Wherever She Goes(8)

“She can stay the night,” I say. “I’ll drop her off at daycare tomorrow.”

Silence.

“Unless that’s a problem . . .” I say.

“No, no. That would be great. Saves me worrying about how late I get back tonight.”



I’m waiting downstairs when Paul arrives. He sees me out front and motions he’ll pull into the lot. He insists on that, as if dropping her at the curb smacks of abandonment. Also, there is a clear No Stopping sign in front of the building, and Paul always obeys the law. Which is one reason I never told him about my past.

I don’t wait indoors, because Paul has only ever seen my building from the outside, where it looks like a stately old apartment complex in the city core. Oxford began life as a small town before exploding into a bedroom community. What remains of that original town is well-preserved old buildings—like the library where I work—and shabbier ones like this. Paul grew up and works in Chicago, which means he doesn’t know Oxford well enough to tell the good areas from the . . . less good. He parks his Mercedes across the lot from my decade-old Corolla. I think he does that on purpose, so no one will see the disparity and judge him for it. They shouldn’t. The Mercedes used to be mine. He bought it when Charlotte was born, wanting a newer, safer car for us. When I left, I took his Corolla instead. That was fair. That was right. Which didn’t keep him from acting like I’d thrown the keys in his face.

“I bought that car for you, Bree.”

“You bought it for Charlie. Since you have her now, you keep the car.”

He hung up on me after that. Didn’t slam the phone down. Didn’t curse. Just disconnected and never said another word about it.

I open the door to get Charlotte as quickly as I can, so I don’t waste a moment of our time together. I remember when I used to fist-pump every time she went down for a nap, as giddy as a kid granted an unexpected recess. Now, when she naps, I sit in the room, reading with one eye, watching her with the other, waiting for her to wake up again.

As I open the door, Paul comes around the car. He looks . . . like Paul. Nothing new. Nothing different. Every time I see him, there’s a moment when I forget we’re separated, and I only see the face I woke up to every morning. Familiar and comfortable. Then I remember that I’m not his wife anymore. Not his wife, not his friend, not even an ally in raising our child.

I’m the woman who could take Charlotte from him.

I’m the enemy.

He looks tired. He always does these days, and guilt stabs me. Anger chases the guilt, though. I’m here, anytime he needs me, eager to take our daughter and give him a break.

I go to lift Charlotte out, but he waves me away. When he pulls her out of her seat, I see his expression, and I slingshot back to those times he came home from work a little irritable, a little distant, and my first thought had always been He knows.

He knows about me.

Which was ridiculous, of course. If my past ever did reach Paul, he wouldn’t be coming home “a little irritable,” and telling me, “It’s nothing, just work.” He’d be scooping up Charlotte and making a beeline for the nearest hotel.

Now, when I see that expression, there is only a split second of the old fear. Then I realize the far more likely truth.

Someone told him about the boy in the park.

Someone at the police department recognized my name and knew my husband was a defense attorney and contacted him. Told him that I reported a kidnapped child . . . where, evidently, no child has been kidnapped.

And I am okay with that. I see him, see the set of his mouth, and all I can think is Good. If Paul knows, he can help. He’s a lawyer. He has contacts. I will explain what I saw, and even if he doesn’t quite believe me, it’ll be in his best interests to prove his ex isn’t delusional.

“Is everything okay?” I ask carefully.

He spots something on the passenger seat and heaves a sigh of relief. It’s Matt, Charlotte’s beloved stuffed rat. I made the mistake of watching The Princess Bride with her last year, and she’s obsessed, both with the movie and the ROUSs—rodents of unusual size. Other kids have teddy bears and puppies; mine has a stuffed rat.

“I thought I forgot him,” Paul says. “That would have been a crisis.”

He slides me a smile, and when he does . . . God, I hate that smile. I hate how it makes me feel. I hate that it makes me feel. The first time we met, I will fully admit that I dismissed Paul. He was just a very average guy, the sort I never really noticed. Then he smiled, and I saw more. I paid attention, and I never stopped paying attention; even now, when he smiles at me, I stop and I stare, and I feel.

I feel so much.

He hefts Charlotte and glances at me. “Are you sure this is okay? Dropping her off?”

“Absolutely. Go save the world. I’ve got this.”

I find myself leaning forward to kiss his cheek. At the last second, I manage to divert and shut the car door instead, as if that’s what I’d been leaning in to do. How long does it take for this to stop? For the neural pathways of my brain to reroute. To see Paul and hear his voice and smell his aftershave and not tumble back in time, ready to kiss his cheek or lean my head on his shoulder or tell him all my troubles.

Well, not all my troubles. Never all of them.

He lifts Charlotte and kisses her cheek before passing her to me. “What time do you work in the morning?”