The Watcher Girl(20)

The neckline of her blouse shifts as she moves, and I spot a faded green bruise along her collarbone.

I swallow. Hard. For a second, I wonder if I imagined it.

And then I spot it again.

“So how did you meet your husband?” I blurt out my next question, the one that’s been lingering like an earworm since the other day.

“It’s kind of embarrassing, if only because it’s so not romantic or anything.” Campbell stifles a smile and rolls her eyes before exhaling. “We actually met online.”

Her cheeks tinge with pink warmth. This is a fact that embarrasses her.

“I know. It’s so cliché,” she adds, waving a hand in front of her face and glancing away.

“Not at all,” I lie. My mind spins, conjuring up images of Sutton so desperate to move on from me that he completes an online dating profile, uploads a handful of flattering images, and puts himself out there in hopes of finding someone to fill my void.

My heart aches for this heartbroken image of the man I once knew.

“How long have you been together?” I fire out my next question slowly, to tamp down my anticipation. So far I’ve yet to locate this information online. They purchased their home two summers ago, and a year before that, they cosigned on an apartment in Hoboken, but everything before that is a question mark. Addresses and work history I can find with a few clicks of a mouse. But a detailed timeline of their relationship and its intricacies isn’t exactly the sort of thing I can scrape off the deep web.

“Seven . . . eight years?” Her face twists as she glances up and to the left. “I have to do the math sometimes. It all kind of blurs together after a while.”

Eight years ago last month is when I ended our relationship.

He must have found her shortly afterward.

“You met online,” I say, “so was that with a dating app?”

“Kind of.” She winces, and I get the sense that she doesn’t want to get into it. “It’s a long story, a little boring actually. There were some emails exchanged, and then we met and it turned into . . . this.”

She kisses her daughter’s forehead.

“Do you have someone?” Campbell changes the subject. “A boyfriend, partner, whatever?”

Do I have someone? Interesting choice of words.

No, I don’t have anyone . . . because I don’t want anyone.

I shake my head. “Can’t even keep a houseplant alive. Imagine what I’d do to a relationship.”

Campbell laughs through her nose. “You travel for work?”

“No. For fun.” And for sanity. “I can work anywhere in the world. I don’t like to stay in one place too long.”

“Must be nice.” She sips her coffee. I don’t believe her. She doesn’t strike me as the type of person who’s filled with wanderlust, craving adventure at every turn. “What’s been your favorite city so far?”

“San Diego. Best weather, hands down. Not too cold, not too hot.”

Her lips tug at the side. “I should visit someday.”

Visit . . . me?

Or visit in general?

I wonder what Sutton would think if he knew I was sitting here having a lovely chat with his wife? That his daughter was sitting across from me? That I knew all about this life he’d engineered in my hometown?

Would he be embarrassed if he knew that I’m on to him?

It occurs to me like a shock of ice through my veins that perhaps he already knows. He’s an intelligent man. If Campbell mentioned in passing that she’s meeting a new friend named Grace who happens to be in town visiting her father . . . he’d put it together in a heartbeat.

“I love the idea of moving somewhere warm, but I don’t think I could get my husband to step away from the East Coast,” she says with a hopeless sigh. “He loves it here.”

My fist clenches around my coffee cup. He doesn’t care what she wants? She doesn’t get a say in where they live?

I need to lighten the mood.

I also need more information.

“So . . . what do you do for fun around here?” I force some more small talk, trying to get an idea of where I might find (or avoid) the Whitlocks in their spare time.

Campbell digs into her back pocket and pulls out her vibrating phone. I briefly spot Sutton’s name on the screen. I hadn’t noticed it going off. I swear some people have a sixth sense about their electronics.

“I’m so sorry.” She clutches it against her chest. “I’ll be right back.”

Before I have a chance to tell her she doesn’t have to run off, she scoops Gigi into her arms and carries her outside to take her phone call, leaving behind her purse, her stroller, her coffee, and a mountain of cereal crumbs.

Again, so trusting. Too trusting.

Five minutes later, they’re back.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“What?” She places Gigi back into the booth and slides in beside her. “Of course. It was just my husband checking in.”

I think back to the other day in her kitchen, when Sutton called and she took the call down the hall and behind a closed door.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” I say.

“Do what?”

“If you ever need to take a phone call, I mean . . .” I glance out the window and back. “If you’re trying to be polite or whatever. Don’t inconvenience yourself for my sake.”