Chapter 34
“Our place? You had to bring him here?”
Robert stood in the restaurant entryway, a few feet from the bar, blocking Curtis from leaving.
“You’re kidding me,” I said. “This isn’t our place, you idiot. It’s just the only affordable restaurant on Main Street.”
Robert had his shoulders up, knuckles of one hand grinding into the palm of the other. Curtis moved closer, clasping my arm protectively.
In a gravelly voice, Robert said, “I suggest you take your hand off her.”
“You suggest?”
“Both of you,” I said, “chill out.”
“It’s a good thing I stopped you,” Robert said, sizing up Curtis. “How much you both drink? Two bottles of wine?” He pushed back the bottom of his Cubs jacket to reveal the holstered gun at his hip.
Curtis said, “I don’t know who you are, but we’d both like you to take a big step back.”
Robert ignored the order. “If either of you walk out that door and get behind a steering wheel, you are going to see blue lights so fast—”
“I’m walking,” I said. “Not that it’s your business.”
“It is, Abby. It definitely is. And you’re making a big mistake.”
“I’m making a big mistake?”
I shook Curtis’s hand off my arm, but neither man seemed to notice.
“We’re not even dating,” I said.
Curtis shout-whispered in my direction, “That’s not his business, either.”
“I know it’s not. But I want to see the embarrassment on his face when he realizes he’s making a public stink for nothing.”
Robert wasn’t cowed. “You shouldn’t be letting Benjamin spend every day with this guy.”
“So, you are watching us. And you’re acting like a teenager whose hormones have gone haywire, which is the last thing I need.”
“You don’t know what you need,” Robert said. “Not in this case.”
Only two nights ago, I’d spent a perfectly good evening with Robert, studying criminology files, drinking beer, eating pizza—with none of this. No juvenile behavior. No jealousy. I had believed, once again, that we could be friends.
I stifled a groan of frustration. “Don’t do this, Robert.”
Loud enough for the whole bar to hear, he said, “Do what—tell you not to fuck this guy?”
My face flamed. Between the wine in my gut and the anger and humiliation bubbling in my veins, I felt woozy.
“That’s enough. Don’t call me again. Don’t text. Don’t stop by. We’re done, Robert. We were done before. You just don’t seem to get it.”
“And you don’t seem to get that you’re being hoodwinked. This guy’s misrepresenting himself.”
“What are you talking about.”
“Ask him about his ex-wife. Ask him about the restraining order.”
“We’re leaving,” Curtis said, “and we’ll keep your warning in mind . . . officer.”
Under my breath, I said, “He’s not an officer. He got fired.”
The bartender, a maternal older brunette named Sheila, came around the bar in time to put an arm around Robert’s shoulder. “Honey, let’s get you that refill. And some mozzarella sticks, on the house.”
Curtis and I made use of the distraction to slip out the door. As soon as we were down the block, he said, “He implied he’d arrest us for drunk driving. He was impersonating a cop.”
“He is a cop.”
“Was, you said.” Curtis turned, furious. “He showed off his gun. He wanted me to think he could arrest me. There’s something abnormal about that guy.”
Curtis wasn’t wrong. But I’d already taken enough machismo. I wasn’t going to defend Robert, but I wasn’t going to piss all over him, either. I put a hand on Curtis’s forearm to slow him down.
“Why did he mention your ex-wife?”
“Restraining order. On the advice of her attorney. Oldest trick in the book.”
“I’m not familiar with all the tricks. Enlighten me.”
“She was the one who violated the marriage—infidelity, plundering of our shared bank accounts—and when I told her I wanted a divorce, she called 911 and made a false report that I hit her.”
We stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light.
In a cooler voice, he said, “It was clever, when you think about it. I write about men’s issues, I’m a respected psychologist. What’s the best way to punish me? Make the community think I’m an abusive partner.”
“Did people believe her?”
“She got an emergency protective order. That’s the first step.
No questions asked. But when we’re expected in front of the judge, she doesn’t even show up to present her so-called evidence.
Too busy off on some pleasure trip with another man, sailing on Lake Michigan.
No protective order was granted. End of story. ”
We crossed the street. Ahead of us was the parking lot, with Curtis’s orange Jag in sight.
“You’re there,” I said, pointing, “but I’m going this way. On foot.”
We both stopped, awkwardly looking at each other.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said, smoothing down his hair. “I’m sorry it got a little . . . dramatic at the end.”
I had the feeling he was talking about the standoff with Robert and the rapid-fire interrogation about his ex-wife, but in truth I was more upset about the earlier part.
He’d questioned my abilities as a mother.
Made strange references to my family and its multigenerational problems. Compared Benjamin to an incarcerated psychopath who needed to be kept away from other .
. . I wasn’t imagining it . . . other psychopaths.
Curtis said, “I don’t mind sharing details of my divorce, if you have concerns.”
“Why would I have concerns?”
He nodded, satisfied. “We still need to wrap things up with Benjamin, one way or another. The summer offer is still on the table.”
I pictured it literally: a gleaming, very expensive-looking chafing dish—one I had no plans to touch. Local therapy sessions were one thing. An entire summer away was another. Still, I thanked him.
“You’re welcome. Please bring Benjamin by, tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“It may be one of my last chances to see him for any substantial period of time.”
“Yes. I’m aware.”
“And Abby, it’s time for you to read that transcript. Don’t put it off.”