“She was getting coffee,” Lo says. “Anyway, I talked to her for a few minutes.”
“And?” I wind my hand, willing her to get on with her story.
“I told her that you still love her and you haven’t forgiven yourself,” she says.
Exhaling, I return to the mail in my hands. I said something similar last week and didn’t get anywhere with her.
“Why are you so excited?” I ask.
Lo moves closer, placing her hand on my shoulder. “Because she listened. She heard me out. And that’s got to mean something.”
I passed the fountain at The Jasper again today after lunch, only this time I took a seat at one of the benches. About the time I was ready to leave, something shiny caught the corner of my eye. When I took a closer look, I spotted a quarter beneath one of the benches—the very same bench Love was standing next to the night I first met her.
Heading to my room to change out of my work clothes, I pull Love’s quarter from my pocket and sit it on top of my dresser.
Forty-Seven
Love
* * *
I lock the front door of the Agenda W building and slide my keys in my bag while Cameo orders a ride because she refuses to take the subway or walk more than a block in her pristine Louboutins.
We must have interviewed at least seven people this afternoon, one after another after another from the moment I returned from grabbing a coffee, and I never had a chance to tell her about running into Lo at Starbucks.
“Okay. Ride’s going to be here in five minutes,” my sister says before darkening the screen of her phone. “What’d you think of the candidates? I thought we had some good ones.”
“Yeah,” I say.
She studies my face, thin brows meeting as she chuckles. “Yeah? That’s all you have to say?”
“I’m just tired.” I amble toward a metal park bench by the curb and take a seat.
Cameo follows.
“I ran into Jude’s sister earlier today,” I say. “When I was getting coffee.”
She rolls her eyes. “Ah. So that’s why you were so out of it all afternoon. Thought maybe you were coming down with something.”
“I wasn’t out of it.”
“Yes, Love, you were.” Her voice is louder, as if that gives her opinion more weight. “You asked the same question twice in a row when we interviewed that social worker from Queens and then you called the three o’clock by the four o’clock’s name.”
“Oops.” I glance down at my folded hands resting on my lap. I suppose I was a little off my game this afternoon. I tried to focus on the interviews, but my mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything Lo said during our brief exchange at the coffee shop.
“So what’d she say?” Cameo asks, angling her body toward me as if I’m about to give her some major gossip.
Sitting up, I stare straight ahead, brows lifted. “That he’s sorry. That he loves me. That he’ll never forgive himself. You know, that kind of stuff.”
“Do you believe her?”
I shrug my left shoulder. “I don’t have a reason not to. I’m just trying to decide if how sorry he is even matters.”
Cameo crosses her legs and clears her throat. “When you two were in town for the wedding, there was this night when I was sitting outside on Mom’s front steps, just sort of … reflecting, I guess you could say. Jude walked out to grab something from your car and he saw me. He could’ve just said hi and kept going, but he stopped and sat down and asked me if I was okay.”
“He did?”
Cameo’s red lips draw into a slow smile and she nods. “Yep. And Bob said when Jude went to his bachelor party, all these women were hitting on him, but he was just sitting there sipping his beer and going through his phone, looking at pictures of the two of you.”
“Yeah, well it’s not like he could’ve hooked up with anyone else … he knows word would’ve traveled back to me and then his charade would be over.”
Cameo rolls her eyes. “You know, one night I asked him how you two made it look like you’d been together forever and he said it was because his life didn’t begin until he met you, so he feels like he’s known you his whole life.”
I pretend to gag myself. “He’s got some great lines. I’ll give him that.”
“Say what you want,” Cameo says, tossing her manicured hands in the air. “It was cheesy as hell, but I believed him. And there’s our ride.”
We leave the bench as a red Chevy Malibu with a Lyft sign on the dash pulls up to the curb, and then we climb in the backseat.
“So what are you saying?” I ask my sister. “That I should give him another chance?”
“I don’t know.” She glances out the window, nose wrinkling as if my question annoys her. “I can’t make that decision for you.”
“Would you? If you found out everything Bob ever said or did was a lie and he had the nerve to marry you anyway?”
Cameo sighs, folding her hands in her lap and staring ahead, though I think she might be checking her reflection in the driver’s rearview mirror.
“Like I said, I don’t know. I wish I had some better advice for you, but you know that’s never been my wheelhouse,” she says, all but admitting she’s been a less-than-ideal big sister over the years—a first. “I just wanted to make sure you had all the facts.”
Her opinions aren’t “facts,” but I don’t tell her that. I appreciate that she’s engaging in a conversation that doesn’t revolve around her. This is a rare and special moment between us, and Dad would be proud.
“Aren’t there literally millions of men out here? Surely you can find someone else,” she muses. “Either stop dwelling on him and move on or find someone new.”
She makes it sound like handbag shopping, like a replacement is one taxi cab ride and a credit card swipe away.
“Hunter made him sign an NDA, I guess,” I say as we cross the Brooklyn Bridge. “He’s legally not allowed to tell me anything or talk about the terms of the agreement to anyone.”
Turning toward me, she says, “You know, Bob’s brother is a family law attorney. Let me text him.”
Cameo digs her phone out from the bottom of her Dior bag and fires off a text. A minute later, her phone dings.
“A-ha.” She brings the phone closer, smiling like a high school mean girl who just stumbled upon some damning intel. “He says, ‘This could fall under spousal support fraud, which usually pertains to people lying about their income or job status to reduce their financial obligations, but it can be a gray area and it’s definitely worth looking into. If she needs any recommendations, I know some good family law attorneys in New York.’”
“Knowing Hunter, he probably had the NDA drafted carefully and strategically so he’s fully protected. He’s slimy like that.” And undeniably savvy, which is how he got to where he is today.
“Maybe … Give me two seconds.” She fires off another text, her nails clicking against the screen. And a moment later, he responds. “Yes!”