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I pick at my food, not hungry, but once he starts eating, he doesn’t stop until the plate is empty. I wonder when he last ate a home-cooked meal. I wonder if he has a hired chef. I wonder if Serena cooks for him.
Serena. He told me they weren’t married, but beyond that, he’s avoided the subject.
“Does she know?”
The question flies from my lips before I even give asking it much thought.
His expression is guarded. “Does who know what?”
“Serena,” I say. “Does she know about our daughter?”
He hesitates, like he has to think about it. “Pretty sure she does.”
“Pretty sure.”
“I vaguely remember telling her,” he says. “But we were both high at the time, so who knows if she believed me or if she even cared.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s nice to know.”
“We’re not…” he starts, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Look, about that…”
“It’s not my business,” I say. “Not anymore. Whatever you do and whoever you do it with, that’s on you. But if it starts affecting Maddie—”
“It won’t,” he says. “It’s not serious.”
“Looks serious.”
“Looks are deceiving. We’re just friends.”
“Friends,” I say. “So you’re telling me you’ve never had sex with her?”
He hesitates.
“That’s what I thought,” I mutter, twirling the uneaten spaghetti around on my plate.
“It wasn’t serious,” he says. “It was just a thing that happened.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “It was on and off.”
“When was the first time?”
I know I’m asking a lot of questions for someone whose business this isn’t, but the door is wide open, and I can’t stop myself from peeking inside for answers.
He hesitates again.
“Forget I asked,” I say as I give up on eating, shoving out of my chair. Conversation over. I busy myself with putting the leftovers away and start cleaning up while he sits there.
“Can I help with that?” he asks when I fill the sink with hot water.
“What, you’re gonna wash dishes one-handed?”
“Uh, I guess,” he says. “Don’t you have a dishwasher?”
“Nope,” I say, glancing at the dishwasher. “Well, I do, but it doesn’t work.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Who knows? Maintenance was supposed to fix it, but well, like my dad always says, they’re about as useful as Congress. They never fixed my washer and dryer, either.”
“What’s wrong with your washer and dryer?”
“One leaks, the other doesn’t heat.”
He grows eerily quiet as I start washing dishes. When I glance at him, I see he’s looking around, his brow furrowed. “Why do you live here?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s not much.”
“It’s enough,” I say, “for us, anyway. I work in a grocery store, you know. This is what it pays for.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because I never went to college like I was supposed to, so I do whatever I have to do.”
“But… why?”
Turning, I look at him again.
He’s staring at me with confusion.
“I send money,” he says. “It should be enough.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Why?”
“Why, Jonathan? You’re seriously asking me why?”
“Look, I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying, but we do just fine without your money.”
“Come on, don’t be that way, K.”
“What way?”
“That way. I want to help.”
“So be a father, not a paycheck.”
He’s quiet, as I continue washing dishes. When I finish and start draining the water, he stands up to go. He takes a few steps before hesitating, saying, “I never cheated on you.”
Drying my hands, I turn to him, leaning back against the counter.
“I’m serious,” he says. “The past few years are a blur, so I can’t tell you what I don’t remember, but I know we were over before anything ever happened with her.”
I nod, looking down at my hands. “I wasn’t accusing you of cheating. I just wanted to know how long it took you to move on.”
“Oh, well, that’s an easy one,” he says. “It hasn’t happened.”
Chapter 12
JONATHAN
Dim church basements aren’t my favorite places, nor are they my idea of a good time. I tend to think of them as necessary evils, although Jack would flip out if he heard me say that. They’re where we go to spill our souls, confessionals for the alcoholics of the world.
Meetings. I fucking hate them.
They’re supposed to be safe, anonymous, but that isn’t always the case. People tend to recognize my face, and well… next thing you know, pictures leak and it turns into a clusterfuck.
Metal folding chairs fill the basement of Hatfield Episcopal. I slip into a seat in the back, grateful that they’re not arranged in a circle so I can keep to myself. New place, new faces, which means they’ll want to hear my story, but I’m not planning to talk. I just need a reminder tonight.
People filter in, about a dozen of them, men and women, nobody I recognize until him.
Son of a bitch.
Michael Garfield.
He heads straight for the front. I avert my gaze, keeping my head down, my hat on, but it’s pointless. He pauses in front of everyone, eyes landing on me as he calls the meeting to order.
