No, I can’t think like that! I’ve worked too damn long to have all I’ve achieved to go up in smoke over someone else’s mistake.
I need to get ahead of this right now. There’s no way I’m letting the rumor mill get a hold of this story without my controlling it. But how?
Let’s think. That guy obviously had some deep-seated mental problems. He must have to shoot himself. Then again, Connor said it was an accident, so maybe he wasn’t intending on killing himself.
That’s even better. I can work with an accident. I just need to know the man’s name, and then I can get to work containing this mess.
I hurry over to the bathroom door and knock on it. “Connor! Are you finished in the shower yet? I need to ask you a question.”
Nothing but silence.
Ordinarily, I’d wait and give him some privacy, but there’s no time for that now. Flinging the door open, I walk into the bathroom and hear the shower still running. Strange. My husband isn’t normally one for long, luxurious showers.
“Are you okay in there?” I ask before swiping my hand across the mirror to clear away the steam.
Behind the glass door, Connor says, “Since you can hear the water still running, I must be in here. Sometimes I wonder about you, Jamie.”
He really can be quite testy sometimes. Whatever. I’m not interested in having that conversation with him right now.
“Connor, what was the name of the man who got shot today?”
Making a low sound like a growl, he answers, “He didn’t get shot, Jamie. He shot himself. Try phrasing it correctly.”
“Fine. What was the man’s name who shot himself up on the path today?”
My husband doesn’t respond, so after nearly half a minute, I ask, “Did you hear me? I need the man’s name, Connor!”
Just then, the door to the shower flies open toward me, and out steps Connor, dripping wet and reaching for the towel. The look on his face says he’s not happy with my questions, but if he knew what I needed to know for, he’d understand how important this is to our family.
“I don’t ask for much, Jamie. I just want some peace and quiet, and I expect that when I come in here to take a shower, I’ll at least have a few minutes to myself,” he says gruffly as he begins to dry off.
“Fine, Connor. I’m not here to interrupt anything. Just tell me the man’s name, and I’ll be gone.”
My husband complains about not having any space of his own in a house filled with women instead of answering my one simple question. I swear this man makes me so mad!
Disgusted by his unwillingness to help me, I yell, “Just tell me the goddamned man’s name, will you? Give me the name, and I’ll leave you alone, okay?”
My screaming stuns him for a few seconds, and the two of us stand just a few feet apart looking at one another like neither of us knows what to say. Why does he have to make everything so damn difficult?
He finishes drying off, so I ask once more, “What was the man’s name who shot himself today?”
It’s not an outlandish question. I don’t know why he has to give me a hard time instead of simply answering me.
Connor sighs and answers, “Bryan Corsei. That was his name. Happy now?”
I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes as I push past him on my way out of the bathroom. Happy? No, dearest husband, I’m not happy. I’m tired of dealing with you being miserable, and now it looks like all I’ve done to make sure our daughters get the best chance in this world is going to be ruined because of your stupid walking pal shooting himself.
So, no, on the whole, I’m not happy, Connor.
If I thought it would be worth the time and effort necessary to say all of that to him, I would, but I know Connor Jennings better than that. He’d just complain that I’m nagging again, and then he’d either storm out or we’d have a fight.
Definitely not the way I had hoped to spend a night without our girls.
Armed with at least the man’s name, now I can get to work. I have to do this right. It would be easier to start with one of thenicer mothers like Maris, but while that would be less painful, I know I have to call the biggest, baddest mother at gymnastics.
Vanessa Dennis.
Like all the other mothers, I usually refer to her by her initials behind her back. VD. It’s childish, but the woman is as awful as a venereal disease.
