Wherever She Goes(16)

“Don’t pull that. I am not a lawyer here, Aubrey. I’m your—the father of your child, who is calling about that child.”

I keep walking, stocking-footed, into the building hall. “And I disappointed her. Do you think I don’t realize that? Do you think I’m not completely ashamed and humiliated?”

“You don’t need to be. It was . . .” He sighs. “It was a mistake. I understand that. If you need money to fix your car—”

“No.”

I swear he inhales, as if fighting an argument, before he says, calmly, “You are entitled to alimony, Aubrey. You took three years off to raise our child while I worked. My income was our income.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re stubborn. Stubborn and impulsive and absolutely impossible to deal—” He bites off the rest. A moment’s silence as I walk into the parking lot. Then he says, his voice softer, “What’s going on, Bree?”

“I’m having a really crappy week.”

“Maybe, but it’s more than that. Something has that busy brain of yours whirring. What is it?”

“Just . . . work. And I meant it about conveying my thanks again to Gayle.”

“I will. She has photos for me to send. And she got you reservations for tea a week from Sunday. Does that work?”

It does. I originally wanted a Sunday reservation, and was told they were booked up for the next six months. So how did Gayle manage it?

Because she’s the kind of woman who knows how to do things like that, skills I will never possess.

“That’s perfect. Thank you. And yes”—I pop the hood—“I’m sending you a photo of my engine, Paul, because I am stubborn, and if you call me on it, I have to defend myself.”

“You realize I wouldn’t know a broken fan belt from a loose wire, right?” He pauses. “And since when do you know how to fix a car?”

Damn it. I really am distracted.

“I don’t,” I say. “But I can Google the symptoms and narrow down the issue, and apparently, it’s a broken belt. I know Charlie’s in bed, but tomorrow, please give her a kiss for me, and we’ll Skype after dinner.”

“All right. Good night, Aubrey.”



Back in the apartment, I find an online florist and send a small thank-you arrangement to Gayle, at the law firm.

I do appreciate what she’s done, even if it makes me uncomfortable. I should be happy Paul’s new girlfriend isn’t an evil bitch, but somehow, it might have been easier if she were. When he first told me he was seeing someone, I was genuinely happy for him. What I hadn’t realized was that it raised the potential of a scenario I never considered.

A stepmom for Charlotte.

If there ever is such a thing—and there will be, Paul isn’t going to leave that void unfilled—then I want her to be everything Gayle seems to be. Kind, intelligent, and responsible. The perfect partner for Paul. The ideal role model for our daughter.

But where does that leave me?





Chapter Ten





I’ve turned off my alarm—I don’t work Thursdays. My internal drill instructor still wakes me at seven and berates me for sleeping the day away.

While I lie in bed for another twenty minutes, it’s obvious sleep isn’t an option. I decide to make sure my floral delivery for Gayle went through okay. Leaving Paul also meant leaving our joint credit cards. That had turned into a weird game of Mastercard hot potato.

I’d left my card on my nightstand after we had “the talk.” Then two weeks passed, and maybe that was how long it took him to realize I wasn’t coming back. After those two weeks, he mailed the card to me. No note. Just the card.

I returned it, also by mail. He put it into Charlotte’s weekend bag. I left it in Charlotte’s weekend bag. He put it on my passenger seat while I was strapping Charlotte in. I gave up and shredded it. The whole time, we didn’t exchange a single word about the card—just kept silently passing it back and forth.

I have my own card now, but with my lack of credit history, the limit is embarrassingly low, and even a small arrangement of flowers isn’t cheap, so I’m worried the charge might not have gone through. I check, and then I pay off enough to buy a fan belt and try not to reminisce about the days of a platinum Mastercard with a limit that would have paid for a whole new car.

Even back then, though, I only used the card for necessities. Paul used to fret about that. He’d get the statement and say, “You can spend more, Bree.”

“I don’t need to.”

“The card isn’t just for household expenses. We’re sharing a salary. You can buy things you’d like.”

“I’m good.”

His lips would tighten at that, and I’d tease that he should be glad I wasn’t blowing up the card at Lululemon. He’d mutter and walk away, and I never figured out what I’d done wrong.

That had been in our last few months together, when it seemed like nothing I did made him happy. When I felt like an intruder in his house, in his life.

I inhale and flip to the local news. Today’s top headline?

Unidentified Woman’s Body Found in Park.

I scroll past that to see if there’s any more useful news . . . like a missing child. Yet I can’t help skim-reading the article as I scroll. A woman in her early twenties. Found in Harris Park. Shot in the head, execution style. No ID, but CCTV cameras picked her up just outside the park on Tuesday morning— I stop scrolling.