Page 315 of Sin Bin

He frowned and settled his glasses back into place, carefully balancing them on his nose. “During our last conversation, I told you that I’m not normally attracted to black women, and with good reason. Far too many of them are overweight and unladylike. I’m not fond of the unflattering weaves they wear, and their out-of-wedlock birth rates are a scourge on society. I cringe every time I see them stomping around with their bastard children fathered by ten different lowlifes. They’re loud and uncouth, always making spectacles of themselves. Even the educated sisters and the Bible-thumping spinsters have bad attitudes—”

“Stop talking, Ephraim. Just stop.”

He frowned at Meadow. “You’re offended.”

“Can you blame me?” she raged. “You’re entitled to your views, but the way you’re generalizing black women is deplorable and appalling. I’ve met a wide range of black men in my life. Some were great, others were trash. But I would never paint them all with the same broad brush because I’m mature enough to know that people should be judged as individuals. Listening to you talk, I can only imagine what your mother would think if she knew how you feel about women who look like her.”

Ephraim smirked. “Who do you think taught me to stay away from black women?”

“Wow.” Meadow shook her head in disgust. “You might be well educated and successful, Ephraim, but you’re a pathetic excuse for a human being. It’s also clear that, despite your many accomplishments, you seem to be suffering from an inferiority complex. I feel sorry for you. But thank you for confirming why I could never date you.”

“Right,” he jeered maliciously. “Because you’d rather get pumped and dumped by professional athletes.”

The jab stung more than she wanted it to. “I think we’re done here.”

As she started to rise from her seat, Ephraim reached out and grabbed her wrist. “You didn’t seriously think he would marry you, did you? Guys like Logan Brassard don’t settle down, and certainly not with women like you. I mean, don’t get me wrong. You’re pretty enough. But Logan has access to a plethora of beautiful women of all races and nationalities. You could never be anything more than his plaything. His jumpoff.” He sneered at her. “Don’t delude yourself into thinking you could ever have a future with him.”

Meadow wrenched free of his grip, then reached into her handbag and pulled out a twenty, slapping it on the table with a cold smirk. “This should cover my meal. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a gold digger or anything.”

He scowled just as their waitress arrived with tortilla chips and salsa.

Meadow plucked a chip off the tray, dipped it in the salsa and crunched into it. “Mmm. Delicious.” She gave Ephraim an icy smile. “Goodbye, Dr. Fleming. Good luck in life.”

He started to get up. “Wait—”

“Nope. You’re not worth another nanosecond of my time.” She ate the rest of her chip, winked at the stunned waitress and then marched out of the restaurant.

She held back her tears until she drove out of the parking lot. Then she cried all the way home. Not because of anything Ephraim had said.

She cried because Logan had already moved on to the next woman, leaving her to question how much she’d truly meant to him.

The next day after church, she and Cam were in the basement playing NHL Hockey on Xbox. The Rebels were battling the Bruins. Cam was controlling Logan while she controlled Brad Marchand, Logan’s most hated nemesis. Every time Logan got the puck, she went on the attack—slashing and elbowing and checking him into the boards. It was petty but satisfying.

After she received her umpteenth penalty, Cam paused the game and frowned at her. “You’re not even trying to score. You’re just hitting Logan.”

An embarrassed flush crawled up her neck. “Stop whining,” she retorted defensively. “It’s not my fault Brad Marchand is a physical player.”

Cam sneered. “That’s why he’s sitting at home and Logan’s in the playoffs.”

It was such a good clapback, she felt the burn. The kid was a savage.

“Are you mad at Logan?” he demanded suspiciously. “Is that why you’re not coming to the game with us tonight?”

Before she could respond, Aunt Rosalie came halfway down the stairs and beamed excitedly at her. “You have a visitor.”

Her heart skipped an irrational beat. “Who is it?”

“Come see for yourself.”

“Is it Logan?” Cam asked hopefully.

“No, baby.” Rosalie smiled at her son. “But it’s someone you’ll be very happy to see.”

Meadow and Cam abandoned their game and headed up the stairs. Cam was in front of her. Suddenly he pulled up short, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. She soon saw why.

Hunter stood in the living room studying the family pictures on the fireplace mantel.

“Hunter Duchene?” Cam whispered incredulously.

---