Finally, Chelsea looks up and I see her eyes. They swim with hurt, shine with pain. And a terrible pressure squeezes my chest.
“Jake can’t play right now, Rory. He has to go back to his side of the field.”
Rory’s eyebrows draw together. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
She may have been talking to Rory, but she was speaking to me.
“Rory, go in the other room,” I tell him, my eyes squarely on his aunt.
Miraculously, he does what I ask. And when he’s gone I snap. “Are you seriously gonna pull that shit? Put them in the middle? Holding them over my head?” My finger points hard. “That’s fucked up, Chelsea.”
She comes at me, eyes blazing. “I would never put them between us. Besides, there would have to be an ‘us’ in the first place, and according to you, there’s not! And me not wanting you around Rory right now has nothing to do with this discussion and everything to do with you acting like a dick!”
From the other room, Rosaleen says, “Oooh . . . Aunt Chelsea called Jake the D-word!”
Rory’s voice carries into the kitchen. “Dipshit?”
“No.”
“Dumbass?”
“No.”
“Douchebag?”
“What’s a douchebag?”
“Rory!” Chelsea and I yell at exactly the same time.
Our gazes hold and clash, neither giving an inch.
“Maybe I should just go.”
It’s not a question, but she answers anyway. “I think that would be best.”
I’m the one who brought it up, so there’s no fucking reason her words should leave me feeling cold inside. Hollow. But they do.
Without another word, I turn and walk out the door.
19
Thursday starts off shitty and goes straight to hell from there. It’s raining, and my morning run is crap because I had a terrible night’s sleep. No matter how many times I punched the hell out of my pillow, I couldn’t get comfortable. I’m late getting into the office because some moron who didn’t know how to drive in the rain slammed his car into a telephone pole, backing up traffic to East fucking Jabip. Then, an hour after I finally get settled at my desk to start working through a pile of files taller than I am, I end up spilling hot coffee on my favorite shirt.
“Goddamn fucking shit!”
Stanton swivels around in his chair from his desk on the other side of the office we share.
“Problem?”
I rub at the stain on my chest with a napkin, trying to murder it. “I spilled my coffee.”
His eyebrows rise. “Did somebody piss in it first? You’ve been barking all morning. You even snapped at Mrs. Higgens—and she’s as close to a saint as I’ve ever seen.”
I shake my head, not in the mood to share. “Just a bad day.”
He goes back to reading the document in his hands. “And it’s only just begun.”
Fucking tell me about it.
? ? ?
I don’t hear from Chelsea all morning, not that I expect to. And I don’t think about her. Not the anger frozen on her face or the hurt in her eyes the last time I saw her. Not her plump lips that kiss so softly, smile so easily, and laugh so enchantingly. I don’t think about the kids either—not Riley’s wisely perceptive look or Raymond’s kind questions. I don’t think about Rory’s smartass smirk or Rosaleen’s giggle. Not Regan’s sweet voice or Ronan’s drooling grin.
I refuse to think of any of them—at all.
? ? ?
After a quiet lunch with Sofia and Stanton—Brent was stuck in court—I sit down at my desk and bury myself in case files for two hours. And then there’s a commotion outside my office. Raised voices and Mrs. Higgens saying I can’t be disturbed without an appointment. For a crazy split second I think maybe it’s Chelsea with a few of the kids.
But it’s not.
“Mrs. Holten.”
She stands in my office doorway, blond hair perfectly coiffed in an elegant knot at the base of her neck. Her blouse is white, just a shade darker than her skin tone. French-manicured nails decorate delicate hands, one of which is still graced with a shiny engagement ring and wedding band. They rest at her sides, against a Democratic-blue skirt.
Mrs. Holten is Senator William Holten’s wife. The one he’s accused of beating to a bloody pulp in the US attorney’s case against him. The case I’m representing him in. And she’s in my office.
“I need to speak with you, Mr. Becker.”
Mrs. Higgens tries to explain, “I told her you can’t see her, Jake. I—”
I hold up my hand. “It’s all right, Mrs. Higgens. I’ll take care of it.” She closes the door as she leaves.
Mrs. Holten lets out a quick relieved breath and steps closer to my desk. “Is it true?”
“Mrs. Holten—”
“I just came from the prosecutor’s office. They said at my husband’s trial, certain . . . indiscretions . . . from my past could be made public. By you. Is that true?”
I stand up. My voice is even but firm. “I can’t speak with you. You are the complaining witness in a felony assault case against my client.”
“I need to know!”