Page 29 of I Think He Knows
I get out of my car to stand on the shoulder of the highway. Then, on his further request, attempt to walk a straight line in four-inch heels. Which is nigh impossible for anyone—even us stone-cold sober folk.
“Can I maybe try with my shoes off?” I ask with a wobble, shielding my eyes against a set of oncoming headlights.
“That would be fine, Miss Dono… Wait a second!” The police officer squints down at my driver’s license. “Lana Mae Donovan? I recognize that name. I think you might know my wife.”
“Oh?” I look at his now-twinkling eyes apprehensively.Please not Mona, please not Mona, please not…
“Lance.” He grins and gestures to himself. “McCreary.”
Come on. Really, universe?
“Yes, hi. Of course.” I smile the fakest smile known to man, my teeth grinding. “How’s Mona?”
It’s a dumb question. I saw Mona just yesterday morning when I dropped Legs off at school, and she was the same as ever: a grade-A douchebaguette.
“She’s well, thanks. At home with the kids. Wait ‘til I tell her I ran into you tonight…” Lance shakes his head, all cheery at the thought of bringing a delicious gossipy snack to his ever-rumor-hungry wife.
I’m no expert but surely this is a tad unprofessional? Isn’t there some kind of privacy law in place? If not, then this is pretty much worst-case scenario. Mona The Informer will have a field day with her husband pulling over an unwed former teen mother (who smells like a bonfire and is covered in panda makeup) on suspicion of drunk driving.
By morning, I’m sure every parent at the school will have the memo.
I nod, still at a loss of what to do. “Well, do tell her I say hi.”
Hiis absolutely not the message I would like to convey (something of the four-letter variety would be much more satisfying), but so be it.
“Will do. Now, enough chit-chat and back to business, I’m afraid. We need to address those drinks you consumed tonight.”
“Sip, singular, of one drink, singular,” I correct.
McCreary continues to look doubtful as he mutters, “Well, we’ll see about that.”
Charming.
It takes Officer Lance McCreary twenty-five minutes, two sobriety tests, three goes of me walking in a straight line, and four rounds of shining his flashlight in my eyes to determine that I’m not crazy drunk, and maybe just crazy.
He lets me go with a warning. Which should feel like a victory, but doesn’t.
I drive the exact speed limit the rest of the way home. With the stereo off.
11
LANA MAE
When I finally pull into my driveway after what I hope is my first and final dalliance with law enforcement, I pay the babysitter, shower all my makeup and humiliation away, then change into the comfiest sweats in my closet. You know, the ones with a mustard stain near the crotch that have been washed and worn so many times that the butt is saggier than a soggy diaper and you’d never dare wear them in front of another human being, but you also can’t bear to throw them out because they feel more comfortable than anything else you own.
It’s a those-sweatpants kind of night.
I flick on the TV in my bedroom, but before I flop on my bed and drown my sorrows in Legs’s leftover Halloween candy and back-to-backGilmore Girlsepisodes, I check to see if Carter’s texted me.
He hasn’t, which makes sense. Because according to the gossip sites that I may have accidentally-on-purpose googled while Braxton visited the bathroom earlier, Carter and Freya are together today, living it up on a rooftop patio in LA. Looks like they’re hitting it off more than ever, and of course they are. Because she’s stunning, and he’s Carter. People like that are drawn to each other like magnets. The same way stains are drawn to my disgusting sweats.
What was I thinking anyway, going on a date with a doctor purely to try and make myself feel better about Carter’s successful dating life? I should be happy that Carter’s forming a connection with someone and seeing her so often, but the little green-eyed monster within me feels no such thing.
I force the image of Carter and Freya out of my mind, send a quick text to my sister-in-law regarding her date choice for me tonight (“Et tu, Mindy?”), and then peek in on my daughter. She stirs when I crack open the door, rolling over in her blue and white plaid sheets.
“Mom?” her reedy little voice calls into the darkness.
I walk in and crouch next to her bed. Stroke her hair. “Hi, sweetie.”