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We.I want to kick him.
“You said you weren’t married,” I whisper.
“Yousaid you were a widow,” he shoots back, his eyes aflame.
“That’s true!” I place my hands on my hips. “And now it’s evenmoretrue!”
Patrick’s expression falters. “Jesus,” he says in a low voice. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
I stare at a billboard across the street for a new hardware store a few blocks away. The tenderness in Patrick’s voice is heartbreaking. Just like that, I want to touch him, bring him close. “Of course I’m not okay,” I mumble. “I walked in on my husband bleeding out. Most of the people in that funeral think I did it.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“Iknow that.” Another tiny piece of me crumbles, but I have to resist. I raise my chin, my gaze purposefully nowhere near his face. “It’s better we lied to one another in Philly. And it’s good nothing really happened. It would be humiliating, considering Lynn and I work together.”
“I regret that nothing happened,” Patrick says quietly.
I clamp down hard on the inside of my cheek.Do not react.
But Patrick moves closer. “I kicked myself when I didn’t get your phone number. And when you showed up at that benefit...” He letsout an embarrassed laugh. “I don’t mean to be cheesy, but it felt like the universe was trying to tell us something.”
“Don’t bring the universe into this. Don’t pretend this is fate.”
But he senses me faltering. His suit jacket rustles, and before I know it, his fingers are twining through mine. Involuntarily, I grip hard. Then I let go. But then I squeeze again. There is a push-and-pull in my heart and brain. I know I should walk away, but I can’t.
“Can I call you?”
“I...” I close my eyes.Say no. You have to say no.
“Patrick?”
People have begun to stream out of the church, and some have trickled around to the side lot. I have a clear view of Lynn Godfreyclick-clacking in her high heels toward a row of vehicles, her children in tow.Patrick’schildren. She’s whispering to them, patting the head of the little boy, who’s dressed in an expensive-looking child-size suit. Lynn’s head swivels about as she looks around for her husband. I also notice Willa in the crowd... and shedoessee me. Her eyes narrow on Patrick. I step away from him, mustering a look of innocence.
Patrick backs up, too, but not before he gives me a deep, meaningful look. “Think about it, Kit. Please?”
“Um,” I murmur, uncomfortable because Willa hasn’t taken her eyes off us. Patrick jogs back to the parking lot. Lynn greets him with a surprised smile—she definitely hasn’t seen that he and I were talking. She takes his hand, and they climb into a white Porsche SUV.
Willa marches to me, her brow furrowed. “Who was that?”
“Just... someone.” I can feel the heat in my cheeks. “Expressing his condolences.”
Willa frowns. Maybe she can tell I’m not being completely truthful. She turns to the car Patrick and Lynn have just climbed inside. Behind the windshield, I can see Patrick’s lips moving. Is he giving Lynn an excuse for what he was doing behind the church? Is hetelling her he loves her, and that he’s a good man, and thathewould never be like dishonest, philandering Greg Strasser?
He’s a liar,I want to scream. I want to hate Patrick. But I don’t. All I can think of is his fingers entwined in mine, his mouth saying,I can’t be away from you.I am a terrible, terrible person, because the truth of it is, I don’t think I can be away from him, either.
13
WILLA
SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 2017
Look at this turnout!” I swing Kit’s Mercedes E-class down yet another filled parking lot row, narrowly avoiding two young, muscled dudes in a Blue Hill Country Club golf cart. Every parking space I pass is filled with a car. “I don’t rememberthismany people at the church. I guess most would rather drink to Greg’s memory than pray.”
Kit’s got her eyes closed. “For the millionth time, Willa, just valet.”
“All right, all right.” I steer toward the front of the club. The dashboard dings, though I’m not sure why. Kit insisted that I drive after the funeral because she was feeling too woozy. I wonder if it has anything to do with that George Clooney clone she was having a tête-à-tête with after the funeral.
The club’s main building is a sprawling, ivy-covered monstrosity with long glass windows that look out onto the driving range. I wish I didn’t remember this place as precisely as I do, but it seems branded on my brain. When I was fifteen and my father got promoted to president of Aldrich University, he decided that our family should join the club. Most of my memories from here are of sitting slumpedat a giant oak table in the dining room, watching preppy girls from my class snicker at me from behind straight, sleek columns of hair. After fulfilling her socialization requirement, my mom always sank down next to me and whispered, “God, these people are suchshits.”
