Wherever She Goes(10)

“Are you sure? I don’t remember buying a blue dress. Now, there was a pink one . . .”

“Pink? Nooo.” Her face screws up.

“Oh, I’m sure it was pink. Bright, bright pink.”

I continue teasing Charlotte as I lead her inside. The distraction works right up to the moment where I hug her goodbye and her arms death-grip my neck, soft face pressed against my cheek.

I swallow. Don’t feel guilty. The moment you leave, she’s fine. You know that.

“Tomorrow,” I say, as the daycare worker takes Charlotte’s hand. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow for the princess tea. Daddy said you can wear your dress all day.”

Charlotte nods and lets the worker lead her away. With each step, she glances over her shoulder, puppy eyes finding me.

She will be fine. I remember the first time I brought her, when she clung and cried. I got as far as the door before guilt forced me back. I think that might have been the one thing that could have sent me back to Paul, begging for reconciliation. I’d wanted to be a stay-at-home mom until Charlotte was in school. If she suffered because I left, it’d have been a reason to go home.

No, let’s be honest. It’d have been an excuse. A chance to say I made a mistake and beg Paul for another chance.

That first day, I’d run back into the daycare, ready to scoop her up and take her home . . . and instead found her happily playing with a little boy, already chattering away.

So I know now she will be fine. That doesn’t mean I can turn and walk away while she’s in sight. Every time I bring her, I stand here, and I suffer those sad eyes, and I remind myself that this was my choice.

I wait until she’s gone. Then I hurry back into the hall.





Chapter Seven





I’m at work, in the central library, a gorgeous period building where every whisper echoes under the domed ceiling. When my phone vibrates with an incoming text, I swear people in the stacks jump and spin, as if a swarm of bees is launching an attack from the circulation desk.

The text is from Paul. I don’t check it, just tuck the phone away. My supervisor, Ingrid, looks over, her long face drooping with disapproval.

“Sorry,” I say, and continue checking in returned books.

With a sniff, she swoops from behind the library desk and trills “Can I help you find something?” to a hovering patron.

I texted Ingrid to say I’d be a few minutes late. Texted from the first red light . . . and then glanced up to see a cruiser right beside me, the officer staring my way. I dropped the phone so fast it fell between the seats, and I spent three extra minutes in the library parking lot fishing it out.

I did not, however, get a ticket, thank God. That would have been the capper to my morning. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be my first traffic violation. That’s actually how I met Paul. I’d worked in the ground-floor bookstore of his law firm’s offices, and he’d seen me get a ticket out front. He’d suggested I fight it. It became a cute “how we met” story.

He’s a lawyer . . . and I needed one. Ha-ha.

As it turned out, that’s also the story of our marriage. The competent professional and his screwup bride.

My running-late text hasn’t cut me any slack with Ingrid. Nothing does, ever since she found out I’m a noncustodial parent.

“How does a mother lose custody of her child?” I heard her whisper to Nancy, another librarian. “Everyone knows the courts favor the mom, no matter what.”

There hasn’t been a court hearing. I don’t explain that to Ingrid. It would only lead to a bigger question: What kind of mom voluntarily gives up her daughter?

A good mother, I thought. Mature and fair.

Or stupid. Naive and unbelievably stupid.

My phone vibrates, reminding me of that waiting text.

Ten feet away, Ingrid still hears it. Before I can apologize, she waves in annoyance.

“Take your break,” she says. “And leave that in the staff room.”



As I close the door to the tiny staff room, the smell of stale leftovers envelops me. I make a coffee to cover the stink as I check the text from Paul. It’s nothing more than a checkin, making sure all went well this morning.

I send back a thumbs-up. Then I pause. Pause. Deep breath as I send another text.

Me: Breakfast would have been OK. Just caught me off guard. Sorry if it sounded like I was hesitating.

He sends his own thumbs-up, and I spend way too long staring at that, trying to interpret it. Paul is not an emoji guy. I’m actually surprised he knows where to find them on his phone. Is he saying it’s fine, and he understands, or . . .

I rub my eyes. Stop, Aubrey. It’s an emoji, not the Enigma code. Just stop.

I set a timer on my phone, so I won’t linger past my break. Then I get to work on the old staff room computer, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I run a few lines of machine code to cover my virtual footprints.

I’m hacking the police department’s internal email system.

I glance at my phone and imagine saying that to Paul. Imagine the look on his face. There would be, of course, a moment of horror that I’d suggest such a clearly criminal action. But that would last only a moment before he’d laugh, certain I was joking. Hacking? His wife, who had to ask him to install security updates on her laptop?