After the Climb (River Rain 0.50)

Another moment of silence, and then, with what after years I knew instantly was barely controlled rage, “Why would he do such a thing?”

“He was in love with me.”

“And I’ll repeat, why would he do such a goddamned, motherfucking, obnoxiously selfish, insanely damaging thing?”

“Tom, calm down.”

“Calm down? Seriously? How can you be calm about this?” he asked in disbelief.

“I’m not. Though it’s not brand-new news to me.”

“Jesus Christ,” he bit out.

“I’m processing now with champagne and chocolate chip cookies, homemade. And tomorrow I’ll process with Heddy. Then Trish and Scott. And Chloe is coming over for gimlets when I get home tomorrow night.”

“Thank God you have the cookies.”

I nearly laughed.

Because he was serious.

“Tom, I’ll be okay,” I told him.

“It’s good that asshole is dead, because if that geek punk was alive, I’d kill him.”

“Tom,” I whispered.

“You know, you had history with him, so I had to assume you knew something I didn’t. But I cannot tell you how relieved I was when my thirteen-year-old son came to me, obviously uncomfortable, and shared he didn’t like his mom being around his Uncle Corey, because he thought his Uncle Corey was a creeper. Until then, I thought it was only me.”

I was stunned.

“That happened with Matt? And you felt that way too?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you adored the guy. And then he’d do shit, for you, the kids, that made me, and since Matt and I eventually started talking about it, also Matt, feel like assholes for thinking the way we thought. But I should have listened to my gut. And my son is no fool, his. Last, as a father, witnessed how Corey treated his own son, and know to my bones his soul was black.”

I wasn’t there yet, to see Corey as having a black soul.

Perhaps mentally ill in some way.

But not that.

However, bringing Corey’s son Hale into the conversation—a young man who was really mostly our son, because of the way Corey was, and frankly, also the way Samantha was—Tom had a point.

“Tom, I really can’t—”

“I know you can’t,” he said tersely, not angry at me, frustrated there was nothing he could do to help.

That was Tom, my second love, the father of my children, and that was also part of the reason we remained friends.

Because he hurt me, and he did it badly.

He was still a good man.

“But I’m here if you need me,” he finished.

Yes.

A good man.

“Thanks, honey.”

“Take some melatonin so you can sleep,” he advised.

“Right.”

“Champagne won’t do it, Genny. People think wine is a sleep aid, and it absolutely is not.”

What to do when your years as a top-ranked professional tennis player were behind you?

Well, if you have abundant personality and good looks, you get into commentating, like Tom did.

And as a side hobby, you train to become a sports medicine doctor.

Like Tom did.

Overachievers, both of us.

And we watched our children like hawks, terrified our shadows would shrivel something in them when we wanted them to plant the roots of their lives and grow strong.

So far, we hoped, so good.

“I’ll check in,” Tom said.

“I’d appreciate it,” I replied.

“Love you, Genny.”

“Same back, Tommy.”

We hung up.

I looked to the ceiling and gave that call some time.

Then I returned my attention to my texts.

At what I read, even if my glass was not even close to full, I nearly spilled what was left of it.

I then called Mary immediately.

“Finally!” she cried.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“First, Cookie is safe with me.”

Cookie. My cat. A rescue. Pintsize body, big ears, white with black splodges, some brown, and fur that felt better than mink.

The sweetest feline on the planet.

And the best company.

“There’s a flood in the condo?”

Even her tone said “euw” when she replied, “Sanitation.”

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

“From the top unit. They’ve been on vacation and they didn’t know things were backed up. Building management as yet doesn’t know the extent of the damage. I’ve removed your valuables. Given them access to your unit. I had a look around and I couldn’t see anything wrong in your space, I think it happened on the other end. It’s just the smell. Right now, they’re estimating it’s going to take at least a few days, probably a week, possibly even longer, to get it all cleaned up and contain the smell. So I phoned the hotel, booked you in for that week. I’ll talk to Chloe, between her and me, we’ll get your car up there so you can get around.”

I sounded strangled when I asked, “What hotel?”

“The Queen.”

“Here?” I squeaked.

“Yes, I spoke with them and they said I can bring Cookie.”

“Mary—”

“I’ve called around. Something must be happening in town, and not just a mass exodus from your building. There isn’t a suite available for you at the Phoenician, or the Royal Palms, or the Biltmore—”

“I can take a simple room.”

“Why, when you have a suite in a cool boutique hotel in Prescott? I mean, it’s fall, so you’re not avoiding heat, but…Prescott. Awesome.”