Our Little Secret(39)

“No.” I looked around. “Look at this place. Nothing’s the same.”

“You should see it out back. The Ping-Pong tables are gone and the back deck’s now a terraced barbecue area . . .” He faltered as he mentioned the area we’d kissed in two short years ago. “Anyway, you look lovely. Elegant.” He stared at me in my thin black sweater.

“Thank you.”

“How’s life? Are you still working at the library?”

“No, I got a new position in vital statistics. It pays more and it’s more . . . interesting.”

“Well, good, that’s good. You need to be challenged.” He’d learned teacher-speak. Had he invited me here for career guidance? “How are things with your folks?”

“Oh, they’re all right, I guess. They fight a lot. You know how they are. Anyway, I’m less idealistic these days about true love and partnership.”

HP flinched just a little.

“Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce,” I said. “Imagine if the odds were the same with skydiving. Would you really jump?”

“Ha,” he responded, and squirmed in his seat. The bartender—a man in his early thirties with a Merlot-colored apron tied around the waist of his jeans—arrived at the side of our table.

“Is this a coffee thing, or . . . ?”

“I’ll have a glass of the house red. It’s that kind of weather,” I said.

The bartender nodded.

“I’ll take a whiskey. Single shot, single malt, on ice.”

HP waited a second or two. “So . . . are you dating?”

“A little bit.” I wasn’t.

“Guys from around Cove?”

“Maybe.” I played with the delicate silver charm at my neck.

“Okay, well, look, I just wanted to meet up with you before—” The barman arrived with our drinks. HP waited until he’d gone again. “Before the baby’s born.”

“It must be any day.” My wine lilted thick and bloodred as I lifted the curve of the glass into my palm. “I saw Saskia about a month ago and she looked ready to pop.”

“Yeah, she’s almost ready. We’re gearing up here.”

“I feel like everyone’s getting busier and busier.”

HP eyed me as I spoke, rocking his glass from side to side so that the ice cubes bumped. “Totally. Mortgages and taxes. Who saw that coming? The last time I checked, we were hanging out at the Tarzan swing and our only worry was avoiding a sunburn.”

“Where’s Ezra?” I asked. “He’s vanished.” Which wasn’t true—I’d seen him at the grocery store several times. He didn’t like Saskia and told me every time I saw him. Said she was a drill sergeant cleverly disguised. She’s changed him, LJ. She’s ironed him straight.

“Ezra hasn’t vanished,” HP said. “You have.”

“Oh.” I sipped more wine. “Have I?”

“I never see you.”

“How hard are you trying?” Be nice, Angela. Be nice or he’ll leave. “I haven’t vanished, HP. At least not from you.”

He rolled the base of his glass around his coaster in an orbit. “We worry about you, you know. Don’t disappear on me, okay?”

“Listen,” I began, pausing to wonder whether I was brave enough for this sentence, “it’s not easy. I get that you’re married and all that, but for me . . .” I took a deep breath. “. . . for me it’s complicated. I’ve got leftovers.”

HP frowned.

“Feelings that don’t fit anywhere anymore.”

“Oh, I see.” He looked down at his glass.

“Don’t you?”

“Umm,” he floundered. He didn’t say no.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to be in your life,” I clarified.

“No, good.” HP scratched his head. “Because that’s what I’d really like. It would be nice if I could count on you. And Saskia thinks it’s important, too.”

Bullshit.

“We can be friends, can’t we?” He reached his hand across the table. I took it. His skin was as warm and smooth as I remembered but his fingers had thickened, probably from all the carpentry and housework. Still, I didn’t want to let go.

“Somebody’s got to tell my kid how cool I was in high school. Ezra will never admit it.” His eyes were soft and glassy. It was my touch. I was sure of it.

“We can be friends,” I said, still holding his hand, pushing my electricity through it. “That’s how it all began, right?”

“Right.” He pulled away, sat back, relieved, and then checked his watch. For a moment I imagined myself ripping it from his wrist and throwing it across the room.

“I’ve got to say, I don’t think I can tell your kid you were cool in high school. You know me.” I looked down at my wine. “I never was a very good liar.”


Novak probably thinks I’m a masochist, but that’s simply not true. Things changed when Olive was born. No, I didn’t visit HP and Saskia in the hospital, but I did take flowers over to their house once they were home with the baby. Carnations.

HP had been working on a fixer-upper down by the lake—a ramshackle old place with a wraparound porch. He’d already rebuilt the entire bottom floor. It smelled of sawdust and fresh paint. Olive slept the whole time I was there. She was painfully beautiful, her little fists clenched as she took milky, fast breaths. Blond, velveteen hair swept circular in a helix from the crown of her head.