Page 140 of Prodigal Son

Thirty-Eight

“I’m only saying,” Simon said on the other end of the phone Eden held pressed to her ear. “We work well together, and it would be a pay increase. Just think about it.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

He laughed. “You could at least try to sound a little interested.”

“I am interested. It’s just…” She flicked another handful of bread crumbs to the pigeons who’d gathered on the rooftop a few paces away. The first day, she’d tossed them the crust from her sandwich, but in the days since she’d made a point of bringing something specifically for them. Watching them waddle and peck was soothing in a way she hadn’t known she’d needed, and like her, they didn’t seem to mind the misty rain.

She felt strange. Hollow. But how to explain it to Simon?

“Eden,” he said, carefully, after the silence had stretched too long. “I’m worried about you.”

She didn’t answer.

“Your mum said–”

“Aw, Jesus, you talked to her?”

“She said you’re still at Baskerville Hall.”

“What if I am?”

A pause. He said, “Are you and Fox–”

“I don’t know. What does that matter?”

“Eden,” he said, patiently, “I think it matters toyou.”

She started to answer, but found the words wouldn’t come.

“You’ve worked so hard since you were just a kid in her first uniform,” he continued, “and I think you’re tired. And I think you want more than a job. And that’s okay.”

“I know it’sokay. I don’t need your permission.”

He chuckled, low and fond. “Okay, okay. I won’t push you, then. You have a job with my firm if you want it. But, off the record? I think maybe a vacation’s in order.”

“Maybe,” she said, and sounded sullen. She heard the door open behind her. “I’ve got to go.”

“Say hello to all your bikers for me,” he said, and hung up.

She slipped her phone away and tipped her head back, looked at Fox from beneath the dripping hood of her jacket as he walked up, and settled down to sit beside her, heedless of the damp. He wore a bland expression, but a muscle twitched in his jaw; he was mulling something over, she knew.

“Who was that?” he asked, looking out at the pigeons.

“Simon. He called to offer me a job.”

“Huh.”

“I turned him down.”

“’Kay.”

They’d done this several times now: wound up on the roof together, sitting in relative silence, the weight of things unsaid lying heavy across their shoulders. Eden would have thought it was only her, but she’d seen the looks Fox had snuck her way when he thought she wasn’t looking; noticed the way he fiddled with the zipper of his jacket.

Today felt heavier; pregnant like the rain clouds overhead.

“I was downstairs talking to Phil,” he said, finally, and she sent him what she hoped was an encouraging look. “I think–” He took a breath, wet his lips. Scrapedthinkoff the sentence like a bit of old gum off the bottom of a shoe. “I’ve decided I’m going back to America.”

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