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Ruthie
We get into the car, and we’re both silent for a minute, though I catch Shane watching the house retreat in his rearview mirror as he drives away.
“Shane,” I finally say.
“Uh-oh, here it comes,” he intones, a glint of humor in his eyes, trained out the windshield.
“Your mom told me you got into a scuffle with Rand before he left town. What happened, and why didn’t I know about it?”
Shane’s flinch suggests he wasn’t expecting this line of questioning. “Yeah, Danny told me he was giving you some trouble. So I went and had a talk with him.”
“With your fists?” I ask in disbelief. “Does Danny know?”
“Not about that part. I didn’t expect it to happen.”
“Why didn’t Rand or his parents try to have you arrested?” His parents are what you’d call the litigious type. They once sued a landscaping company because Mrs. Callaghan thought they’d purposefully pruned three of their bushes to look like a dick and balls. Knowing how difficult Mrs. Callaghan is, I’m guessing that they did, in fact, do exactly that, but that’s neither here nor there.
Shane’s lips twitch. “Because I gave him a good reason not to.”
“You know, you’re terrible at telling stories. I hope you’re better at this in the courtroom, or Josie’s screwed.”
His mouth works, then he says, “Danny didn’t want him to give you a hard time.” A second of silence stretches between us, then he pulls the car over at the curb in front of someone’s house, parks, and turns to face me. “Neither did I. I’d just started at Myles & Lee, so I had a P.I. from the office follow him around. He got some photos of him buying coke off a college kid. I told him to give you what you wanted and then leave you the fuck alone, that’s it, I swear to Christ.”
“So why’d you hit him?” I ask, my heart thumping hard. This would have happened years ago, before Izzy was even born. Shane and I were on particularly bad terms back then, especially after he’d gone to the trouble of telling me my future husband was a piece of shit before my wedding, then doubling down on that affirmation on the night of the rehearsal dinner.
He grips the wheel, then releases it. “He accused me of being Izzy’s father. He said no man would care about you that much unless he was…”
“Fucking me,” I say flatly. Emotion batters my insides, both because Shane cared enough about me five and a half years ago to bother with any of that, even though I’d made it clear how disinterested I was in his opinion, and because my ex-husband cared so little. There’s anger too. Anger at all of them. Look at these men, thinking they could sort it all out behind my back. That it could be settled between them without involving me.
He swallows audibly before continuing. “Then he said he figured there were a lot of possible fathers since you were always hanging around with some other guy.” He waves a hand. “I guess he was probably talking about the G.I. Joe. Rand’s an idiot.”
“I won’t disagree with you there,” I say. “But so are you. And Danny. You didn’t need to do any of that. I signed a prenup, so it was already established what would happen when we got divorced. And if it happened around the holidays, like your mother remembers, then he’d already signed the relinquishment of paternal rights. He didn’t care whether Izzy was his daughter. He didn’t want anything to do with having a kid.”
He clenches his hand, then unclenches it. “I didn’t trust him to do the right thing. He’s not a good person.”
“You’re right. Is that what you wanted to hear? He’s never once asked to talk to Izzy or see a photo of her.” I pause, watching him. “Maybe he’s really convinced himself she’s your daughter.”
He looks stricken, as if he’d never considered this possibility before. “I told him—”
I lift a hand. “I know. If he’s convinced himself of that it’s because he wants to believe he’s a good guy. That he wasn’t in the wrong. I don’t care what Rand thinks. But I want you to care what I think. If we’re going to try this, you need to have more respect for my opinion than he did. I don’t need someone trying to steamroll me all the time.”
Maybe his mother feels the same way, if he’s tried to get her to move or pack away the photos. The situation might require a lighter touch—someone who will listen instead of trying to solve.
He nods, his eyes on me. “You’re right.”
I pause, my mind working furiously, hung up on this image of Shane confronting Rand. Of Shane hanging a photo of me and my family in his room.
I place my hand on his leg. “Your mom told me that you have a photo of me in your room.”
“It sounds kind of messed up when you put it that way,” he says with a soft laugh. “But it was a photo of you and Danny and Izzy. Danny’s like a brother to me.”
“I know,” I say, my voice catching, because I know he’s scared of losing my brother. He’s scared, but he still wants to tell him about us, because I mean something to him. Maybe I have for a while.
“Don’t worry,” he says, his tone teasing. “I’ve never once thought of you as a little sister. The dog act convinced me of that. No sister of mine would be so poorly behaved.”
I lift my hand to give his arm a shove, then decide to keep it there, curled around his bicep.
A beat passes, then he says, “I’m not going to pretend I just put it up because of Danny, or because Izzy’s the only kid in the world who’s ever liked me enough to call me uncle. I liked having you in that room too. Because even though I didn’t understand why yet, I knew you were important to me.” He gives me a half-smile. “A lot of people go around telling other people what they want to hear. Especially in the circles I used to run in. Most of the women I’ve dated have liked my suits, my car, my money. The way I look.”
