knows. I try again: “What do you write?”

“Write?” His hands still. “Oh. Like I said. Not much of anything lately.”

“When you do write, what do you write?”

A waitress approaches with crayons and a paper place mat for Elizabella. “Anything to drink?”

“Rum runner?” Christian asks me.

“Never had one.”

“Or . . .” My neighbor offers me only a split-second glance, as if he can assess my preference simply by looking at me. “Mojito?”

“Never had one of those, either.”

“Really?” His head tilts, as if in sympathy. “Then it’s settled. Two mojitos.”

“Two mojitos,” she repeats. “Ready to order?”

“My daughter will have the three-cheese pasta, but I need a minute.”

“You should try a plate of the conch,” Christian pipes in. “Nothing like the conch fritters in Key West.”

“Okay.” I glance at the menu, but I’m not particularly hungry. Eating has been as much a chore as sleeping lately. A wave of exhaustion hits me full force. My eyes are tired. My feet are tired. Even my little finger is tired. “You know what? The conch sounds good.”

The waitress whisks away, our menus in hand, and a silence lingers in her wake, chewing at the air between us.

I must look tired and haggard, despite the light dusting of powder with which I attempted to hide the bags beneath my eyes before we headed out, despite the quick gloss over my lips. No matter what I do, I can’t hide the fact that I’ve been crying for days, even from someone who doesn’t know what I look like under usual circumstances.

I straighten my wedding band, white gold with channel-set diamonds, and line it up with my engagement ring, which boasts a round diamond just under a carat. I wonder if I should be wearing the set anymore. If I’d stumbled over Micah’s secrets before his plane went down, would I be wearing it still?

I give it a tug again, just to see if it budges, just to see what it feels like to take it off, but it stops at my knuckle. Until I lose the IVF weight, removing my ring is not an option. A thread of relief twines through me. I can’t take it off, and I don’t want to.

Maybe it’s better that he’s gone. I don’t know if I could have divorced someone I love more than life itself.

“How long will you be in town?”

“Oh.” When I invited Christian to join us, I didn’t consider he might want to drag as much information out of me as I hope to pull out of him. “Just until I decide what to do with the house, I guess.”

It isn’t a lie. I do have to decide what to do with it.

“If you’re not careful, this island will swallow you whole.”

“I’m sorry?” In my mind, I see a black hole enveloping Micah and his plane. Wiping him from existence.

“People come for a week. Some live out their stay on the planet here. It’s addictive, this place.”

“I can see that.” I move Elizabella’s drink a bit farther from her reach. She’s diligently coloring her place mat and not paying much attention to things that spill.

“So you might not sell, then.”

I meet his gaze. Green-gray eyes. “Is that what Tasha said? That we might be selling?”

He glances in the direction of my left hand. Perhaps he’s looking at the ring I keep touching. “She mentioned it, yes.”

“Maybe we’ll have to see if the island swallows us.”

“Can I . . .” He massages the scruff on his chin. “This might be out of line. But are you married? Will your husband be joining you? I don’t want to . . . well, it looks bad, maybe. My being here. If he’s meeting you.”