What’s your number?” Her fingers hover over the screen.
I hesitate again. It makes perfect sense for old friends to exchange contact info, but is she too eager for it? I clear my throat and give her my number; she texts so I have hers. We hug again and she squeezes my hand.
“I’m so glad I ran into you. I’ll check my schedule and send you some dates for dinner. Deal?”
“Deal.”
We’re still smiling when she walks away. I let mine fall once she’s out of sight and sit with my empty cup, tracing a fingertip around the lid. What are the odds? I came here to find her and she finds me instead? It doesn’t feel right. But I sensed no dishonesty whatsoever. She’s either an incredibly good actress or she’s genuine. And I’d bet money she’ll send me dates for dinner. Her voice was too earnest for lip service. Besides, what better way to keep an eye on me than to keep me close?
I pick at the skin of my thumb until a small piece rises, a skin periscope, and scrape it with the edge of a nail, enjoying the blood and the sting. Anger floods my veins, not a wall-punching surge but a steady wave, filling every cell. No matter how this ends, it wasn’t my doing. Whoever it is, they didn’t have to send the necklace, didn’t have to turn back the clock. It’s been almost thirty goddamn years. I crush my cup, leaving bloody smears on its waxed surface.
I hope like hell Gia isn’t the one doing this. Because I like her.
I fucking like her.
* * *
I turn up the radio while I drive home so I don’t have to hear my thoughts. The mail is still in the mailbox—no check for Ryan. No Ryan in the kitchen or the family room either. Halfway upstairs, I hear his voice in his office, so I keep quiet. The last thing I need to do is screw up one of his job prospects. In our bedroom, I exchange my jeans and V-neck for a slouchy sweater and leggings but leave my makeup on in case we decide to go out for dinner. Ryan’s voice draws near then away again. He’s pacing, which means I was right, a business call. The bane of being self-employed. Your job never stops, not even on a weekend. I stand just inside our bedroom door, not listening to him, but not not listening either. His voice moves farther away. The hallway’s empty. His office, too. Craning my neck over the railing at the top of the stairs, I see a shadow moving across the wall, hear the soft tap of sock-clad feet.
His voice rises and falls, pauses, then sounds again. The shadow approaches and retreats as he moves the length of the front hallway. He’s taking care to speak softly. A little too much care. The word furtive pops into my head, and although I feel like a sneak, I take two steps down, slow and quiet.
“Okay,” he says. “No, it’s fine.” Silence as he listens, then, “I completely understand. Thank you for getting back to me, I appreciate it.”
He draws closer to the staircase, and I make a beeline for the bedroom. By the time he comes upstairs, I’m flipping through the stack of paperbacks on my nightstand. From behind he gives me a hug, pressing a kiss to my neck.
“Hey, babe,” he says.
“Hey yourself.”
“What do you want to do for dinner tonight? I was thinking maybe the Boatyard.”
“Not sure. Who was on the phone?” I say.
“Huh?”
“The phone? You were talking to …?”
“Oh yeah, Mike, talking about his kitchen. Didn’t want to bother you, so I went downstairs,” he says.
“Gotcha. How’s Karen?”
“She’s good,” he says, letting go. “Let me get a couple emails sent before I forget, and then we can figure out dinner.”
I stand there, tapping the spine of a book against my palm. He lied. Why, I don’t know, but that wasn’t Mike on the phone. Ryan was too professional. I know that’s not the way he talks to any of his brothers. I know him. I want to follow him into his office and ask again, but maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m so on edge I’m hearing things. This is Ryan, after all, and he has no reason to lie to me. No reason at all.
CHAPTER SIX
THEN
“Can you please get the jelly?” my mom said.
Becca jumped up from the kitchen table, where we were putting goldfish crackers in sandwich bags.