Wherever She Goes(44)

I shake my head. “I can’t . . . Not today. If you had plans, if you need me to take her . . .”

“I don’t.”

“Then I’ll wait until next weekend.”

He nods, and he leaves. That’s it. He just leaves.





Chapter Twenty-Three





I spend the rest of the morning in bed. Laila calls at ten, and I don’t answer. Right now, I don’t care about anyone else’s problems.

Paul knew about my past. He’s known for months, and that is what ended our marriage. My lies.

This was a possibility I never foresaw, and now that I do, I realize what a monumental mistake I made in not telling him from the start. If I’d done that, he’d know that marrying him wasn’t about hiding or seeking sanctuary. But he’s right that nothing I say now will matter. I never stopped to see it from his point of view. Even if I had, I’m not sure I could have anticipated how he’d feel.

Yes, he wasn’t the sort of guy I usually dated. Yes, we didn’t seem to have a lot in common. And, yes, God help me, I never noticed him coming into the bookstore café, because he wasn’t the kind of man I noticed.

Guys like Paul didn’t usually end up with girls like me, and that’s no insult to him. We move in different spheres, and there was no point noticing a guy like him because he wasn’t going to notice me back. He’d look for a woman like Gayle. A stable, competent fellow professional. Maybe, if I’d finished college and found a career in tech, it’d be different, but I’d been a twenty-five-year-old with a high school education, working in a bookstore. I had not been wife material for a man like Paul. And yet he married me, had a child with me, and I’d felt blessed.

I have hurt a man I loved. A man I still love.

I’ve deeply hurt him. Dealt a blow to his pride and his self-confidence but worse, I betrayed him. Betrayed his trust.

Whenever I’ve grieved over the loss of my marriage, I’ve fortified myself with the knowledge that Paul had been unhappy, so ending it was the right and noble thing for me to do. He had indeed been unhappy . . . because he thought his wife married him as a safe haven, a security blanket. When I suggested it wasn’t working, his quick agreement had stung to the core. Surprised me, too, because I didn’t honestly believe he was divorce-level miserable. Just less happy than I wanted him to be. To him, though, my leaving only proved his point. He’d done the same thing I had—he set me free.

I spend the first two hours that afternoon writing him letters. Write. Rewrite. Rewrite again. I cannot find the words to prove that he’s wrong. I don’t know how, and when I try to put my feelings on paper, it sounds like the worst kind of fakery, over-the-top sentimentality worthy of a cheap greeting card.

I try to tell him my past, but that sounds like excuses. He’s a defense attorney—he’s heard truly tragic life stories, and mine seems weak in comparison.

Your mommy died when you were little. Your daddy killed himself when you were eighteen. Boo-hoo. It happens. They raised you well, with everything you needed for a decent life. If you threw that away, Aubrey, then you’re not a tragic heroine—you’re a spoiled little brat.

My father dies, and I fly into a tantrum, turning to crime to repay the world for its unkindness? That’s worse than a cheap greeting card sentiment. It’s the lamest villain backstory ever.

I write. I rewrite. I send nothing.

Midafternoon, I pull on sweats to go for a jog. I’m swinging out the front door and nearly bash into a woman coming in. I murmur an apology and start past her.

“Aubrey?” the woman says.

I look, and it’s Laila Jackson. She’s dressed in a uniform, but not a police one. It’s a softball uniform, one that used to be white, but it’s faded to gray with use, the knees brown from slides into base. There’s dirt on her cheek, and any makeup she’d worn has sweated away. Her eyes gleam with a look I know well—the afterglow of adrenaline from a good workout.

“Did you win?” I say.

“I did,” she says. “Two home runs, and three runs batted in. Problem is the rest of my damned team.”

I laugh softly. “Come on up, and I’ll get you a soda.”

She shakes her head. “Better keep me outside. Showers weren’t working at the field. I was heading home, and then realized I was driving through downtown, and maybe I should stop and see why you aren’t taking my calls. In case you got yourself into trouble and were lying in a pool of blood somewhere. Crazy thought, I know. You’re such a nice, quiet librarian.”

“You aren’t going to let up on the librarian thing, are you?”

“Nope.” She waves to the road. “Let’s walk.”

I glance over at her as we move onto the sidewalk. “What position do you play?”

“Right field. You got a team?”

I shake my head. “Organized sports aren’t really my thing. Sports in general aren’t my thing these days, not with my schedule. I’m trying to fit something in. Maybe a class.”

“Let me guess. Hot yoga or SoulCycle?”

“Sword fighting.”

Her perfectly sculpted brows shoot up. “Fencing?”

“No, swords. Real swords. I saw this notice come through on the interlibrary system for classes at a branch in Chicago. All-women sword fighting.”