Page 15 of Wall

Who cares if he’s slept with these women? We’re not together anymore. I came for a reason. I’m here now. I can do this.

“Can we, um, go somewhere and talk? With, uh, less people?”

“Of course, b—” He was going to call mebaby. That’s what he called me. And I called himhon. “Yeah. How about my room?”

Oh, crap. I wasn’t suggesting that. I don’t want to see his bed. Where he sleeps with other women. Like the one sitting on top of the table, swinging her legs—tanned golden brown in the middle of winter—and glaring at me with her boobs out.

I guess he reads my face. “Or we could go outside. There’s a fire pit. It’s not that cold.” The prospect bounds over with a bottled water. John takes it and presses it in my hand. “Come on. It’s this way.”

He leads me across the common room. The view of his back is almost as impressive as his front. It’s like following a bear. With really tight buns. He still has that bubble butt.

John takes me down a hall, and at an open door, he says, “Wait here.”

He pauses like he’s making sure I stay put. Sheesh. I’m not going to spy on his secret biker club. I roll my eyes. His brow furrows, but then he nods and ducks into a room, emerging with a bright orange jacket. I don’t think it’s his. The arms are tight, and he can’t zip it.

“Here we are.” He ushers me through a back door into a snow-covered yard. It’s huge. There’s a picnic pavilion, a small covered stage, and what looks like a jungle gym for kids made of tractor tires. My heart twinges. I shove the ache down, lock it away.

John leads me over to a fire pit surrounded by logs. He brushes off the snow. “You cold? I can make a fire.”

This is so surreal.

“No. It’s fine.”

I take the seat he offers. I’m actually hot. All my feelings have gotten trapped in my polyester coat, and I’m sweating my butt off.

“Shit. You need a glass for your water?” He rises, but I shake my head.

“No. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.”

He frowns. “No, you come here whenever you want. What’s wrong, Mona?”

I don’t know how to react to the first statement, so I answer the question.

“It’s…stupid. I still work at Shady Acres, you know?” I pause. He’s listening. This doesn’t seem like news to him.

“There’s a woman there named Miss Janice. She’s real sweet, and she’s helped me out in the past. Anyway, her grandson won’t bring her engagement ring. He probably hocked it. He’s anasshole.”

John will know what I mean. I rarely cuss. He nods somberly. He gets it.

“I went to get the ring this morning, and he—”

For the first time, it occurs to me that I might want to tread carefully. Before John decided he was done with me and had sex with a firefighter groupie, he was always very protective. If Tommy Merrill tried that when we were together? John would kill him. No doubt in my mind.

“What did he do?” John’s tone is a full octave deeper. Growlier.

“He wouldn’t give me the ring.”

John stares at me, his head cocked slightly to the side. He doesn’t believe that’s the whole truth. I press my lips together.

“That why you’ve been crying? ‘Cause he wouldn’t give you the ring?”

My fingers fly to my face. My eyes are puffy and tender. “I got very frustrated.”

“So frustrated that you come talk to me for the first time in four years?”

There’s bitterness in his voice. My jaw tightens. He doesn’t have the right to be bitter.

If he wanted to talk to me, he’s had plenty of time. The phone works two ways. I clamber to my feet. The snow’s turned to slush out here, and I slip a little.

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