For seven months.”
“She offered.
She works nearby and she—”
“She offered.” I looked at him.
“You let a woman I have never met drive my six-year-old son every week, and you told me it was you.”
“I was always close by.
I was never far.”
“That is not the point and you know it.”
Toby was still standing near the kitchen doorway.
He was watching us with the careful attention of a child who understands that something is wrong but cannot name it.
I turned to him.
“Hey, bud.
Can you go put your backpack in your room and wash your hands?
I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
He went.
I waited until I heard his footsteps on the stairs.
“Does she know he’s married?” I asked.
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Does she know about me specifically?
My name?
What I look like?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Something about that landed differently than the rest.
She knew.
She had known the whole time, and she had still put a spot in her apartment for my son.
She had still sent the key back through a six-year-old’s jacket pocket.
“I want to know everything,” I said.
