Page 146 of Dying to Meet You
So does Natalie.
Her mother reappears a few minutes later wearing running clothes. “Lickie, let’s go for a run.”
The dog spasms with joy, racing out to join her. And a minute later her mother is on her way out the door. “Lock this behind me,” she tells Natalie, not meeting her eyes.
Natalie locks the damn door. Then she sinks down on the couch, feeling shaky. She wonders if her father is already packing.
This is a disaster.
The coffee table is a little tidier now, with her mother’s work sorted into piles that Natalie hasn’t touched. Two fat piles are annual reports from the Wincott Foundation.
Her mother has also written four names in big letters on a legal pad:
M. McNamara
T. O’Neil
B. Jones
C. Vespertini
Beside the names are questions: Child support payments? College tuition?
And underneath that, her mom wrote:MW’s 4 children?
Marcus Wincott was a busy guy.
Natalie picks up one of the annual reports off the stack. It’s from 1992. The cover shows the Wincott trident centered inside a heart. Underneath, there’s a photo of a dozen smiling children at a school lunchroom table.
Natalie turns the pages, picking up where her mother left off. It’s hard to concentrate, though, especially when she hears her father make a call.
“Hey, Cal. Just wanted to catch you before the dinner rush. I gotta ask a favor. Will you check out an apartment for me tomorrow? Yeah. It’s not available until next month, but I gotta sign a lease soon. Ro has had all she can take.”
Natalie’s heart tumbles.
“Thanks, man. I will never be able to repay...” He sighs. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. I’ll send you the deets.”
53
Coralie
“Two cheeseburgers. Fries are coming up in just a second.” The guy behind the counter gives her a wink. He’s cute, with a piercing in one ear and artfully shaved hair. A little punk rock.
He was the kind of guy she would’ve flirted with at a bar not too long ago, hoping he’d buy her a drink. Hoping he’d take her home.
But now she’s standing here in an elastic-waist skirt, waiting for their lunch. Hoping they don’t skip the pickles, because cravings are real. She uses her thumb to jiggle the fake wedding band on her ring finger.
The radio is playing “I Will Always Love You,” by Whitney Houston. That song is everywhere lately, and she’s starting to hate it.
Too unrealistic.
“Here you go!” the pierced hottie says, tucking the fries into her bag. “You have a nice day now.”
“Thanks.” She allows herself a single flirtatious smile before leaving a dollar in the tip jar and tucking her boss’s change into her pocket.
She heads back to the office quickly, so the fries won’t get cold.
They never have lunch together. He always goes out, and she eats a sandwich at her desk. But today his lunch meeting was postponed and then finally canceled, and he said, “Let’s get some burgers. I’ll buy, you fly.”
