Page 27 of Unforgivable
“—unless you asked! About school. Or about her day.”
“Oh my God, Jack! You’re kidding me, you can’t do that! You can’t ask Charlie to keep things from me! That’s…that’s just so screwed up! And I did ask about school, by the way. Of course I did! And you know what she said? Nothing! She just shrugged. She didn’t want to discuss it. What the hell?”
He sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“Was that Bronwyn’s idea? For Charlie to lie to me?”
“Not lie—”
“Was it Bronwyn’s idea!?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God. That’s so bad, that’s just so wrong.”
“You’re right. And I apologize. I should have consulted you.”
“Damn right you should have.”
“Anyway, you have fun, okay? I’ll take care of everything down here.”
I can’t bear it. I just hang up.
THIRTEEN
Two guys in suits leaning against the bar are checking out Summer. They make a show of it, appraising her with their eyes, winking at each other, puffing out their chests, laughing loudly. I feel like walking up to them and telling them off.She’s much too young for you! For Christ’s sake! Hit on someone your own age!
“Sorry I got caught up. I was talking to Jack.”
There’s a glass of white wine in front of my chair. She jerks at it with her chin. “I made an executive decision. Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Perfect, thank you,” I lie. I would have preferred a vodka anything. Or a tequila. I take a sip. The glass is already sweating with condensation and I wipe my fingers on my jeans. I try to remember why I came and I wish I hadn’t. I’m tired, I have so much to do. I want to be home with Charlie, I want to sit with her in her room and read books with her, her head against my chest. I miss the smell of her, I miss brushing her hair, I miss the softness of her cheeks. Except that even if I were home, I doubt Bronwyn would let me spend time with Charlie.
“Tell me about your boyfriend,” I say, swallowing back a sigh as I sift through my brain for his name. “Lester?”
“Dexter. He’s a lawyer.”
“That’s nice, where does he practice?”
“Downtown. He works with his dad.”
“That’s nice,” I say again, my vocabulary having shrunk down to two words. “Do you have a photo?”
She pulls out her phone from her brown leather bag. The photo she shows me is not what I expected, I suppose because she’s so pretty whereas the man in the photo looks kind of…ordinary. He has dark hair, a round face and a nice smile. He’s wearing a simple black T-shirt and he’s a tad on the heavy side. A big tad.
“He looks nice,” I say. And I mean it, he looks like a nice, regular guy. She smiles at the phone when I pass it back.
“He is,” she says. She tells me they live in a two-bedroom apartment on 23rdAvenue South.
“Cherry Hill?”
“More like Atlantic.We’re getting married soon,” she says.
“Yes, I remember. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She leans back in her chair, tilts her head at me. “So, tell me about this Bronwyn. Is she nice? She’s not nice, is she? I have a feeling she’s not nice.” She takes a swig of her wine.
“What do you mean?”