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“I don't, actually.”
News spreads faster than bacteria in this town, but evidently that doesn't extend to me. I've been back well over a week now and people still go out of their way to avoid me.
I know Clay's in the hospital for some kind of terrible accident, but my knowledge of his condition ends there. And yeah, maybe I could have asked Mom, but she's drowning in the grief of her own circumstances too much to gossip about anyone else's.
Regardless of the specifics, though, the situation is heart-shattering. From what I remember of him, Clay was a gentle guy who played football and helped the elderly carry home their groceries. Sure, he had the big ego and cockiness that came as a side effect of being a jock, but at his heart, he was one of the good ones.
It hurts to imagine him lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere.
Leighton rolls her eyes as if having to fill me in herself is a mammoth inconvenience. She's full of shit, though. Girl loves to gossip more than Mrs. Patchouli, even about those in her inner circle. But unlike the old hag, there's nothing underhanded about her intentions. Leighton may speak her truth freely and without compromise, but she doesn't have a bone of maliciousness in her body.
“If I tell you this, you better not go spreading it around everywhere, right?”
I almost laugh at her ridiculous and purposeless need to warn me simply for appearances’ sake when we spent every evening of our teenage years running up our parents' phone bill just to fill each other in on the rumors we'd heard that day.
“Who would I tell?”
“That's true.” She grins. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Spreading her elbows wide on the table, she leans in close. “The family doesn’t like to talk about it, which is understandable, obviously.” She waits for me to nod in agreement before continuing. “But from what the town's saying and the little bits I've heard from Sadie herself, Clay wrecked his car on the way home from the office.”
“Okay,” I draw out the word, not understanding why it's being treated as something so scandalous when it's nothing less than tragic.
“Supposedly, he was in such a hurry to get home, he ran a red light and hit the side of a box truck head on.”
“I don't get it.” I shake my head. “Why was he driving so fast?”
Her gaze drops to the table for a moment, confliction flashing in her eyes.
“You don't have to tell me,” I whisper. “It's none of my business anyway.”
“You'll only hear it from Mrs. Patchouli if not me,” she says, looking back up. “It's just…it ain't the kind of shit we should be gossiping about, and that's saying something coming from me, you know?”
I nod.
“People are saying that Clay told Sadie he was staying late at work, but his car got wrecked on the opposite side of town from his office.”
“What?” I gape, slowly piecing together the slithers of information I'm being given. “So, he lied about where he was?”
“Seems that way.” She shrugs. “But there's more. Someone overheard Sadie on the phone, like a few months ago, I think, and apparently, the reason he was driving so fast to get home was because she'd found emails on his computer from his secretary. Inappropriate emails and“—she lowers her voice—“photographs.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yep. She called him, telling him to get his ass home as fast as he could unless he wanted a divorce.”
“Fuck.”
Her eyes widen at my curse, but I don't apologize for it. Leighton swears worse than a drunken sailor on a good day.
“Yeah.” She looks solemnly down at her coffee. “Imagine your husband almost dying in a car accident the very same night you find out he's been cheating.”
“I can't.”
“I don't think anyone can.”
“How's she doing?” I ask. “Is she okay?”
