Thought I Knew You(42)

Greg’s nose has never been broken. “I’m… I’m sorry,” I stammered, stumbling backward.





Chapter 19



“I feel like such a fool.” I sat with my head in my hands, staring at the concrete floor of our hotel room balcony. Sarah topped off my glass from the bottle of Pinot Grigio she’d plunked on ice. I finished it off in two long gulps. “I’m apparently seeing him in crowds now. Am I crazy?”

Sarah was nonchalant about the whole event. “No, I think it’s being in this city. You want to find him.”

“Of course I want to find him. But you know what the weirdest part is?” The ground several floors below us seemed to waver, and I concentrated on the horizon, steadying my vision. I vaguely remember having heard that staring at an immovable point will stop sickness. I wasn’t sure if that would help being drunk, though. Maybe the tip was for seasickness. “I was convinced it was him. About a block into the chase, I really thought it was him. All these thoughts were going through my head. What I would say? Would I be angry? Would I act angry? What would I do? Would he come home with me?” I took a deep breath. “Did I want him to come home with me?”

“Would you?” Sarah asked.

“No.” I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “There will never be Greg and Claire again. I realized that today. I could never get over this. I could never love him again. Trust him again. While I was following who I thought was Greg, not once did I feel sad. Or hopeful. It wasn’t like it was in Rochester. In New York, I was convinced I would somehow rescue him. I’m so fucking delusional.”

“But what about the girls?” Sarah asked, never one to shy away from the tough questions. “Could you do it for them?”



Could I? Could I bring Greg home and pretend to be a family again? Love him? I pictured him in our room, in our bed, and waited for the heaviness in my gut. The sadness of missing Greg didn’t come. The alcohol may have played a contributing role, but the only emotion I could put my finger on was anger. White-hot rage simmered behind my eyes, putting pressure on my skull. I shook my head. “No. I could have handled the cheating, or maybe the lying, and even maybe him just leaving me. But this? To put me through this? To put them through this, the unknown? No. Any love I had for Greg has been destroyed by his lies.”

“So what are you going to do now? Are you going to keep looking for him?”

“I can’t. I have to move on. This is making me crazy. Following him around the country. Retracing his steps. Looking for clues in his study, in our bank account and credit card bills. There are no clues. He doesn’t want to be found.”

“So you believe he ran away?”

“Do you?” I countered.

She didn’t answer, but gazed over the railing at the intersection below.

I took a swig of wine. “Either that or he’s dead. But that’s so Hollywood movie because he would have had to have been killed in a way that either his body was never found or he was completely unrecognizable. Any unidentified man would be investigated and eventually come back to the missing Greg Barnes. Then, there’d be dental records comparison.”

“Watching a lot of Law and Order with your spare time now?”

“Oh, mostly just listening to Matt Reynolds, your friendly neighborhood homicide detective.”

“Hmm.” Sarah smiled thinly. “Is he single?”

I swatted at her. “I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”





We ate at Sevilla, a sleek tapas bar that doubled as a flamenco nightclub. Sarah introduced me to culture, stripped of Sesame Street and Barney. We drank Sangria martinis. Unlike the previous night, the alcohol had a loosening effect. Warmth tingled in my arms and legs, and I suppressed the desire to get on the dance floor all through dinner. Possibly the day’s events were contributing to my rowdiness.

“I’ve never seen you like this.” Sarah shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should slow down.”

“Who’s the mom now?” I had no idea how to salsa. Loud Spanish music, glittering with castanets, thrummed in my ears. I tried to pull Sarah to her feet, but she resisted. I walked onto the dance floor alone. The other people ranged from professional flamenco dancers to simply talented dark-haired men and women. But there were no other Irish Catholics with two left feet. I immersed myself into the throng of hard bodies gyrating to the hypnotic music. I tried to focus on a woman near me and mimic her movements. After a few moments, I thought I looked pretty good.

“Where did you learn to salsa?” Sarah shouted from behind me.