For the first time she realizes the difference—the distinction—and her mouth turns tight with worry.
“Do you think . . . I mean . . . could I get in trouble for this? Are they going to give me a problem about Rory’s arm? About being with you last night?”
My hands move to her shoulders, squeezing and rubbing at the tension that stiffens them. “No—listen to me—it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong and they’re not gonna give you a hard time.” I pause then, wanting to make her understand without freaking her out. “But you need to think about how you phrase things. Sometimes how a statement reads in a report doesn’t represent the way things actually are.”
I see this often in my cases. Words like terroristic threats being applied to six-year-olds who shoot finger guns at classmates and claim they’re “dead.” Or a charge of “possession with intent to distribute” makes some moron sound like a member of a goddamn drug cartel, when in reality they’re a slacker fuckup who happened to get their hands on a big stash.
Words matter, and sometimes context can make all the difference in the world.
“When you talk to Janet, you have to think about not just what’s true, but how the truth will look in black-and-white. Okay?”
She nods and I pull her in against me. I kiss the anxiety on her forehead, then whisper, “Don’t worry. Everything is fine.”
She squeezes her arms around me and nods against my chest.
We step apart as Janet comes out, wheeling Rory in a hospital-policy-mandated wheelchair. “We’re all set.” She smiles.
A nurse comes up and gives Chelsea his discharge instructions and pain medication. Out on the sidewalk, Rory stands, saying he can walk to the car.
Janet shields her eyes from the glaring afternoon sun. “I’ll be stopping by the house one day this week, okay, Chelsea?”
“That’s fine,” Chelsea replies. “I’ll be there.”
“It was nice meeting you, Janet,” I offer just for pleasantries’ sake.
“Same here, Mr. Becker.”
Rory is between me and Chelsea and we walk to the car, her arm around his lower back, my hand on his shoulder, just in case he stumbles. And even though I don’t look back, I feel Janet’s eyes on the three of us the whole way.
• • •
Over the next few weeks, Chelsea and I settle into a weird domesticated arrangement. After work, I swing by the house to help her with the kids, hang out, and do whatever needs doing. Then, after the kids are in bed, Chelsea and I . . . hang out together . . . more often than not without clothes.
The sex has been . . . fucking intense. Quiet—so as not to wake the cockblocking interrupters who are all too eager to disturb us—but still top-notch. It’s a different situation for me—new—but strangely comfortable. I haven’t really let myself think about it too deeply. No labels or discussions or any shit like that. They say ignorance is bliss . . . and my nights with Chelsea have certainly been that.
For now, that’s good enough.
And the kids are a fucking riot. Like a funny, sometimes adorable, sometimes ass-pain-causing fungus, they’ve grown on me. One time, after work, Chelsea needed me to take Rosaleen to her piano lesson. And I did, but . . . it didn’t end well:
“We need to add a piano teacher to the list,” Rosaleen tells her aunt as we walk into the kitchen.
The TV is blaring in the next room, where Raymond and Rory engage in Mortal Kombat—the video game—but from the sounds of it, they may actually be on the verge of beating the shit out of each other. Ronan rocks quietly in his swing while Regan busies herself with pots, pans, and wooden spoons strewn like landmines across the floor. A big metal pot boils on the stove, giving off a warm, beefy aroma.
Chelsea looks up from the cutting board, where a half-chopped carrot lies in wait. “What do you mean? You have a piano teacher.”
“Not anymore.” The seven-year-old shrugs.
Chelsea turns suspicious eyes on me.
And I have no guilt at all. “That guy shouldn’t be teaching children. Sadistic son of a bitch.”
Chelsea places the knife down beside the carrot. Then she takes a deep breath, and I know she’s trying not to stress. “Monsieur Jacques La Rue is the best piano instructor in the city. It took months for Rachel to get him to take Rosaleen as his student. What happened?”
I pop a slice of carrot in my mouth. “What kind of guy makes his students call him Monsieur? He’s probably not even French,” I grumble. “I bet his real name is Joey Lawrence from the Bronx.”
Rosaleen climbs onto the island stool across from her aunt and eagerly tells the tale. “He hit my knuckles with the ruler ’cause I messed up.”