“Honey, I think?—”
“You don’t have to say anything.” She presses two fingers to my lips. “I’m not upset.”
“You fucking better be,” I grunt, starting to get annoyed. “Because if you could just walk away from what we have, out of some misplaced sense of honor, we’re going to have a problem.”
Her eyes widen a little. “Wh-what are you talking about?”
“Well, let’s see. I just fucking quit my job because I’m falling in love with you and want to move to Cologne or Tahiti or wherever the hell else you want to go and make a life with you…and you just broke up with me. So I’m kind of pissed.”
She blinks.
Once.
Twice.
And then a third time, swallowing hard as she stares at me. “You, um, quit your job?”
“Yeah. I did.” I have to work hard to keep a straight face as myriad emotions flit across hers.
“And, um, you’re falling in love with me?”
“What did you think was happening? I made the mistake of telling your father I’d never stopped thinking about you and?—”
“You did?” Her eyes round.
“About five years ago. But you were married and I was in the middle of some scary shit, and it came out by accident when we ran into each other at the embassy in Tel Aviv. So, he knew our encounter had been special, even though neither of us was in any place in life to do anything about it.”
“He never told me,” she whispers.
“He couldn’t. It would have been too hard to explain since he wasn’t supposed to be in Tel Aviv either.”
“I, um…don’t know what to say?”
I reach for her hand, both amused and exasperated. “Let’s head back to my parents’ townhouse and talk there.”
“Your parents have a townhouse here?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She’s a little flushed. “I have a rental car.”
She absently hands me the keys.
We drive to my place in relative silence, though her fingers twine with mine and don’t let go. We hit traffic, though, so I explain about Sandra.
“She was investigating Amelie Pressman, the head mistress or whatever she’s called, at your school. She’s an American citizen but was apparently born in Iran, and there were questions about her being so close to the children of American diplomats and military personnel, who make up most of the roster.”
She nods. “Yes, about seventy-five percent are the kids of diplomats or military.”
“Sandra was there getting close to her, but when you arrived, Mrs. Pressman seemed to love you and suddenly Sandra was no longer the favorite child. Personally, she didn’t give a shit, but professionally you made her job a lot harder.”
Shannon grimaces. “Yikes. I had no idea. I was just doing the best I could for the kids…”
“I know. And she knows that too, but you made her crazy. When your mom called her, she thought it would be fun to play along since it was all about matchmaking, but she wasn’t going to actually hurt you or anything. She asked me to tell you she was sorry for scaring you and making you think you might be nuts.”
“That’s nice of her.” She pauses. “But I guess we’ve come full circle.”
“What do you mean?”
