Reputation(33)
The warm air kisses my skin. I take deep, even breaths, running my fingernails up and down my arms; I’m tempted to break the skin just to feel something. Church bells gong. Two kids in Aldrich sweatshirts smoke e-cigarettes in front of off-campus housing. A local news van circles the block and turns into the church parking lot. Jesus. I hurry to the back of the building.
“Kit.”
I wheel around. Patrick stands with his hands in the pockets of a dark suit. He is alone, and he’s looking at me with a mix of urgency and uncertainty. I stare at him, then at the church, then at him again.
“What are you doing here?” I finally splutter.
“I wanted to express my condolences.”
“You came to my husband’s funeral?”
“You and Lynn work together.” He shrugs. “It would have looked weird if we didn’t come.”
We. I want to kick him.
“You said you weren’t married,” I whisper.
“You said you were a widow,” he shoots back, his eyes aflame.
“That’s true!” I place my hands on my hips. “And now it’s even more true!”
Patrick’s expression falters. “Jesus,” he says in a low voice. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I stare at a billboard across the street for a new hardware store a few blocks away. The tenderness in Patrick’s voice is heartbreaking. Just like that, I want to touch him, bring him close. “Of course I’m not okay,” I mumble. “I walked in on my husband bleeding out. Most of the people in that funeral think I did it.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“I know that.” Another tiny piece of me crumbles, but I have to resist. I raise my chin, my gaze purposefully nowhere near his face. “It’s better we lied to one another in Philly. And it’s good nothing really happened. It would be humiliating, considering Lynn and I work together.”
“I regret that nothing happened,” Patrick says quietly.
I clamp down hard on the inside of my cheek. Do not react.
But Patrick moves closer. “I kicked myself when I didn’t get your phone number. And when you showed up at that benefit . . .” He lets out an embarrassed laugh. “I don’t mean to be cheesy, but it felt like the universe was trying to tell us something.”
“Don’t bring the universe into this. Don’t pretend this is fate.”
But he senses me faltering. His suit jacket rustles, and before I know it, his fingers are twining through mine. Involuntarily, I grip hard. Then I let go. But then I squeeze again. There is a push-and-pull in my heart and brain. I know I should walk away, but I can’t.
“Can I call you?”
“I . . .” I close my eyes. Say no. You have to say no.
“Patrick?”
People have begun to stream out of the church, and some have trickled around to the side lot. I have a clear view of Lynn Godfrey click-clacking in her high heels toward a row of vehicles, her children in tow. Patrick’s children. She’s whispering to them, patting the head of the little boy, who’s dressed in an expensive-looking child-size suit. Lynn’s head swivels about as she looks around for her husband. I also notice Willa in the crowd . . . and she does see me. Her eyes narrow on Patrick. I step away from him, mustering a look of innocence.
Patrick backs up, too, but not before he gives me a deep, meaningful look. “Think about it, Kit. Please?”
“Um,” I murmur, uncomfortable because Willa hasn’t taken her eyes off us. Patrick jogs back to the parking lot. Lynn greets him with a surprised smile—she definitely hasn’t seen that he and I were talking. She takes his hand, and they climb into a white Porsche SUV.
Willa marches to me, her brow furrowed. “Who was that?”
“Just . . . someone.” I can feel the heat in my cheeks. “Expressing his condolences.”
Willa frowns. Maybe she can tell I’m not being completely truthful. She turns to the car Patrick and Lynn have just climbed inside. Behind the windshield, I can see Patrick’s lips moving. Is he giving Lynn an excuse for what he was doing behind the church? Is he telling her he loves her, and that he’s a good man, and that he would never be like dishonest, philandering Greg Strasser?
He’s a liar, I want to scream. I want to hate Patrick. But I don’t. All I can think of is his fingers entwined in mine, his mouth saying, I can’t be away from you. I am a terrible, terrible person, because the truth of it is, I don’t think I can be away from him, either.
13
WILLA
SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 2017
Look at this turnout!” I swing Kit’s Mercedes E-class down yet another filled parking lot row, narrowly avoiding two young, muscled dudes in a Blue Hill Country Club golf cart. Every parking space I pass is filled with a car. “I don’t remember this many people at the church. I guess most would rather drink to Greg’s memory than pray.”
Kit’s got her eyes closed. “For the millionth time, Willa, just valet.”
“All right, all right.” I steer toward the front of the club. The dashboard dings, though I’m not sure why. Kit insisted that I drive after the funeral because she was feeling too woozy. I wonder if it has anything to do with that George Clooney clone she was having a tête-à-tête with after the funeral.