We proceeded down the corridor, Hayes pausing at a photograph of me dancing with the Boston Ballet School, back when classes six days a week did not seem so insane. “How old?”
“Fifteen.”
“Wow.”
And then coming to a complete standstill before a shot of me, seven months pregnant with Isabelle, on the beach in Kona. He was silent as he pulled me into him, my back against his chest, his chin on my shoulder. We remained like that for a few moments, neither of us speaking, until he moved his hand over my belly, holding it there.
“You are so beautiful.”
“Don’t.” I pushed his hand away. “Don’t do that.”
“Oh-kay… What… what am I doing?”
“Don’t do the baby-fantasy thing with me.”
“Is that what I was doing?” He sounded so confused I almost felt sorry for him.
“That’s where it was heading.”
“Oh-kay,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”
He dropped it, which was wise. Because if I allowed myself to entertain any of the numerous paths I thought he might be taking in his head, I most likely would have asked him to leave and not ever come back. I could not stomach the weight of that just yet. The idea that with us there could be no happy ending.
Our tour continued: my office, the guest room, Isabelle’s bedroom. My daughter was going through a Hollywood Regency phasewith her fuzzy throw pillows and ornate lighting fixtures. It was all white lacquer and fuchsia with metallic accents and Moroccan poufs.
“I know this is surprising, but I haven’t been in many thirteen-year-old girls’ rooms,” Hayes said, nosing around.
“That’s probably a good thing.”
Isabelle had a couple of framed graphic prints on her wall, pretty pink posters that read “For Like Ever” and “Keep Calm and Carry On.” But above her desk, tacked up to the busy bulletin board, were no fewer than half a dozen pics of August Moon and the band’s calendar. Her photo from the meet-and-greet was sitting on her night table.
Hayes spotted it, exhaling deeply.
“Weird, right?”
He nodded and then turned to me. “We’ve fucked up royally, haven’t we?”
“Yeah. So now you know what I’m dealing with.”
“I’m sorry. It’s slightly different from this perspective.”
“You think?”
“Yeah.” He plopped himself down on the bed and lay back, his head on the fuzzy pink pillows. “Fuck. This is going to be ugly.”
“Yes, it is.”
“She’ll be there tomorrow evening? What are we telling her?”
“That you’re my client. That you’re a friend. That’s it.”
“She’s going to buy that?”
“Let’s hope so.” Daniel’s words were weighing on me.
Hayes was quiet for a second, his eyes searching mine. “Why haven’t you told her, Solène? You’re feeling guilty…”
I said nothing. Guilt did not scratch the surface.
