Page 42 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“This has nothing to do with him.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.”

Carter steps closer. Molly retreats. I move between them without thinking.

His face twists. “Get out of my way.”

“Lower your voice.”

“Or what?”

“Carter.”

“Are you going to hit me?” He throws the flowers onto the pavement. “Is that how you solve problems now? You going to go back to prison?”

The words are intended to hurt. They do. But not enough to make me move.

“I’m not going to hit you,” I say.

“Then move.”

“No.”

Molly’s fingers brush my arm. A warning. Or a plea. I don’t know which. Carter sees the touch. His face drains of color.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispers.

“Carter,” Molly says.

“Did you sleep with him?”

“No.”

“Did he touch you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

The phrase echoes through the parking lot. The same words Carter used when I asked about the woman laughing beside him. He recognizes them too. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Then he looks at me.

“Did you touch her? What did you do?”

“I kissed her.”

The confession sits between us.

Children laugh near the buses. A teacher calls for someone to slow down. Cars move steadily through the pickup line. The rest of the world continues while my son looks at me as if I have driven a knife into his chest.

“When?” he asks.

“After she left you.”

“She hadn’t left me.”

“She found another woman in your house.”