Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Does Scott know?”
“No. And I don’t want him to…” The rest dissolved as the tears hit. “Because if he knew, he’d want me to have it.”
“And you don’t want another child?”
Her voice was gentle, but the question cracked something open in me.
“Maybe if things were different,” I said, my throat tightening before I could stop it. “If we weren’t barely hanging on, if I didn’thave to count every grocery item in my cart… but I can’t. I just…” The sentence broke apart before I could finish it. “I can’t have another one.”
The words sat there between us, sucking all the oxygen out of the room.
“I’d already made the decision,” I said faintly. “My appointment is tomorrow. I had a babysitter booked. I was going to slip out without telling Scott. But then I caught him in that lie, and everything just… came apart. And now—” I stopped, swallowing hard as tears blurred my vision. “And now I feel like once I’m no longer pregnant, nothing is stopping me from taking Mother up on her offer.”
A flicker of hope crossed my sister’s face.
“That’s not a good thing, Melanie. I know you want me to choose Graham, but if I do that, I’m not only blowing up my marriage, I’m taking a devoted father away from his kids.”
“So, you’d rather be anchored to Scott forever?”
“Don’t do that,” I said, meeting her eye. “I’m barely holding it together. I just need you to be there for me—because either way, I won’t be pregnant by tomorrow afternoon.”
For a long moment, Melanie stayed very still. Then she reached across the small space and took my hand. Her fingers were cold but certain, grounding me.
“Okay,” she said. “What do you need me to do?”
26
SCOTT: BASIC INSTINCT
The ad ran in thePenny Saver, squeezed between a listing for a used microwave and a babysitter “with references.”
’75 Chevy pickup, runs great, $1,800 firm. Ask for Scott.
By noon, the phone rang.
By three o’clock, Tom was standing in my driveway in khakis, golf shoes, and a sun visor that looked like it came with a country-club membership. Nice guy. Easy laugh. And he clearly had the money.
“Beautiful day, huh?” he said, shaking my hand like we were old friends. “Love this ocean breeze.”
“You live inland?”
“I do. Glendale area. Too damn hot, but they got great golf courses.”
His grip was firm, his smile infectious. I liked him immediately. “Anyway,” he said, “let’s check out this beauty.”
See, that was all I wanted for the Shaggin’ Wagon: someone who’d love it as much as I did. If I had my way, I would hold onto it. Pass it down to Keith one day, so he could toss his own surfboard in the back and drive it to the beach in the early morning.But I wanted my family back more, so today was the day we parted ways.
Tom walked a slow circle around the truck, whistling low. “Man, they don’t make ’em like this anymore. Original paint?”
“Mostly,” I said. “Couple touch-ups here and there.”
We chatted about cars, his work in real estate, and golf. Non-stop golf talk. Like he lived and breathed it. Even dressed like golf, right down to the patch on his jacket of a golf flag. I was only half listening to all the golf talk, wanting to move the sale along so I could skip to step two of the ‘win my family back’ plan.
“Mind if I take it for a spin?”
I tossed him the keys and hopped in the passenger seat. Tom didn’t rev it or push it, just drove her smooth and respectful, returning with that same relaxed grin. We got out and circled the truck.
“It’s a beauty.” He gave the tailgate a quick pat, nodding to himself. “You said $1,800?”
