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A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “So you think all I need to do to get a threesome with supermodels is ask for it?”
I groan. “Shut up. You already know you can get pretty much anyone you want.”
He regards me quietly. “But not you, because you’re holding out for the fairy tale.”
He’s offered this up as if it’s a statement, but I almost sense that it’s...a question.
Would I? Sleeping with Caleb wouldn’t necessarily rule out waiting on the fairy tale. The two things could, in theory, occursimultaneously. It could happen right here and now, me sitting on this step with my legs spread wide.
Yes, yes I would. I’d do it without question if that was something he was open to.
He huffs out a low laugh. “You have no poker face, Lucie.”
I blink out of my reverie. I wonder if he knows I was trying to figure out how we could have sex on my cement front steps. But I’m not what he wants and he’s not what I want either, if he’s got no interest in a family. Plus he’s my boss. It would be a disaster of epic proportions. “I’m definitely still holding out for the fairy tale,” I reply. “But I’ll stop telling the neighbors you buried your wife in the backyard.”
He grins. “Thanks. You’ve been making it really hard to lure their supermodel daughters over.”
I laugh and climb to my feet, only realizing how very little I’m wearing as his gaze slides over me. My pajamas cover more than a bathing suit but feel like less. Especially after the conversation we just had.
"Thanks. For coming to my rescue.”
"Any time," he says, keeping his eyes carefully trained above my neck.
18
LUCIE
I’m walking fast toward aftercare when Mrs. Doherty, the head of school, stops me. She’s not normally here this late and the way she’s jumped in front of me out of nowhere makes this all feel intentional.
“Lucie,” she says with a practiced smile. “Do you have a moment?”
No. No, I do not. I’m tired and Henry is undoubtedly sitting at that table staring at the clock...but you don’t saynoto St. Ignatius’s head of school, not when there are four hundred families dying to take your child’s spot.
I follow her to a spacious office, outfitted for a college dean rather than the head of a school that ends at sixth grade. She offers me a beverage from the small glass-fronted refrigerator full of Topo Chico and Diet Coke. I shake my head, sitting on my hands to keep them from tapping out my impatience.
“I wanted to discuss Henry’s progress with you,” she says. There’s a warning in her fading smile. “Mrs. Kroesinger has mentioned he isn’t progressing with his reading the way we’d like.”
My stomach knots. “Yes,” I reply. “She gave me somethings to work on with him at home.” And I was doing so, religiously, until I started working. The realization that we only did the flashcards once this week makes my breath stick in my chest.
“We’d like to get him evaluated before we plan for next year,” she says. She hands me a typed list of names. “To see if there are any issues we’re unaware of.”
“Issues,” I repeat. I don’t want him to have a reading problem. I don’t want to know he’s going to struggle for the rest of his life. But what worries me most are those fears I’ve kept to myself. Because what if it isn’tonlyreading? What if it’s something more?
She gives me a forced smile. “We just want to make sure we can meet his needs going forward.”
Which sounds less like concern for my son…and more like the process of kicking a kid out of St. Ignatius.We’ve reviewed the evaluation, she’ll tell me later,and I’m afraid we aren’t equipped to provide what he needs.
Would this be happening if I’d played the game? If I’d told anyone and everyone that my father is Robert Underwood? I doubt it.
I thank her, the words sticking like glue in my throat, and arrive at aftercare to find Sophie playing while Henry does a puzzle alone.
Why couldn’t it all have been easier for him? Why couldn’t he have gotten a touch of Sophie’s extroversion to help him socially? Or her joy, her grasp of phonics? I just want him to be happy and the fact that I can’t guarantee it’ll happen breaks my heart.
As soon as I have the twins buckled in, Sophie is asking about dinner, which I haven’t even thought about, and demanding time at the beach, and telling me she needs me to find her baby photos for show-and-tell tomorrow and I want to scream at her to stop. It’s what my mother did to me, constantly,and for far less. I hate that I’m tempted to emulate her, but I need a second to breathe, to not be in charge.
We climb out of the van just as Caleb exits his garage. His timing could not be worse—I’m not sure I can manage even a brief, neighborly conversation.
He walks over to us with something in his hands. “I was about to—” he begins and then looks at me and falls silent. He hands both Henry and Sophie pieces of metal. “See if you can figure out how these go together. Your mom and I will be right back.”
