Page 20 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“So leave the keys somewhere. She’ll get it tomorrow.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is that she seemed upset yesterday. I want to know why.”

“Maybe she was upset because you were bothering her at work.”

“I didn’t bother her.”

“Are you sure? You don’t exactly understand boundaries.”

My jaw clenches. That isn’t his word. It’s his mother’s. She used to say it whenever I asked where she’d been or why she’d spent money we didn’t have. Any expectation was control. Any question was an interrogation. Any attempt to keep our family together meant I didn’t understand boundaries.

Eventually, I stopped asking. By then, I had problems far worse than a failing marriage.

“Put Molly on the phone,” I say.

“I told you she isn’t here.”

I know my son. I might not know him as well as I should, but I know when he’s guilty.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Who was she?”

“Nobody.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“She’s a friend.”

My stomach knots. The more he talks, the less I want to hear.

“If you cheated on her⁠—”

“Stay out of it.”

“She’s going to be your wife.”

“Maybe. If she stops acting crazy.”

My vision darkens at the edges. “Crazy?”

“She started screaming before I could even explain anything.”

“What was there to explain?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“If that woman was half-dressed in the house you share with Molly, no explanation is going to make it better.”

“How do you know she was half-dressed?”

The question comes out sharp. He’s caught himself. I didn’t know. Not until now. A cold, heavy certainty settles through me.