Page 78 of On the Line

She hugs me tighter, which I take as an indication that she doesn’t want me to go. We head upstairs together, and as I fall asleep with her wrapped in my arms, I’m feeling the exact same way—I don’t want to leave. Ever.

* * *

I press a kiss to her forehead, wishing again that I didn’t have to leave. I’m half tempted to text Aaron and tell him to figure his shit out with his coach on his own, but that’s not the kind of agent I am. Instead, I’m already making plans in my mind for bringing another agent or two into the fold so I can take a step back. There’s no reason to still be pushing myself this hard when I’ve already accomplished everything I set out to do and more.

I don’t need money, I need time. Time to focus on myself and Lauren, and nurturing what’s growing between us, and doing whatever I can to help with Ivy and Iris—I want to step up like no one ever has for these girls.

“Shit,” she mumbles as I stand up. “It’s Monday, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But still early. You can go back to sleep.”

“I forgot to put the trash on the curb last night. The trash trucks will be here soon ... they come so early.”

“I’ll do it when I leave.”

She tells me where to leave the trash and recycling barrels, and then I give her another kiss goodbye and head downstairs as quietly as possible. Once outside, the barrels sound impossibly loud as I roll them down the driveway in the silence of the early morning. When I get the second one to the street, I turn and find a man standing only about five feet from me, a trash bag in his hand.

“Hey,” he says as he lifts the lid to the barrels already sitting at the street next to the neighbor’s driveway. “I’m Greg. I live next door.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jameson.”

“Your family just move into this place?”

“Uh, no. This is my”—I don’t even know what to call Lauren—“girlfriend’s place.”

“Ah yes,” he says. “I’ve seen her and the kids coming and going a few times. Seems like she did a lot of work to the place.”

“Yeah, it was completely gutted before she moved in,” I say, resisting the temptation to check my watch. I need to get going and don’t feel like I have time for this conversation. “So there was a lot of work needed.”

“The previous owners were just starting to renovate when he died in a ski accident.”

I’m finding it hard to breathe.Owners? What the hell is he talking about? A ski accident is too coincidental for Josh not to be one half of this couple.

I glance back at Lauren’s house. “A couple owned this place?”

“I think so,” he says, rubbing his hands together. He’s dressed in flannel pajama pants, a sweatshirt, and sneakers—clearly he was planning on running a bag of trash out to the barrel, not standing around chatting in near-freezing temperatures. “Josh lived somewhere else but was moving here. Sophia lives in Boston, so she was the one here all the time meeting with the contractor. I wondered if she’d sell the place after he died. Such a tragedy.””

I clear my throat to stop from choking on the idea of Sophia owning half this house. That can’t be possible. I have a million questions, but none that I think this guy would know the answer to.

“I’m sorry, I have to run. I’m catching a flight this morning.”

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

I walk back up the driveway to my car, which is parked next to the back door. I glance at the house and think about Lauren, sleeping inside, completely oblivious to the fact that her husband did not buy this house because he knew how much she wanted to move back to Boston, but instead bought it to be closer to another woman.

I stand there, paralyzed with indecision about what I should do with this knowledge. Do I go inside and tell her the limited amount of information I know? Or do I wait until I can get more intel? I glance at my watch and realize I’m dangerously close to not making it home and to the airport in time for my flight, yet my feet are still rooted to the spot outside her door.

In the end, I get in my car, and once I’m out of the driveway and halfway down her street, I dial a number I never thought I’d have to call again.

“Da fuck you calling me at five fifteen in the morning?” Woody’s grizzled voice carries through my car speakers.

“You’re a contractor. It’s not like you’re not awake by now.”

“Don’t mean I want to talk toyouat the ass crack of dawn.”

“I have some questions about the work you were doing on that house in Brookline. Specifically, who were you were working for?”

* * *

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