Chapter 28
“What kind of college class goes on a field trip?” Tom asks, brow scrunched over the hunk of bread he’s torn from the warm loaf on the restaurant table between us.
As he slathers it with butter, I remember Paul’s words: I’m mainly happy we’re going for you.
How he leaned on the you. If Tom knew, he’d be furious.
I drain the last of my wine and ask the waiter for another.
“I don’t understand why you’d go when you aren’t even interested in taking pictures anymore,” Tom continues, eyeing the fresh glass of red—my third tonight.
I always drink more than usual during our Saturday dinners out, but a third glass must strike him as wild.
I feel wild. I’ve felt this way ever since Tuesday night’s class—a reversal of the deadness I felt in the days before.
A reversal that briefly transforms my terror into reckless joy at the thought of using my camera in the city again, of risking yet another encounter with the man.
I’ve convinced myself I’ll be safe, tucked inside the large class group, ushered through the streets by Paul.
The man wouldn’t dare approach me then, would he?
The wine says he would not. The wine says I’ll be fine.
Better than fine. It gives me a kind of giddy power as I try to reason with Tom.
“I haven’t been taking pictures lately, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given it up. I just—needed a break. And needed to take care of some housework. The field trip isn’t negotiable, Tom. It’s a class requirement. It’s not up to me.”
Tom keeps his eyes on his buttery bread; I wait for him to say it isn’t a real class or that I should quit the class anyway, or that he doesn’t trust Paul, but instead, he simply nods.
“Just be careful, Judy,” Tom says once he’s swallowed his bread and chased it with wine.
He, too, is drinking more than usual; maybe that’s why it’s been easy to sway him.
“Callers can be stalkers, too, you know. I haven’t wanted to say this before, but this guy could be following you.
When you’re out taking pictures, or even just running errands in town.
It drives me crazy, thinking of it. Who’s to stop him from following you into the city, too? ”
Tom has come so close to the truth that I stare at him, speechless. Now would be the time to tell him everything, tell him he’s right, but instead I reassure him with my standard set of lies: That isn’t happening, they’re only phone calls, I haven’t noticed anyone strange when I’m out and about.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, smiling with all the warmth the wine has given me. “Perfectly fine.”