broke eye contact. He turned to Sadie. “That’s the tough part. What this guy has written is so good, but he left it hanging right before the climax. The kid I told you about is in trouble.”
The server set the drinks on the table, and they tossed them back while talking more about the story. Jack forced his way back to at least faking interest. The conversation moved into lighter conversation as they ate. Whitaker had always enjoyed the fried shrimp plate, but he opted for a kale Caesar topped with a piece of tilefish instead.
Once the topics of conversation were as empty as the twenty-seven plates, Whitaker sensed Jack and Sadie had more on their agenda than asking him why he’d left his job.
When he caught them looking at each other as if urging one another on, Whitaker decided he’d go ahead and rip the Band-Aid off. “So what is it? You’re not telling me something.”
Sadie looked at Jack and then patted her mouth with her napkin. They both looked at Whitaker but didn’t speak.
“Might as well get it all out,” Whitaker said, moving his hand in a circular motion.
Jack looked at his wife. “Let me tell him.”
Whitaker could feel the acid from his salad dressing creeping up his esophagus. Anchovies and bad news. Was their surprising interest in his story an attempt to butter him up for what was to come? For the life of him, though, he couldn’t imagine what it was. Had someone died? Did one of them have cancer? There was no cancer ever diagnosed that could kill Jack Grant.
After a sip of bourbon, Jack dropped the hammer. “We ran into Lisa’s parents yesterday.”
Hearing Lisa’s name rise from his father’s mouth was not a good feeling.
“They told us Lisa is engaged.”
There it was again. A few words and Jack Grant had brought down Thor’s hammer.
Whitaker stared into his father’s eyes and then lost himself in his own head. Lisa was engaged. Lisa was getting remarried. Lisa was in love with another man.
He felt a hand on his arm. It was his mother’s. He looked at her and then looked back down at the remainders of kale and corn bread croutons and dressing on his plate.
Sadie squeezed him. “You knew it had to happen.”
Whitaker patted his mom’s hand and then pulled away from her.
Jack cleared his throat. “From what they told us, it happened very quickly. A few dates and then he proposed to her. They’re marrying in Martha’s Vineyard on May of next year. He’s a surgeon.”
Whitaker processed the information his father had shared. He felt his rib cage imploding. Why, dammit? Why did Lisa still have so much control over him? After all this time, she still owned him. Whitaker felt like lifting the table and pushing it over, letting the fleet of china and glass smash onto the floor.
Another man—a better man—was taking his ex-wife. She was in love with him.
“What should we do for dessert?” Sadie asked in a jolly, high-spirited tone. Were those pom-poms in her hand?
Whitaker stood from the table and tossed his napkin onto the chair. “I’ll pass on dessert. Thank you very much for dinner.”
“Whitaker,” Sadie said. “Don’t do that. Don’t let her break your heart again.”
“She’s not breaking my heart. It’s just not something I need to hear right now. Mom, Dad, thanks for dinner.”
Racing out the back door before he encountered any more familiar faces, he grappled with this awful news. Everything that he had built these last two months—all the happiness he’d found—rushed out of him. Why? He didn’t miss Lisa like Claire missed David. He didn’t see her shadow crossing the hall. He didn’t still feel her warmth next to him on the bed. It was the loneliness, that fucking abyss of not being wanted by anyone. Whitaker replaced by a goddamn surgeon, Lisa never looking back. And then Claire, still hung up on a man she would never see again. Even the dead were more lovable than Whitaker.
Using Staff Sergeant Jack Grant’s analogy, Whitaker felt like he’d spent all this time building a giant mansion, only to find out the foundation was made of cards.
And Lisa, the Queen of Hearts, had knocked it down.
Chapter 25
THE NATIONAL TREASURE
Whitaker collapsed onto the houndstooth sofa face-first. How was it that he had fought so hard recently to overcome the struggles of a decade of washed-up-writer syndrome, only to be toppled with a crappy reminder of how bad of a husband he’d been? How bad of a