Page 73 of Don't Go
Without turning her head, Sabrina said, "Beau, stop encouraging her."
At a red light, I looked at her, and she was looking at me.
The look between us belonged to two people who never got alone in a room without ending up with their clothes off, now sitting in a car with an eight-year-old in the back seat and very aware they wouldn’t be in that car for much longer.
Bonnie was talking about Schubert — Mr. Marlowe's dog.
We kept looking at each other.
The light went green. I turned my head.
At the next red light, we looked again.
By the third one, my hand came off the gearshift and settled on her thigh — over her jeans, the heel of my palm just resting there, my thumb making no movement, my face not turning toward her.
She didn't move.
The studio was on the second floor of a brownstone that had a pizza place on the ground floor and a hand-painted sign in the front window that saidMarlowe Musicin a font somebody loved in 1974.
I pulled up at the curb.
"Bonnie. I'll be right back."
"Bye, Mom."
"Bye, baby. I love you. Be good. Listen to Mr. Marlowe. Don't argue with him about Brahms again."
"I was right."
"Be good anyway."
I got out, went around to her side, and opened her door. She climbed out with her folder against her chest. I closed the door behind her and walked her to the front of the building. I held the heavy door open.
"Bye, Beau."
"Bye, Bonnie."
She disappeared up the stairs.
I went back to the car, closed the door, turned in my seat, and looked at Sabrina.
She looked back.
We didn't need to say anything.
I pulled away from the curb.
I didn't make it far.
The block was residential, brownstones on both sides. There was a stretch of curb between two parked cars, half a length more than I needed. I took it. I shut off the engine.
She had her hand on the door before the engine was all the way off.
"Backseat."
"Yes."
I climbed over the console. She was laughing as she came over from the passenger side, and the sound of it was the best thing that had happened to me in days.
