"Thank you." He nudged one boot closer to the other with his toe, lining them up before leaning back in the chair when in the past days he would have unzipped his flight suit partway, made himself at home. "There's obviously a problem there. If he's a violent type, then he's not going to like his girlfriend turning to Chris."
"You're thinking about the car accident?"
"Just running through possibilities. I can't seem to get away from the fact that you were in Chris's car, and damn it, that van swerved deliberately. Not some drunken weaving. Once the van hit you, it didn't so much as take out a trash can on its way off. The driving was deliberate and smooth."
"A disgruntled boyfriend?"
"Could be an explanation. Hormones and rage together can be a lethal combination."
"And you need an explanation."
"Don't you?"
"Accidents happen."
"And sometimes they don't." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look, I don't want to argue with you about this. Especially not now when it seemed like maybe we were making some headway earlier. We never finished our discussion in the truck—about trying to work things out."
Headway that ground to a halt when he'd made it clear he wanted to come home for the baby. She'd gone that route once and ended up with her heart shredded. "We've tried before—"
"Hold on. I'm not talking big plans. Just keep things like they are for a while longer. We still have the weekend before you can drive. There's the question of what's going on with Chris. Why shake things up?"
Because she didn't think she could survive watching J.T.'s broad shoulders walk out of her life again.
"No need to decide now. Tuesday, I have a flight I can't cancel or change. Lots of prep work, too. Why don't we regroup after that?"
Putting off answering seemed easier than discussing anything else tonight with the taste and smell of him still on her. "Tuesday, then."
"Good. This is the right thing, babe, you'll see." He scooped his boots up and stood. "'Night, Rena."
He leaned and kissed her. On the lips, lingering a full two seconds beyond a peck but not long enough for her to gather her thoughts and object.
Then he was gone, the familiar thud of his steps echoing up the stairs.
And thank God he hadn't pressed her for more, because just like twenty-two years ago in the back seat of her BMW, she was afraid she couldn't tell this man no.
"Dad, I want to quit working at the restaurant."
J.T. stared up from the weight bench at his son spotting for him in their garage workout area. "What brought that on?"
"Just don't like it there."
"You're going to have to do better than that." He extended his arms, sweating through his third set of ten reps. His job required less lifting these days as things became more mechanized, but the physical exertion still let off steam. He had steam to spare at the moment, and he needed the time to check up on his son. "A man doesn't quit on his obligations."
Accusatory brown eyes stared back down at him. "Really?"
"There's a difference between divorce and quitting." He huffed through lifts. Muggy gusts of air through the open window by the tool bench provided minimal cooling, merely moving around the scent of sweat and motor oil.
"Sure, whatever."
"Seven, eight," J.T. counted to calm his frustration as well as mark his repetitions. "Nine, ten."
He hefted the two hundred fifty pounds onto the brackets, releasing the bar with a clang. He swung his feet around to the side, snagging a towel from the floor and swiping his head. "So, son? Reason for quitting?"
Chris shrugged, baggy T-shirt rippling. "Exams are coming up. I need to study and, like, with those extra deliveries Miranda was talking about, the job's taking up lots more time. I was thinking I could, uh, quit at the restaurant for a few weeks and then find something else once summer starts."
"Why not ask for a couple of weeks off?" He grabbed the gallon milk jug filled with water and tipped it back, chugging.
Chris swiveled away to adjust the weights, decreasing to one-twenty for his go-round on the bench. "My boss, Mr. Haugen, won't go for that."