I am dying inside. A familiar shower of shame rolls over my skin, like I’m bathed in the flow of every naked-in-public dream I’ve experienced for twenty years, all rolled into one.
Right here. Right now.
With the one man who is supposed to be safe.
For the briefest of moments I swear I catch a glimpse of untempered vulnerability in his eyes as he looks at me, then at the papers strewn across the table. He frowns, his breathing quickening.
Andrew stands.
His hands stay at his sides.
“You think that? You think that of me? That I am ashamed of you?” His back is straight, his eyes fixed on me, blinking with a slow, hypnotic constancy that triggers something primal in me. My breath comes in short spurts and I realize I have to flee.
“What other conclusion am I supposed to draw? Hell, Andrew, you won’t even sit on your balcony for morning coffee outside with me where someone might see!”
I am completely illogical now. I know I am. The fear that he’s avoiding being seen in public with me is one that’s been brewing beneath the surface for a while, but I haven’t articulated it before. Not even to Shannon. It is flimsy. I might be wrong. I hope I’m wrong. But the alternative is to be truly open and raw and to stop trying to fix everything and let the world spin without my efforts—and that?
That’s worse than being naked in public.
Spritzy begins to whine, so I take the convenient way out and reach for him, clasping him in my arms like a football I have to protect as I make my way through a crowd and avoid being tackled.
Andrew’s on my heels as I reach the door of the restaurant. He blocks my way, his arm going up above me, braced against a support post.
“Don’t,” I beg. Fire burns behind my tongue. I will turn him into a crisp if he doesn’t move.
“Amanda.” The way he says my name makes me cringe, because this feels unfixable. I feel unfixable. In the space of a handful of minutes I’ve ruined everything and all I can do is escape. Run away.
Leave.
“I am not, and never have been, ashamed of you.” He reaches out to touch me, then stops himself. A coiled anger seeps out of his eyes as he looks at me in a way that makes it clear I do not have permission to look away.
“I—”
“I’m a busy man. I’m taking over for my father, who is embroiled in medical appointments and business transitions and this damned wedding and if I am not as available as you would like, when you want access to me at the exact moments you prefer, then I apologize.”
The ice in his voice physically hurts.
And yet I don’t quite buy what he’s saying.
“Your father’s prison record has no bearing on how I feel about you.” He moves his arm. “I had my security team seek him out so you would have some answers.”
“That’s a remarkable spin on violating my privacy.”
“His whereabouts is public record.” The more Andrew speaks, the colder I become.
“Just because you can learn something about a person doesn’t mean you should.”
“And just because someone isn’t where you want them to be doesn’t mean they’ve abandoned you.”
I race out the doors, a shaking Spritzy in Mom’s purse bag, my vision blurred. I drove into the city so I have to find the garage I used and walk down two flights of stairs to the underground level where I parked.
Coming face to face with my piece of...car doesn’t help either. Two college students walk past me. One of them holds his nose and the other guffaws, grabbing his phone to take a picture of the Turdmobile. I can’t really see their faces, because my eyes are reflective lenses filled with pooled tears that beg for release.
I open the back door, put Spritzy in her secured little dog crate, click her seat belt, then climb in the front.
And cry through smoke and ashes until all that’s left is nobody.
* * *
A long time ago, just as Shannon was moving in with Declan, she told me that in a true emergency I could drive right up to their building and a valet would take care of my car.
If anything qualifies as an emergency, it’s this.
I take Spritzy out of his crate and hand my Turdmobile over to the smirking valet parking dude, who is already on his phone, probably live-tweeting his experience.
The elevator feels like a coffin.
I walk into their apartment and Shannon runs to me with a big hug.
“You.” I point at Declan. “Plug your ears.”
He ignores me and starts tapping on his phone. He stops, then walks into the bedroom. Half a minute later, he interrupts me and Shannon as I furiously whisper all the details to her. Declan’s carrying a gym bag.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says, leaning in to give her a kiss.
“Where are you going?” she asks, clearly surprised.
“Workout with Andrew.”
I give him my death glare. It doesn’t quite work, because he stays alive.
“Why?”
“So I can learn the truth.” He gives me an unsmiling look that only a suave, sophisticated billionaire can give a woman, and he’s out the door, off to the little nook to wait for the elevator.
“The truth!” I sputter. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t try to dissect it,” Shannon says reassuringly. “It’s like trying to understand why the Kardashians get any news coverage. You’ll just drive yourself nuts.”
“I’ll tell you the truth,” I fume. “The truth is that Andrew stole Terry’s dog and appeared on my DoggieDate and he researched and found out my father’s in prison and now everything is ruined.”