Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,15

I’d told Kate that Casey is a terrific girl but she didn’t seem up to the stepparenting gig. Kate had covered my hand with hers, and I let myself feel sad, and I let myself be comforted for a moment that stretched a little too long. Since then I’ve had to be vigilant about being professional, friendly, and no more.

Yes, Kate’s gorgeous, and she’s also full of sympathy and sweet, understanding smiles. I also happen to know she’s cunning and calculated, which is one reason she’s such a goddamn good reporter.

“I can’t talk right now,” I tell Kate, and she finally rolls back to her screen.

I look at the computer clock. It’s now 2:00 P.M. That means no one has seen or heard from Dylan in over six hours. He’s not answering his phone or texts. This is not like him. In fact, he’s the most dependable of all of them. Though he’s been quiet lately, even by his standards. What have I missed?

I tell myself again it’s probably nothing and buckle down to get the story done, so I can get home and make damn well sure it’s nothing.

I’m just spell-checking the shopping story and removing all sarcastic asides when two e-mails arrive. One is from the publisher, reminding all of the four o’clock meeting. The other is from Kate.

Hey Mike,

I know you’re not just tired. You have “ex stress.” I can see it all over your face. Been there, done that. Oh, come to think of it, still doing that.

Hang in there. I was going to say it will get better but it probably won’t! Anyway, wouldn’t want you to stick your head in an oven or something. This place would be boring without you.

Want to get a drink after work? My treat.

K.

I slide my eyes over to her. She looks sideways at me and smiles a little, one of those encouraging smiles, a silent “chin up!”

I e-mail her back, wishing I could move to an empty desk farther away from her without the gossip mill starting to churn.

Can’t. Potential crisis at home. Report back to me about 4 o’clock meeting, though. I have to leave.

I file the story and go hover by Aaron to get his attention. He’s on the phone with someone combative, based on his repetition of the phrase, “I understand what you’re saying.”

I can’t take it anymore. I seize a piece of paper out of a notebook on Aaron’s desk and scribble: Home emergency. Have to leave. Story filed.

I toss it in front of his face. Just as I turn to walk away, I catch a glimpse of him whirling around in his chair to say something to me, but I pretend I didn’t see it and just go straight for my coat.

It’s a struggle not to speed as I drive home. Mallory and Casey are not a good mix together, not on the best of days. I kept them apart for a long time, and discouraged the kids from talking about Casey. I didn’t forbid it, exactly, I just told them that Casey was only a friend and their mother didn’t have to hear every detail of my life.

Dylan and Angel got it, tragically fluent in the language of divorce.

Jewel, though, talked about Casey painting her toenails. When I picked the kids up, she screamed at me about this new “girl” dolling up Jewel like “a harlot.”

My crazy hope to see Dylan sitting on the porch is dashed. The porch is empty, and it’s unsettling to be home now during the week, the sun still high.

Just inside the front door, I hesitate, listening.

I don’t see Mallory until she’s on top of me. She’s hurtled herself at me, torpedo fashion, clinging to me and weeping. “Where is he, Mike? Where’s our baby?”

“Where’s Casey?”

“Do you think I care where she is? Where’s our son?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Casey walks to the living room entryway from the kitchen, holding the phone to her ear and waving the band parent list at me.

I nod, and try to pry Mallory off of me long enough for me to take off my coat.

“Don’t panic yet. He’s probably just cutting school.”

The more I’ve said this today, the less I believe it.

“Bullshit,” Mallory spits, now pacing like a caged predator. “Dylan is a good kid, he doesn’t pull stuff like this. He wouldn’t make me worry.”

Casey comes to the doorway. “I just talked to the music teacher, who asked his friends at EXA. No one has seen