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“With the purchase of the gun?” He rolls his eyes. “I can’t see you just waltzing into the gun store.”
I rear back. “Well, I did.”
It takes a second for the incongruous mental image to land. His eyes narrow. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”
One of Blair’s alarms sounds. “Yes,” I say, glancing at the small window in the door, watching for a nurse who should appear any moment. “But we can’t discuss it here.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Blair spends three days in the hospital. Three long and arduous, soul-sucking days. Three days is also the amount of time Greg and I hardly speak, unless medically necessary. It’s a tense time revolving around Blair’s prognosis and recovery. Factor in shuffling back and forth between the hospital to care for Naomi, plus babysit our jobs, and well, there’s not much left over for the two of us.
Thankfully, we get a lucky break. The CSF leak clears up on its own, and Blair’s knee surgery goes as well as expected. She suffers headaches daily, and she sleeps a lot, but by the time we are released we’re all just happy to get to go home. To be able to sleep in our own beds, and shower in our own shower, to not be woken up every hour by well-meaning nurses, makes the joy palpable. It feels like Christmas, almost.
Before we are released from the hospital, a group of colleagues, including my entire realty office, banded together. They disassembled the old swing set and purchased and reassembled a brand-new one. They stocked our pantry and our refrigerator and had the guest room downstairs transformed into a temporary bedroom for Blair and me.
Some of our neighbors dropped off wrapped Christmas gifts. Their generosity took a lot off my plate, and for that I am indelibly grateful. Dana and Sarah arranged a meal calendar for the next few weeks. It almost makes up for what they said about me behind my back. In that way, I suppose guilt has its perks.
While I was in the hospital with Blair, an officer met with Greg about the missing bolts from the swing set. He took his statement and several photos. I don’t hold out much hope that anything will come of it, but at least it has been documented.
Word has spread among our circles about Jack Mooney and the harassment. Our neighbors have been told what to look for. Talk is cheap, though, and rumors spread. I’ve heard gossip that is true, although much of it isn’t. While I appreciate the goodwill, this is not the kind of attention I’d wish upon our family. It feels like we're a twenty-car pileup in the middle of an otherwise empty roadway, and neighbors crane their collective neck to catch a glimpse as they move forward.
Once we are settled at home, Greg comes into the makeshift bedroom where Blair is sleeping and I am perched on the floor with my laptop on my knees. He tells me we need to talk.
“You always hate it when I say that.”
He looks away and out the window, and with a heavy sigh, tells me he didn’t come to fight. His expression and the slump of his shoulders allow me to drop my guard too.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d contacted him?”
“I don’t know. I was handling it.”
“And you knew I’d be mad.”
My bottom lip juts out. “And I knew you’d be mad.”
“We can’t keep secrets from each other. It’s not healthy.”
“You lied to me about the money. You lie to me about your work; I know things are worse off than you let on and still you lie.”
He opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it.
“But Alex? Really?”
Somehow I don’t think this is a good time to offer up the information about Benny and what he plans to do. “You’re right. It was probably a mistake.”
“The guy’s a creep. Remember what he put you through?”
“He was your friend.”
“Keyword. Was. And my God, how easily you forget.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“No,” he says. “You shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”
“You’re probably right. But we need help.”
A grin slides across his face. “What’s the difference between a good lawyer and a bad lawyer?”
