Wherever She Goes(13)

In my car. I’d put it in there last night, so I wouldn’t forget it.

“It’s in my car,” I say. “Which broke down this morning, and I completely forgot to grab my outfit. We’ll head there now. I’ll call the princess tea shop and tell them we’ll be a little late for our reservation.”

“Late?” Charlotte’s eyes widen.

“Or I could just go like this.” I force a smile. “Ever heard of a librarian princess?”

She looks me up and down, and her lower lip quivers.

“Let’s decide on the way,” I say as I boost her up. “We don’t want to be too late, and I’m sure Ms. Lansing has to get home to her kids.” I turn to Gayle. “Thank you, and again, I cannot apologize enough.”

I got two steps when Gayle says, “Aubrey?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you come by cab?”

I nod. “I have an app. I can get one here in a few minutes.”

“And Charlotte?”

I pause.

“Her car seat?”

I only mouth a curse, but Gayle winces as if I shouted the word.

I look around. “The cab company might have . . .”

“Let me drive you,” she says. “My youngest is seven, not quite out of a seat yet, so I have a booster in my car.”

“I . . .”

I want to die. Right now. Just let the pavement open and swallow me.

“Mommy need dress,” Charlotte says. “Princess dress.”

“I . . . I know.”

“No be late.” She shakes her head, curls bouncing.

“I could take her,” Gayle says softly.

My head jerks up.

“I don’t mean to interfere,” she says. “I know you two had this planned for weeks, but you do have a reservation, and you’re already . . .” She clears her throat. “A little late. You can rebook, and I’ll take her today.” She waves down at her outfit. “It’s not exactly a princess dress, but . . .”

But it’s a whole lot closer to it than my outfit: a blouse, dress pants, and flats.

I want to say no. Hell, no. You’ve been dating my husband for three weeks. That doesn’t give you the right to take my daughter to tea. Our tea.

Step off, bitch.

As soon as I think that, I am ashamed. This isn’t a smooth play to win my daughter’s affections. It’s a sensible woman offering a sensible solution.

I bend in front of Charlotte.

“Ms. Lansing is going to be your fellow princess today, okay, baby? I don’t want you to miss tea. I know how much you were looking forward to it.”

That lip quivers even more. “Mommy not come?”

“Mommy will come next time.” I hug her as tight as I can. “Two princess teas with two princess friends. How lucky are you?”

She nods, saying nothing.

“You look so pretty in your dress,” I say.

“Blue like Buttercup’s,” she whispered, gaze down, words almost too soft to hear.

“Blue like Buttercup’s. And do you know what else is blue?” I take off my necklace, a turquoise pendant my dad gave me when I got accepted to MIT. “Mommy’s special necklace.” I fasten it around her neck.

“The perfect finishing touch,” Gayle says.

I get a tiny smile from Charlotte.

“Be sure to get pictures for me, okay? Now hurry, you don’t want to be late.”

Gayle says, “At least let me drop you off somewhere, Aubrey.”

I don’t want her kindness. I want snide remarks and rolled eyes. Because this feels like pity, and it only makes the humiliation that much worse. Even my husband’s new girlfriend doesn’t feel threatened by me.

“I’ve got this,” I say. “I’ll probably . . . walk a bit and grab a coffee, steal a few minutes to do some work. Thank you again. I really do appreciate it.”

I accompany them to Gayle’s car. Like her, it’s nothing showy. A solid, dependable sedan . . . with a price tag triple my annual salary.

I put Charlotte into the booster. Secure it. Double-check. Kiss her cheek. Then I go around the car and fumble for my wallet so I can pay for the tea. Instead, I endure the fresh humiliation of Gayle’s sympathetic smile and assurances that she has it covered.

Don’t even think of paying, Aubrey. You very clearly need that money more than I do.

I thank Gayle again. As the car pulls away, I wave and smile. Then, the moment it turns the corner, I run.

I run as hard and as fast as I can.





Chapter Nine





I don’t drink. That was my father’s crutch, and after his death . . .

No, his suicide. Call it what it was. He got back from Iraq, and I was off at college, too caught up in my life to realize he was in trouble, and no one else gave a damn—suck it up, buttercup—and by the time I realized how bad it’d gotten . . .

Gun to head. Bullet through brain. A note left on the counter. I love you, Bree.

Didn’t love me enough to hang on, did you?

I squeeze my eyes shut. That’s how I felt then. I know better now. I understand that in his depression, he didn’t see me, couldn’t see me. And I didn’t see him. I was busy, and the damned army certainly didn’t help—