“No,” I said flatly. “Sorry, but I won’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s an abusive, horrible man who doesn’t deserve my help or my attention, and because he lied to me my entire life.” To name a few reasons. The court case was also making old, bitter feelings resurface. Of how I’d forgiven him for what he’d done to Nicky, even though I shouldn’t have.
I paid with a credit card, then rolled a five-dollar bill into the tip jar as the woman handed me back my books in a straw bag. Mom and I exited the shop.
“You know what your father’s like. Horribly unstable.”
“He also abused you emotionally for quite a while. Why would you want to ask him for any favors?” I started for the coffee shop by my house. Mom trailed next to me.
“Why, because I cannot exactly afford my own place, now can I? Even if I divorce him, which I hardly think there’s a point in doing at this point, we’ll have to split everything fifty-fifty. You know, his CPA tells me I am likely to be left with”—she sniffed the air dramatically—“less than two million dollars. Can you believe it?”
“I can, actually.” I pushed the door to the coffee shop open. “He spent the past few decades assaulting innocent women thinking he was bulletproof. Bleeding money seems like a fitting punishment for what he did.”
“I wasn’t the one who assaulted them!” My mother banged her fist on her chest. “Why should I live beneath my prior means?”
“True,” I agreed. “But you married a man who couldn’t be trusted with his money, or his phone camera. Now, you can rent someplace nice after this is all over, or better yet, buy somewhere within your price range, which is still not a number to be laughed at, and find yourself a job.”
“A job?” My mother’s eyes widened. She looked like I’d just suggested she become an escort. I placed an order for both of us. Peppermint tea for her, iced Americano for me. This time, I paid.
“Yes, Mother. I didn’t know the sheer act of working was quite so outrageous.”
“Of course it’s not,” my mother huffed, convincing exactly no one in the room with her fake sincerity. “But no one is going to hire me. I have no experience to speak of. I married your father at age twenty-two, fresh out of college. The only thing on my résumé would be the summer before college. I worked at a Hooters bar. Think they’ll accept me back thirty-six years later?” She arched an eyebrow.
I handed her the tea, took my coffee, and strolled back to the sunshine. Spring wrestled its way into the city, carrying cherry blossoms, sunrays, and seasonal allergies. The trial was nearing its end with every day that passed, and with it my goodbye to Christian.
“You were the head of the luncheon committee at your local country club, were you not?” I asked, skipping over a French bulldog’s leash.
“Yes, but—”
“And you were the director of my school’s charity board?”
“So what! That doesn’t mean—”
I stopped in front of my door. I wasn’t going to invite her up. Mainly because I had to get ready and meet Christian in a few hours at the pool. Indulging in this sinful affair was quickly taking over bigger chunks of my life.
“Come work for me,” I uttered, without even realizing what I was saying. “You have good organizational skills, you look presentable, and you know how to convince people to put money into things. That’s what you’ve been doing your whole life. Come work as a marketing assistant for me.”
“Arya.” My mother placed a hand over her heart. “You cannot be serious. I can’t work a nine-to-five job at my age.”
“You can’t?” I asked. “That’s a nice use of words. Because I was under the impression that you both can and should, considering the financial situation you are about to get into.”
“I’m not like other people.”
“Isn’t that what we all think?” I wondered aloud. “That we’re different? Special? Born for bigger, brighter things? Maybe, Mother, you are just like me. Just a little less well planned. And a lot more prone to surprises.”
I got into my building and slammed the door in her face.
Christian was waiting for me at the indoor swimming arena of the gym, his body sprawled over the edge of the pool. He was lazily stunning, like the Creation of Adam painting. Each individual ridge of his six-pack was prominent, and his biceps bulged. I noticed his upper body was still dry.
He’d waited for me.
I tossed my towel over one of the benches, swaggering over to him. The pool was normally empty by the time we met. It gave us privacy. Security in the knowledge no one was going to catch us. Even if they did, what could they say? We were just two strangers, swimming in different lanes, directions, and streams of life.