Page 51 of The Atonement
“I’m not going to, like, get arrested for helping you steal her car, am I?”
I laughed. “No. Of course not.”
“Okay, fine. Where should I pick you up?”
I rattled off the address.
“GPS shows I can be there in an hour.”
“Okay, I’ll be here. And thanks, Gina. This means a lot.”
“I told you to get your shit together, Peter. Sounds like youfinally are.”
Just under an hour later,Gina’s gray Camry pulled into the driveway. I jogged out to the car to meet her, waving my injured hand at her in the fading daylight. When I opened the door, she leaned over, trying to get a better look at me.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Ainsley.”
“She hurt you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Peter, if she hurt you, you have to call the police. Men can be victims, too. There’s no shame in—”
“I’m fine, Gina,” I said gently. “I promise I’m fine. It’s complicated with my kids. And I appreciate what you’re saying, but tensions are already high. I just want to protect them.”
“How are you going to do that?”
I gave a dry laugh, looking down at my hand hopelessly. “I have no idea.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about this? If not the police, maybe a therapist? A friend?”
I looked up at her, knowing I was winning her over by the way she was staring at me. This was a new side to our relationship. One I didn’t know existed before. “I’m talking to you.”
She swallowed, her eyes darting back and forth between mine, and then looked away. She gripped the steering wheel. “I want to help you.”
“Youarehelping me.”
“I mean…I want to help you find your kids.”
“No,” I said quickly. “No. I can’t ask you to get involved.”
“You’re not asking. I’ve seen the way you talk about your kids. I’ve seen the pictures on your desk. I’ve been with you on business trips when you stop to pick something up for them from the gift shop or when you order their favorite desserts from a restaurant to bring home after a work dinner. I don’t know anything about your marriage, Peter, and I won’t pretend to. And I know we aren’t exactly friends. But if I’m all you’ve got, I want to help you. However I can.”
“Why?” I couldn’t make sense of it.
“Because, despite all evidence to the contrary”—she chuckled—“you’re a pretty good guy. And you don’t deserve this.” She gestured toward my hand. “So let me help.”
I nodded slowly, contemplating. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m not,” she admitted. “But it feels like the right thing to do, and I need a clean conscience walking into my marriage.”
“Thank you, Gina,” I said, buckling in as she pulled out of the driveway.
