28

daniel

I watch Claire drive away.

I can’t believe I asked her to go for a ride with me. It was easily the most impulsive thing I’ve done in a long time, and the words came out before I could stop them.

I’m never impulsive. Cops rarely are. We think things through, look at the situation from all angles before we proceed. We don’t charge into the unknown. Doing that will get you killed.

She sounded lonely. That’s the only reason I can come up with for why I asked her if she wanted to go for a ride with me.

It’s also the only reason I can come up with for why she said yes.

It doesn’t matter if I think she’s sweet. That she’s easy to talk to. That I’ve always thought that there’s nothing prettier than a brown-eyed blonde.

The most we could ever be is friends, because it’s definitely not my style to mess with another man’s wife.

Especially since he never seems to be around.

29

claire

I’m sitting in the backyard with Bridget almost a week later, watching the kids run around after dinner. Chris flew to Atlanta on Monday, and I’ve had my hands full with work and the kids’ after-school activities. It feels good to just sit for a while. Let my mind wander. When my phone rings and I see Daniel’s name on the screen, I silence the ringer and let it go to voice mail. I’m curious about what he wants, but I don’t want to have a conversation with him in front of Bridget.

I probably shouldn’t be having a conversation with him at all.

“Claire. Did you hear me?” Bridget asks, giving me a poke.

“No, sorry. What did you say?”

“I was wondering if you could run Gage and Griffin to soccer practice tomorrow. Sebastian and Finn have a football game and they really want me to be there. Sam has an all-day offsite meeting in Kansas City and won’t be home until late. I hate to ask you, but I haven’t figured out how to clone myself yet.”

“It’s no problem, Bridget,” I say, nodding. “I can help you.”

“Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Elisa sometimes.”

“You’ve helped Elisa and me out plenty of times,” I say.

“Not nearly as much as you’ve both helped me,” she says.

I smile and say, “You’ve got more kids than we do. You’re entitled.”

Later, when Josh and Jordan are in bed, I listen to his voice mail. “Hey, Claire. It’s Daniel. I’m off tomorrow and I’m taking the bike out. Let me know if you want to come with me.”

It’s been five days since I went to Daniel’s house, and the guilt I felt about enjoying his company has faded a bit, like the colors of an old photograph. Or maybe I’ve just rationalized it away: Nothing happened. He was just being friendly.

He’s a nice guy and I have no reason to believe that his intentions are anything less than honorable. But agreeing to see him again is going to send a mixed signal, and at thirty-four I’m way too old to be a tease. I take the easy way out and text him my response. I’m sorry. I can’t. Thank you for asking though. Best, Claire.

He responds thirty seconds later. No problem. Thanks, Daniel.

His reply tells me that he got the message loud and clear.

It’s too bad, because I would have really liked to go for another ride.

I get into bed, turn on the TV, and flip aimlessly through the channels, trying to find something to watch. There’s a book on my nightstand, and I read a few pages, but that doesn’t hold my attention either. I turn off the TV and lie there in the dark.

And remind myself that I made the right choice.

 • • •

I’m sitting at a stoplight in front of the credit union at eleven thirty the next morning. A man who looks a lot like Bridget’s husband, Sam, is walking up the sidewalk in front of the building. I’m just far enough away that I can’t be sure. He has the same stocky build and dark hair as Sam, but he’s wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt. The driver behind me honks his horn and I look up and see that the light has turned green.

Later that day, when I’m driving Gage and Griffin to soccer practice I decide I must have been mistaken. The man walking into the credit union couldn’t have been Sam. The whole reason I’m helping Bridget out is because Sam’s at an all-day meeting downtown. Instead of jeans he’s probably wearing a three-piece suit and trying to one-up his peers.

It sure looked like him, though.

30

claire

I’m weaving through the late-afternoon traffic, trying to make it home before the kids are dropped off by their respective carpools. The thumping starts as I’m mentally reviewing my to-do list and thinking about what to make for dinner. I quickly look in the rearview mirror to make sure I haven’t run over something, but the pavement is clear and it takes only a few additional seconds before my brain processes that the thumping is coming from one of my tires. I pull off onto the shoulder and turn on my hazard lights, then reach for my cell phone, hoping that Elisa will answer. She picks up on the fourth ring and I exhale.

“Hi, Claire,” she says. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a flat tire,” I say. “Josh and Jordan will be home in twenty minutes. Can you meet them and take them to your house?”

“Sure, no problem. What are you going to do about the tire?”

“I don’t know yet.” In the past I’d called AAA, but that was one of the things I canceled when I was going through our expenses, eliminating everything I thought we could live without, no matter how little it cost. When I told Chris he was livid. “What if you and the kids get stuck on the side of the road? Jesus, Claire. I don’t think AAA is going to break the bank.” I give silent thanks that the kids aren’t with me and mentally reprimand myself; we really didn’t save that much by dropping the service, and perhaps I was a bit militant in my efforts to save us from financial ruin.

“Skip will be back in an hour,” Elisa says. “I can send him.”

“Thanks, but I’ll try my dad first.” I call my parents but the phone rings and rings. They should be sitting in the kitchen eating dinner, within arm’s reach of the phone that hangs on the wall, because they are, if nothing else, creatures of habit and five thirty is dinnertime in their household. It always has been. I’d call their cell phones, but they both keep them in their glove boxes, turned off. They have no time for such gadgets, except in an emergency, and the only reason they agreed to them at all was because I insisted. My frustration and anger at myself grows.

I don’t want to try to change the tire myself. My inner feminist chafes, but the truth is that dusk is fast approaching and my skills are rudimentary at best. I know how to change a tire, of course, know the basics of how to work the jack and remove the lug nuts. But my fear is that knowing how and executing the job successfully are two very different things. The cars whiz by outside my window; I’m probably not pulled over far enough for this to be remotely safe. I call the toll-free number on my insurance card, but the person I speak with informs me that I have to call my own tow truck and then submit a claim to be reimbursed for the cost. Using the Internet browser on my phone, I search for a nearby service station, but when I call, the man who answers says that their truck is already out assisting another motorist. They can send someone but they can’t tell me how long it will be. I hang up and think about searching for another service station but then an idea pops into my head. It’s been a little more than a week since I turned down his offer to go for a ride, and if I call him it’s as good as admitting that I do want to see him again. I’ll be opening a door that I told myself I’d be better off keeping closed.