Page 138 of Summer After Summer

He arches his eyebrow slowly. “No?”

“No,” I say firmly, and then sink in my chair as I see Fred coming out of the club. He’s wearing shorts and a polo, and when he sees us, I can tell he wants to walk the other way, but politeness drives him toward us.

“Olivia. Wes.”

“Hi, Fred,” Wes says, standing to shake his hand. “We were just speaking about you.”

“That right?”

“Wes, stop it.”

“Stop what? I want to know what Fred has to say about what you were doing last night.”

“Dinner, I believe,” Fred says.

“You had dinner with my wife?”

“Wes!”

“I thought you were taking care of Lucy?”

“We were. But we had to eat. Fred made an omelet when we got home from the hospital. We talked and then we went to bed.”

“Separately?”

“Of course separately.”

“Listen, mate,” Fred says. “I think if you—”

But Wes isn’t having it. Instead, he stands, cocks his fist, and says, “I’m not your mate,” as it connects with Fred’s jaw, knocking him back.

Fred stumbles, then rights himself and projects himself forward, his own fist connecting with Wes’s face. Then, Wes is on the ground, Fred on top of him.

“Fred! Wes! Stop it! Both of you.”

I grab Fred’s arm and pull him back. We’re joined by one of the club’s security men, and they pull Fred off Wes before another blow lands.

I stay on the ground, next to Wes, as he clutches his face. There’s going to be a bad bruise, maybe a black eye.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“He hit me.”

“You did hit him first.”

“My prerogative, I think.”

I help him sit up. Fred is twenty feet away, a security guard on each arm, but he’s not struggling. He’s just standing there, watching us.

“Leave, please, Fred.”

Our eyes connect and I try to press the message home. That he’s not helping, being here, that he needs to go so I can try to fix this.

A look of disgust crosses his face, then he turns and goes.

“You don’t want to go with him?” Wes asks.

“No.”

---