Page 45 of I Almost Do

"It must be nice." Rebecca shoots me a commiserating glance. "No summer vacations for us, huh, James? Once you get out in the real world, it's all work all the time. Adulting stinks," she jokes to Clarissa. "Half the time I think we'd be better off just keeping a bed in the corner of the office, we spend so much time there. Enjoy these years," she says with a sigh. "They'll be over too soon."

I'm about to point out that Clarissa hasn't actually taken a full summer off to relax since she started school, but Rebecca is still talking. "I wish James and I had a couple months to just lie around and do nothing. Ooh, you should do a tour of Europe over summer break. There'll never be a better time."

I make a noise of agreement, but I'm not really listening to whatever Rebecca is prattling on about. I'm watching my wife. She looks off. Uncomfortable. She glances at me with annoyance, as if she's waiting for me to say something. But I have no idea what she wants from me.

"Did you like the care package last week?" Rebecca asks Clarissa. "I was worried the chocolate-covered strawberries might have melted, but the company promised me they were packaged very carefully with ice packs. Did they arrive in good condition?"

Clarissa slowly turns her head toward me and glares with unexpected venom. She has never looked at me like that before. This isn't annoyance or irritation. She's furious.

She smiles with her mouth but glares with her eyes, and it's the fakest damn expression I've seen on her face since our wedding photos. "I thought those were from you, James. I didn't know I should be thankingRebeccafor my care packages."

"They were from me. I paid for them."

"Absolutely," Rebecca says. "They're all from James. I'm just the facilitator. He's really too busy to spend time tracking down every little present. And I don't mind at all. I think care packages are so important. I remember what it's like to be a young girl away from home for the first time."

"Rebecca," I snap. "Stop." She is not helping. She makes it sound as though she and I are Clarissa's parents on Christmas morning, and I'm the loser dad who has no clue what Mom has wrapped under the tree from Santa.

I may not have gone through every ordering process, but I sure as hell told Rebecca exactly what to buy and when. I approved every one of those orders when they went through. She may as well have been a warehouse worker, packing boxes.

Rebecca wisely steps back, a placating expression on her face. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to upset you," she says to Clarissa.

Rebecca looks at her watch, then raises her brows a little, opening her eyes wide as if the time is a shocking discovery. “Maybe Clarissa is tired. She had to have been on the road pretty early this morning to make it here in time for the gala."

She gives Clarissa a patronizing smile. "You have to be completely tuckered out."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Clarissa doesn't raise her voice, but she doesn't need to. The words crack through the space on an incredulous laugh just the same.

Rebecca startles, and we catch the attention of a few people standing nearby.

"I'm not a child," she tells Rebecca. "I don't need a nap. I don't have a bedtime. Jesus, you're a piece of work."

Clarissa yanks out of my grip, and I move to follow her.

My skin crawls when Rebecca’s hand lands lightly on my arm.

She says, “I don’t know what that was about, but you might want to talk to her about using that kind of language in public. It’s not good for Harcourt’s image. I know her father tolerated a lot, but she’s representing the company as your wife now.”

I look down at her hand on my arm, pure ice in my eyes.

She releases me immediately.

“You don’t touch me. Ever. And if you disrespect my wife again… if you even look at her with anything less than the deference she deserves, you’ll be finding another job. And it won’t be in this city. You and I are not friends. We have never been friends. You do the job I pay you to do. That’s it. Talk about mywife, offer meadviceabout my marriage, and that MBA won’t be worth the paper it’s written on. Am I clear?”

The color drains from her face. "Of course. I overstepped. My apologies.”

I search the room for Clarissa and freeze when I finally find her. It looks like she intended to head back to our table, but Lyndsay Roker has not only stepped into her path, she’s got her phone in Clarissa’s face.

Clarissa searches the crowd—I’d guess for me. I try to catch her eye, moving as fast as I can, literally shoving people out of my way to get to her.

Something Lyndsay says has a furious flush sweeping over Clarissa’s face in a wash of red.

Then Clarissa Harcourt-Mellinger, the sweet angel who once whispered to me that she was angry, says loudly enough to be heard ten people deep, “Lyndsay, you lying cunt.”

17

Dangerous Woman

James

---