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“Trey was just finishing up with his timeslot when I came.” She flashes me a smile that’s all teeth and absolutely no amusement. “Because he was on time.”
Jibe. Snap. Dig.
I fucking hate this part of breaking up.
So why did you ask for a divorce, asshole?
Because—
“Oh, great,” a female voice says from behind me, “you’re both here.” I turn to see Ms. Carlson coming toward us, tucking her cell into the pocket of her flowing black slacks. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Don’t apologize,” Brit tells her. “Stefan just got here, and we were all catching up. Is your son okay?”
Ms. Carlson smiles exasperatedly. “He’s fine. Just couldn’t find his lacrosse stick.”
Brit laughs. “Sounds about right.”
Ms. Carlson unlocks the door, holds it open. “Should we go in?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, starting forward. “We should go in. Right, Brit?”
Her shoulders stiffen and she opens her mouth?—
Trey—God, what a dipshit name—snags her cell from her hand and jabs at the screen, presumably programming his number in.
And, swear to fuck, I didn’t think the little dick had it in him.
He hands it back, murmurs, “I’ll look for your text.”
Jesus.
I don’t know whether to congratulate him on a job well done, or to punch the fucker over and over again until he ceases breathing.
The second one.
Definitely the second one.
But I don’t get the chance because then Brit is smiling at Trey—and it’s a real fucking smile, and I hate it, and?—
“Talk to you soon,” she murmurs to him.
Then she walks into the classroom, eyes deliberately not coming to mine.
And I have to follow behind her.
Have to act like everything is okay, like everything is fine.
Like everything is exactly how it should be.
Just…my wife arranging a date with another man.
Ex-wife.
No big deal.
Eight
Brit
