“Okay. Can I get you a coffee?”
I expect him to say no, and I’m relieved when he nods, but it’s an absent one, as if he’s barely listening.
I go in the kitchen and pour a cup. “Just brewed, so it’s still fresh.”
“I’m sorry about keeping Charlie yesterday,” he says.
It honestly takes a moment to realize what he’s talking about. When I do, I answer with care. My fury from Friday night has blown over, and I don’t want to fight about this. Nor, however, do I want to brush it aside.
“I completely understand Gayle’s daughter wanting Charlie at her party,” I say. “I’d have liked more notice, but I know it was a last-minute decision. Next time, I would really appreciate it if you called. I don’t have an issue talking to Gayle. This isn’t me versus her.”
He seems to flinch at that, and I’m not sure why. This should be what he wants to hear, right?
I hand him his coffee. “I don’t know how serious you two are—”
He opens his mouth, as if to answer, and then shuts it.
“Even if you’re serious,” I say, “I just met her. A call to change our arrangement should come from you.”
“I didn’t know.” He blurts the words and then hesitates, as if ready to pull them back. Instead, he sits at my tiny dinette table. “Gayle called you without asking me.”
I pour a cup of coffee for myself and sit across from him.
“Her daughter asked, and Gayle . . . She wants . . .” He rubs his chin and shakes his head.
“She wants . . . ?” I prompt.
Another shake of his head, gaze down. “She’s just . . . moving faster than . . .” He straightens and shrugs it off with a roll of his shoulders. “She overstepped her boundaries, and I’ve said so, as nicely as possible. She didn’t see the harm in calling you herself. She thought, that way, it’d be clear it was her idea, and you wouldn’t be upset with me.”
“I wouldn’t ever be—”
“I’ve told her that. You and I don’t have that kind of . . .” Another roll of his shoulders, and he makes a face. “She didn’t mean any harm. I’ve been clear—clearer—that you and I have a very cordial relationship.”
Cordial.
That hurts. Cordial is the relationship you have with a cousin you don’t share anything in common with beyond blood. It’s the ex you don’t share anything in common with beyond a child.
It used to be more.
So much more.
And now it’s just “cordial” and I almost wonder if “hostile” wouldn’t be better, if it wouldn’t be easier.
For me, maybe. But not easier for our daughter, and that’s what counts.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you for explaining. I thought you didn’t call yourself because you were still upset with me after Thursday night.”
“No, not at all.” He pauses. “About that. You said you could use my help. I want to offer it. If you’re having trouble getting the police to listen . . .”
“They’re listening,” I say. “Well, they aren’t convinced there’s a missing child, but I helped them ID the murdered woman, so they know I’m not a complete nutjob.”
As I say that, I realize that I’m taking this conversation in a direction it shouldn’t go. The one that will have him furrowing his brow and asking how I helped ID a dead woman. Instead, he just nods and says, “Well, that’s good.”
He’s still distracted, obviously. I should drop it here. Don’t go filling in any blanks that can stay blank. Just hope Paul doesn’t look back on this conversation later, when he’s less distracted, and say, “Wait a second . . .”
But as I think that, I realize I can’t drop it. Laila Jackson knows I’m not who I claim to be. She wields that power over me, and I don’t know her well enough to entrust her with that secret.
“Paul . . .”
“Hmm?” He sips his coffee, his gaze distant.
“I . . . I need to talk to you about something,” I say. “Something that came up with the police.”
He puts the mug down. “All right.”
“I . . .” My heart thuds so hard I can barely form words. “Before I met you . . .”
His gaze lifts to mine and the words dry up.
I swallow. “Before I met you . . . things happened, and I . . . I haven’t been entirely”—entirely?—“honest with you about my past and . . .”
“And now you want to be, not because you’ve had an epiphany, but because you’re in trouble.”
His voice is cold. Colder than I’ve ever heard it, and those blue eyes turn just as icy. My insides freeze, and I’m seized by this overwhelming urge to hide, just hide.
“Do not ask me to get you out of this, Aubrey,” he says.
“I-I’d never—”
“Good. I think I’ve done enough. My only advice is not to let the police bully you into a confession. The statute of limitations for theft in California is three years. You are well past that.”
I stare at him. I just stare. Then my mouth opens, and all I can manage is a strangled noise.
His hands tighten on his mug. “Nine months before you left, I received a call from a man named Ruben Dubrand. He tried to extort money from me, threatening to expose you.”
“Ruben extorted money—”
“Tried.” Paul gives me a hard look. “I’m a defense attorney. I know the law. I set him straight, uncovered his own identity and threatened to use that against him if he ever came at my family again.”
I can’t speak. I just can’t even process this. I must still be asleep, caught in a nightmare where Paul tells me he knows what I’ve done. That he’s known for . . .
Nine months before we split.
That would be our last Christmas together. Exactly the time when I started noticing rifts in our marriage. It’d been the holidays, and he’d found excuses to skip parties, given me a perfunctory gift, taken Charlotte to his mother’s alone “because I know you two don’t get along, and you can use a post-holiday break.”
That’s when he decided we should stop trying for a second child.
I always presumed that I first noticed the trouble at Christmas only because holidays are stressful, and so that’s when the schism became obvious. That isn’t true. The schism started there. After Ruben contacted him.
I have spent the last year trying to figure out where our marriage went wrong, how we drifted apart, how I failed him.
Now I know.
“I-I . . .” It’s all I can say, all I can manage.
“You were someone else before you met me. I haven’t dug into your past. I don’t want to know. All Dubrand told me was that you’d committed robberies—break-and-enters—as part of a group. At first, I didn’t believe him. Then he told me about your shoulder. On your last job, the homeowner shot you there, and you didn’t get proper medical attention for it.”
“Yes,” I say, and when the word comes, it’s an exhale of something like relief. “It’s . . . it’s a long story but—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
My head jerks up, eyes meeting his. I hadn’t been about to explain. I didn’t want to hide behind excuses. But that cold rejection makes my hackles rise. I force them down again before I speak.
“I was about to say that it’s a long story, but I’m not going to make excuses. Yes, I broke into homes and robbed them. I got shot. I got out. I started using my mother’s maiden name and eventually wound up in Chicago, where you met me.”
“Convenient, wasn’t it?”
I frown. “Convenient?”
He pushes back his chair. “Before I met you, I was in serious danger of becoming one of those men who whines about how nice guys always finish last, how women don’t want a nice guy. I had a couple of women break it off with the ‘you’re such a great guy, but you’re just not for me’ crap. The kiss-off that tells me I’m boring as hell. I stopped dating and started complaining. My friends sat me down for an intervention. They challenged me to try again. To take
a real chance. Was there a woman I’d love to ask out, but I was sure she’d turn me down? I said yes: you.”
“Me?”
“I saw you when I’d go into the bookstore café. I’d hear you laughing. I’d see you goofing around with coworkers. I’d see you being kind to patrons. I noticed you, and I knew I was not the kind of guy you’d ever go out with. But that night with my friends, I’d had a few drinks, and they convinced me to go for it. Two days later, as I was trying to work up the nerve . . .”
“You saw me get a traffic ticket right outside the building. You said I should fight it.”
“Perfect timing, wasn’t it?” he says.
I think he means the ticket. I’ve forgotten he’s angry, and I’m about to smile and say, yes, that ticket came at the perfect time. Then I see his expression.
“A boring, ordinary guy,” he says. “Who fell so hard for you he never once questioned what you saw in him.”
I blink. “What?”
“Plus he’s a criminal defense attorney,” he says. “It didn’t get any better than that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You used me, Bree. I realize that now. When Dubrand first contacted me and I began to have doubts about our marriage, I tried to tell myself I was wrong. Okay, not wrong. I understood that you were on the run, and you needed to hide, and I was your cover.”
“What? No, I never—”
“I pursued you. So it wasn’t as if you targeted me. But you saw an opportunity.”
“No.”
“Maybe it wasn’t that Machiavellian. I don’t actually think it was. You just . . . settled. It was an arranged marriage of sorts. I just didn’t realize it.”
“Paul, no. I did not—”
“That’s why I never confronted you. I loved you. Forget why you were with me. You were with me. By choice. Maybe I’d even won you over, however it started. And then you said it wasn’t working, and I knew what that meant. I’d served my purpose.”
“That was not—”
“At first, I thought you found someone. Eventually I realized that wasn’t the case. Maybe you got tired of me. Maybe you just got tired of the lies. I go back and forth, Aubrey. When I’m feeling sorry for myself, I’m certain you used me. Used me and left me. Then I see you with Charlotte, and I must give you the benefit of the doubt. There was a time when I even wondered if you had Charlotte to trap me. Something to threaten me with, if I tried to expose you. Or if I wouldn’t pay you off.”
“I have not taken one red dime—”
“I know.” His hands fold around his mug again. “You can stop pretending now, though. Bring out your money. I presume that’s why you didn’t take mine. You still have the money you stole.”
“I gave that away.”
His gaze lifts to mine. “What?”
“But I do have money. An inheritance, which means, yes, I don’t need yours. I did not use you, Paul. I swear I did not. But I did lie to you. I misled you. Which is why I don’t want any of our marital estate. All I care about is joint custody of Charlotte.”
He looks at me. For at least a minute, he looks at me. Then he says, slowly, “Would a half-million dollars convince you to give up that claim?”
I stiffen. “I will never—”
“You can still see her. Still be part of her life.”
I speak slowly, enunciating each word. “I would give you every penny I have for joint custody. Not full custody, because I would never take Charlie away from you. I don’t have a half million. Maybe a fifth of that. But it’s yours if you agree to joint custody.”
He shakes his head. “I’d never take your money. And I’d never try to take her from you, either. I was just . . .”
“Checking. In case I’m faking maternal affection.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I did not do what you think, Paul. I fell for you. I fell in love—”
“Don’t.”
“I’m—”
“Don’t. Please.” He gets to his feet. “You need to say that. I know your secret, so you’ll never risk hurting my feelings by admitting that you married me to be safe. I understand that you love Charlotte. I understand that you aren’t going to take anything from me, including her. I want . . .” He exhales. “I want a civil relationship, for her sake.” A pause. “I’ll go get her.”
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.
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 had nothing to do with 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.”
“That sounds . . .” She purses her lips. “I’m torn between weird and cool.”
“Weirdly cool. Totally up my alley.”
She chuckles. “I’m shocked, really. So, sword-fighting classes for women, at a library. That’s just odd enough that I might actually ask you to send me a link.”
“I’ll do that.”
We go three more steps before she says, “Ellie Milano says Kim didn’t have a son.”
I stop walking. My jaw works. I look at her. “What?”
She says it again, slower. I can’t read her expression, and that only pisses me off more. Ten seconds ago, we’re chatting about sword fighting, and I’m finally relaxing, feeling like I’ve made a connection, and now I get this impenetrable stare, these words, spoken with no preamble, no buffer.
Wherever She Goes (ARC) Page 13
