My hands are shaking so badly I have to press the phone tighter to keep from dropping it. “Leave us alone.”
I hang up before he can get another word in, before I throw the phone through the windshield. The car suddenly feels like it’s shrinking around me, the air hot and heavy. I yank at my seat belt, shrugging out of my coat with jerky movements.
He can’t…he wouldn’t.
Shawn was a shitty father. When Sam was a baby, I convinced myself that Shawn just wasn’t a “baby person.” I thought maybe once Sam could talk and laugh and throw a ball, his father would connect with him. But the bond never came. It was okay, I told myself, because I loved my beautiful,brilliant boy enough for both of us, enough for ten people.
But what if he’s not bluffing?
Sam is only twelve. There could be a custody fight. One I can’t afford. One I don’t want him to endure.
The phone starts to ring again. I glare at the screen, my stomach knotting, before snatching it up and pressing it to my ear.
“I told you to leave us alone!” My voice cracks on the last word, and hot tears spill down my cheeks, dripping onto my collar.
“Elliot? What’s wrong?”
The voice is softer, steadier, and far less familiar than my ex-husband’s, but I recognize it instantly.
“Arthur?” I try to laugh, but it comes out broken, half a sob.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.” The pitch of my voice is too high, painfully false. I scrub at my wet cheeks with my sleeve, as though he can see me through the phone. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Elliot, if something is happening, I need you to…you can tell me if something is wrong.”
I sniff, ignoring the weight of his concern. This is not a conversation I can have with a man I barely know. A man who probably already thinks I am a walking, talking disaster.
“I’m fine,” I lie, feeling anything but. “Is everything okay with you?”
He has never called me before. I didn’t even have his number, which is why I didn’t recognize it when it flashed on my phone.
“Yes. I was just calling to schedule our session.”
Of course. The team will be wrapping up their away games this weekend. “Absolutely. When do you get back?”
“We’ll fly in late Saturday.”
“Great. Is Sunday too soon? I teach a class in the morning, but my afternoon is wide open.”
The line goes quiet, just the faint hiss of the connection between us, before his deep voice returns. “Sunday should be fine. Do you need me to bring anything?”
“No. Just wear something you can move in, and mentally prepare yourself to be uncomfortable.” I try to sound cheerful. Still, I have to admit that hearing Arthur’s voice is helping. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He can’t fix any of it. Yet somehow, talking to him calms me.
“Looking forward to it,” he replies, his tone dry.
“Really?”
“No. Not really.” A pause, then a low clearing of his throat. “Well, you have my number now. Call if you need anything.”
I swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see that either. “Thank you. Really. I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“You will. Goodbye, Elliot.”
“Bye.”
I slip my phone into my purse and take a deep breath, determined to erase the evidence of my tears. Crying in cars is becoming a hobby, and I hate it.
