“Shh! He doesn’t know I’m in his shed and I eavesdropped on a call he was having with a man named Mac. He’s expanding.”
“Good for him,” Reese says. “Business must be good. You don’t expand without a solid flagship.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Why are you in the shed?” Mom whispers. “And whispering?”
“Me in the shed isn’t the point either,” I say at a more normal volume, adjusting the blind to maintain my view. “The point is this is all complicated. He’s still him. Like I thought I would gethere and not have any issues, but—I don’t know. I’m freaking out. He broke into a tree with me, and then he sucked my finger and said he wanted to?—”
“He sucked your finger?” Remy cuts in, stunned. “First postcards for eight years and now fingergasms? My God, Rue. Write the damn book.”
“You write the book,” I snap. “I need you to focus. I was thinking how Jonathan would never do that—any of it—including the fingergasming”—what an idiotic word—“and—I don’t know—I’m thinking I can’t marry him.” Nash swims another lap. “Like maybe I don’t want to marry him.” It’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud. “What do you think?”
The air is dead except for hushed words I can’t make out.
“Hello?”
Reese clears her throat. “We’re here.”
“Okay. Well, what do you think?”
More dead air and hushed words.
“What is happening there?” I demand. “Why isn’t anyone talking? Is Mom okay?”
“I’m fine,” she sings.
“So?”
“So what do you want us to say?” Reese asks. “You’re questioning your marriage to one man for a man you’re already married to. You staying married to Nash would save me the hassle of figuring out what to buy you as a wedding gift since you soiled the family name the day you were born. Ohh, I should see if you qualify for a scarlet letter.B, for bastard child.”
“Can you please get some new material? And I have a father, thank you very much. He’s quite funny.”
“I knew you’d like him,” Mom pipes in.
“Remy? Mom?” I pivot. “What do you think?”
“I told you I didn’t think it was right from the beginning,” Mom says, haughty.
“Remy?”
“You’re married to Nash,” Remy says. “He sent you postcards foreight years.” I roll my eyes. “If that doesn’t tell you what you should do, nothing will.”
“Is Darren there?” I ask. “Maybe I need a man’s perspective, because you three are worthless.”
“He couldn’t make it.” Remy clears her throat. “Work.”
“Rue,” Reese says, “you already know what you want to do or you wouldn’t be calling. I met Nash once, I liked him—a lot. You loved him so much it was disgusting to witness. Jonathan’s different—you’re different with him. Not that I don’t like him, but it’s difficult to trust someone who road cycles.”
“What isthatsupposed to mean?”
“Those spandex-covered shitbags think they own the highway any weekend morning it gets above seventy degrees. They reek of rude.”
She has a point.
“He’s good for us.”
Tense whispers follow I can’t decipher.
