Page 67 of How to Walk Away

“He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“So you just decided this wasanyof your business?”

“My child is my business.”

“He’snota child!”

She sat up a little straighter. “A marriage—starting a lifetime together—needs a strong foundation of…” She seemed to cast around for the word. “Desire.”

Desire? Were we talking aboutsexnow? “Desire?”

“Among other things.”

A strange, acid anger started burning in my chest. She didnotjust walk into this room and creepily tell me her son no longer wanted to screw me. “Oh, he’s got plenty of desire,” I said. She really wanted to get into this? This was where she wanted to go? Fine. We’d go there. I could go there all day.

“He’s got desire in the golf house at the club,” I said. “And in his childhood bedroom. And on the garden bench beside your weird little cherub statues. And in your master-bath Jacuzzi when you’re on vacation. And even in the kitchen pantry during Christmas dinner. Your ‘child’ is a tenth-degree horn-dog. He’s got more than enough desire. I think he’ll find a way to manage.”

I wanted it to feel good to attack her like that, but it didn’t.

Evelyn stayed still as stone. “That was before,” she said at last. “Things have changed.”

“Yes they fucking have.”

She turned her face away at that word—again.“Chip’s father and I feel that he’s looking for something else now. Something he can’t find in you.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Do you?”

Her face was solemn. “He says he wants to be with you, but we can plainly see his actions.”

“What actions?”

She closed her mouth as if I’d asked some wildly inappropriate question. As if she wasn’t the person who had brought the whole thing up in the first place.

“You’re not going to tell me?” I demanded. “What actions are you talking about?”

I could see that she realized she’d said too much.

I leaned forward. “Tell me,” I said, my voice menacing.

She turned away.

As she did, we both caught sight of a figure in the doorway.

Chip.

If I could have slapped him across the face right then, I would have. “Did you send yourmotherto break up with me?”

Chip looked at his mother. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to help you.” Her voice suddenly got wobbly. “Your father and I are very worried.” She lifted her hand to her face, and I realized she was wiping away tears. All at once, she looked very fragile—and I regretted, a little, how many times I’d just said “fuck.”

A son can’t be angry with his crying mother. His voice got tender. “Mom,” he said. “You can’t help me. Don’t help me, okay?”

He came over, helped her stand, and steered her out of the room. As he did, he held up his hand at me to sayfive minutes. I guessed he was going to walk her back to the hospital valet and send her home.

Once they were gone, I noticed my breathing was ragged, and mychest stung a little, as if the imaginary acid had burned some kind of sad, hollow hole. I spent several minutes trying to tell myself that it was good to feelsomething,at least, before deciding that was bullshit. Why was it that the only emotions that seemed able to penetrate my fog were the worst of the worst?

When Chip made it back, I noticed then that he looked—for the first time since the accident—just exactly like his old self. Here was the Chip I’d fallen in love with. Here was the Chip who had it all together, ready to confidently stand at the helm of anything and everything. He looked picture-perfect. He’d gotten a haircut. He was wearing a crisp polo and pressed khakis. He’d brushed his teeth—and even possibly flossed.

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