Page 31 of Hush Money

“I do, but this is important.”

“We’ll just drive by,” she says, laughing. “There’s no way you’ll ever find a parking space. You know that, right?”

“We’ll see. I’m feeling lucky today.”

We laugh and head for the car, but it doesn’t take long for me to discover that she was right about the parking situation in her old neighborhood. Still, I get to see Big Ralph’s Garage, now christened the much loftier Bushwick Motors. I also drive by her old elementary school and the nondescript brownstone apartment building where she grew up.

Like every other square inch of New York City, the sidewalks are full of people hurrying to get where they’re going. But there’s a neighborhood feeling. Everyone’s got their music going. There’s a lot of hip-hop. A lot of Latin music.

“What are you thinking?” she says from the passenger seat. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

“Oh, there’s my favorite taco truck. Josephina’s.” She points. “Can we grab a snack?”

“Taco truck? You mean street food?”

She laughs. “Yes. Street food. Don’t be a snob. It’s delicious. And you’re missing out if you think you can only eat at Cipriani all the time. You’ll have to double park for a second, though. Come on.”

I screech to a halt in front of a fire hydrant, throw on my hazard lights and hope for the best. By the time I get out and come around the curb, she’s hurried over to the truck. A woman behind the window shrieks with delight and hurries out to engulf Tamsyn in a bear hug.

“Tamsyn, where you been, girl?” She’s got a faint Spanish accent. “It’s been too long.”

“It has been too long. I’ve missed your food,” Tamsyn says, beaming at her.

“And I’ve got some new items on the menu, but they may be too spicy for you—” Her attention swings around to me with an appreciative once-over. “Who’s this handsome man you have with you? He’s fancy.”

“Fancy?” I say, smothering a laugh.

“You don’t blend.” Tamsyn doesn’t bother hiding her sudden glee. “Look around you. Who else is wearing Italian loafers and a linen shirt like yours? Look at that gold watch. You’re like a flamingo trying to mingle with the pigeons in Prospect Park.”

“Knock it off,” I say.

“I don’t think so,” Tamsyn says brightly. “It’s a refreshing change that you’re the one who’s not dressed for the surroundings. I’m tired of it being me all the time.”

“I’m still waiting for my introduction, lovebirds,” Josephina says.

“Sorry, Josephina,” Tamsyn says. “This is Lucien Winter.”

I wait, but Tamsyn doesn’t seem inclined to provide more information. The lack of a title or clearly stated connection to Tamsyn leaves me feeling oddly disgruntled as I shake Josephina’s hand. As a grown and unsentimental man in my thirties, I’m not sure what I expected Tamsyn to say. That I’m her gentleman friend? Her boo? But I want her to say something. And it’s not that I want Josephina to know my place in Tamsyn’s life; I doubt I’ll ever see the woman again. I want Tamsyn to know.

“We need titles,” I quietly say to Tamsyn after we order, and Josephina gets started with our food. “Why didn’t you tell her that I’m your boyfriend?”

Asking the question makes my face hot. So it’s a relief when I see the bright color creep across her cheeks.

“Because it’s inappropriate.” She levels that gaze on me and keeps it there. Nice and steady. Unfortunately, it’s got none of the sweet delight I hoped to see. Just a steely finality that reminds me I underestimate Tamsyn at my own peril. “I know I’m a fool for sticking around and continuing any kind of relationship with a married man. But even I’m smart enough to know better than to give any titles to someone else’s husband.”

I don’t like that. At all. So I give her a lazy and insolent once-over that makes her breath hitch and her color rise even higher.

“Use the word. Don’t use the word. Up to you, Ms. Scott.” I pause to make sure I have her undivided attention. “As long as you understand: it is what it is. And nothing’s going to change it.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TAMSYN

By some miracle of the New York transit gods, traffic isn’t bad and we make good time back to Ackerley. Thank God. The air seems a lot pricklier between us than it did earlier, the car a lot smaller. My thoughts spin out the whole way, thoroughly unsettled by his use of the B-word and his insistence that our relationship exists—that we have a continued, committed existence to each other—whether we acknowledge it or not.

It’s not that I think he’s wrong. It’s just that I’m not ready to acknowledge that he’s right. Even to myself.

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