“He had a sports car,” Betty interjects. “Low. Too low for my old bones.”
“She wouldn’t have gotten her ass into it anyway,” Jenner adds in a low mutter. “An Aston Martin is, like, the business!”
“What do you know about cars?”
Jenner’s expression moulds to one of annoyance. “I know I like the expensive ones.”
“How expensive?” A knot forms in my belly as I stare unseeing at
“Like, buy a house expensive.”
“Roman drives a car worth a lot of money.” It sounds like a statement rather than a question, but he must be mistaken.
“The man is high end all the way. Just look at the watch he wears.”
“It’s ancient?”
“It’s a Breitling, honey.” I shrug, not sure if that’s supposed to mean anything to me. “Take it from me. I know my brands. I like fashion,” he adds in answer to the doubt flickering across my face.
“You look like you get dressed in the dark,” Betty mutters, draining the lukewarm dregs of her cappuccino. “Can I get a refill while we wait?”
“We’re closed.” Arms folder, Jenner purses his lips. “Machine’s just been cleaned,” he says, his gaze daring me to contradict him.
I shrug, kind of fine, then send an apologetic smile Betty’s way.
“I do like fashion.” Jenner saunters closer, “but not all of us can wear Gucci loafers, jeans from Balmain, and Tom Ford T-shirts. Those are all designers, by the way.”
“I know who Tom Ford is,” I snap. I know his suit line, at any rate.
“Yeah, well. I might not aspire to fill his loafers, but I do covet me some Balenciaga rhinestone-studded jeans. I just need to get a sugar daddy first.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything, but when you upgrade from Target to J Crew, then I might have a few questions. Go read your Facebook message,” he says, patting my shoulder as though in pity of my fashion choices. “It might be an old friend.” His gaze lingers, slightly pityingly. “Or maybe one of Holland’s.”
I leave the new point of sale system for another day (or person) and take my water glass and laptop over to Wilder’s favourite spot. Jenner flips the closed sign on the door, though leaves it unlocked for our intrepid explorers. Last I heard, Roman was taking Wilder for a hike through the forest. There was no mention of cars, high end or otherwise.
Opening my laptop, I can’t resist doing a quick internet search to see what an Aston Martin looks like. The brand doesn’t have many models, but they all look like something that Batman would drive. I take a sip of my water and stare into the middle distance. Wasn’t Bruce Wayne a millionaire or something?
Rousing myself, I pull up the High Grounds Facebook account and log in, navigating over to our feed when fear tightens its talons in the pit of my stomach. I see Jenner’s post, and I see the comment, but more than that, I recognise the person who made it.
Is that Kennedy I see in the background? I think it is. Hey girl, remember me?
I do know a Chelsea, it turns out. Or I did. And she still looks like the human version of a champagne cocktail. My chest feels tight, and my stomach cramps as I move over to her profile, just like Jenner showed me. It’s definitely her—April’s friend from home, only now she lives in California, according to her bio.
I pick up my water with a shaking hand. My throat is dry and this feeling washing through me. I don’t think I could describe it. Is it anxiety? Maybe this is what a sudden shock feels like.
Will I ever escape this?
I haven’t seen or heard from or seen anyone from back then. I didn’t even keep in contact with April, and she was my best friend back then. It was easier that way. We were moving in different directions, and I didn’t want to face feeling left behind or like I was missing out. As it is, I didn’t have time to mope. Nana made sure of that. I worked in High Grounds until I was fit to burst and was back serving coffee within the year, contributing to my financial situation. Not that being busy stopped me thinking of what happened when Roman left. What Chelsea said. What I did. I didn’t want to face it—I didn’t want to think about it. And while I’d convinced myself he’d never come looking for me, I wanted to make damn sure he’d never find me.
Yet he did. And now so has Chelsea, and I’m afraid of what that might mean. Oh, God. I drop my head to my hand, unable to think straight. I’m going to have to tell him. I’m going to have to confess that the reason he didn’t know he had a son was all my fault because what does it matter what Chelsea said? What does it matter what he did before he married me? All that is in the past, and what’s important is how we feel about each other right now.