I hold on tight. I’m not doing this because I approve of what Edgar’s doing or because he feels so solid, warm and awesome. I’m doing it because I don’t want to land on my ass. The floor is hard and would hurt. My God, though. Edgar smells so good. If they could, my ovaries would be flooding my womb with eggs.
A small sigh wells within me. My life—which used to be pretty good—is now a complete mess. When did it derail so fast?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jo
I need to talk to Edgar about what he meant when he said Aaron doesn’t need to marry me anymore. But right now, I don’t have the courage. Not when I’m beginning to realize how tense he truly is. And it isn’t because he’s worried about dropping me.
I steal a look at him as he literally puts me into his car. For a moment, I consider mentioning I have my own wheels, but then change my mind, since he’s still tense.
He drives to God only knows where. I should probably ask, but the muscles around his jaw are bunched. His eyebrows are slanted tight in that furious line men get when they’re trying to figure out what to say to express their anger without making the woman cry.
Maybe I should let him know it takes a lot to make me cry. Simply yelling isn’t enough. Having three older brothers tends to leave you with a thick skin.
On the other hand, I don’t want Edgar screaming at me. It isn’t like him to do that, because he’s so controlled at all times, but when someone like him loses it, it’s the worst. I know because my papa is the textbook case.
“The ring,” Edgar says, showing me his palm. His voice is so flat that shivers go up my spine.
Wordlessly, I dig into my purse and find it on the bottom, under the piles of emergency tampons, lipsticks, compacts, breath mints and a small packet of Kleenex. I place it on his hand.
He makes a fist. The window on the driver’s side slides down, then he flings the ugly thing out.
“Oh, shit!” I swivel around, looking back. I can visualize the ring bouncing on the concrete…then getting run over by a semi catching up to us on the next lane. It’s a fitting ending, but…
“Aaron might want that back,” I say, torn between worry over the loss of the jewelry that isn’t mine, and the intense desire not to have Edgar become any more upset with me than he already is.
“Have him call me.”
“You aren’t going to give him money for it, are you? That thing isn’t worth much, but he doesn’t deserve a penny.” It would’ve been more satisfying to feed it to him, but I don’t say it out loud, not wanting to sound like I’m criticizing Edgar. I should tell him later, when Aaron wants the ring back.
“I’m only going to ensure that he wishes he had never bothered you.”
From the barely leashed violence in the tight lines of his neck and shoulders, I’m sure he would do exactly that. Aaron is a wimp who tucks his tail between his legs when he’s faced with somebody bigger or stronger than him. And Edgar is not only both of those, he’s probably meaner, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to make Aaron give up so easily.
I sigh, then sit up straight, my eyes forward. This day isn’t going well. Maybe I should’ve checked my horoscope for the week. It might’ve said something like: You’re going to be screwed with sandy lube, so you better leave town for at least a year.
Edgar pulls into a mall and stops the car. I tap my fingers on the straps of my purse. He’s going to say something now. I can feel it.
Instead of speaking, he gets out and comes around to my side of the car. I frown. What’s going on? There’s no way he’s not going to let me know how he really feels about the mess of the courthouse ceremony. I’m braced for “You should’ve called me!” or something similar.
He opens my door. “Let’s go.” His normally controlled voice is vibrating with seething emotion.
My mouth goes dry. “Where?”
We’re definitely not here to shop, but I don’t think he’s going to strangle me and bury my body somewhere. It’s difficult to shovel hard concrete and asphalt. But why are we here?
“You need to have lunch.”
“Oh.” I totally forgot. But isn’t he planning on yelling at me? Maybe not enough to make me cry, but maybe enough to get me to understand how furious he is? I don’t think I misread his expression during the drive.
“Did you already eat?” he asks when I don’t move.
“No.”
I step out of the car. One hand on my upper arm, he leads me to an Italian bistro near the mall entrance.
The interior of the restaurant is cool. The lunch rush is over, so it’s relatively empty. But the aroma of garlic, olive oil and tomato sauce lingers in the air. I realize I’m starving.