Page 93 of The Nanny Game Plan
I hang up without saying a word.
Straight to voicemail means she’s either turned on her do-not-disturb or…I’m blocked. But surely, she wouldn’t…
Not like this, with no real explanation. That text wasn’t an explanation; it was a confusing apology for something I don’t even understand.
I don’t get it.
I don’t understand how she could turn her back on this, on me, on the girls.
On us.
But maybe there is no us, maybe there never was, I think as I stand staring at my phone, wondering how I’m going to go back to living the way I did before. The thought of a house without Clover in it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
It feels like a piece of me has been ripped out, a vital organ cut away without anesthesia. It’s even worse than when Frederica told me she’s been having an affair.
I’mthatin love. That stupidly, recklessly in love.
I try to call her again, then once more later, after I’m alone in my hotel room, but the answer—or lack thereof—is the same.
I lie awake most of the night staring at the ceiling fan, waiting for the sun to rise, too eager to get on that plane in the morning to sleep. I need to be back in New Orleans. Now.
Then, I’m going to find Clover, even if I have to steal Blue’s phone, and track her down with his “find your friends” app.
I’m going to find her, and we’re going to talk.
I refuse to let her go without seeing her face-to-face, at least one last time.
Twenty-Three
CLOVER
The good newsis that my leg feels great.
This is the only good news.
All other news is bad news.Verybad news.
I still can’t believe this is happening. That I went from making pizzas in Dean’s kitchen and giggling with the girls over “sharp toots” to hiding in a creepy motel with Plato, hoping we can think fast enough to escape the noose we’ve apparently slipped around our necks. I can’t believe this is my life, or that a room is capable of smelling this much like mildew and old B.O.
And not-so-old-B.O…
Is it me?I wonder for the tenth time. But when I pause my pacing across the tacky carpet to discreetly sniff my armpit, my skin still smells like honeysuckle deodorant.
But I’m sweating. A lot.
It’s forty-five degrees outside, not much warmer in our gross hotel room, and I’m wearing a sleeveless jumpsuit, but still…sweating. But that’s okay. It’s normal to be sweating at a time like this. It doesn’t mean I’m not ready to do what needs to be done.
It doesn’t mean I can’t handle myself when push comes to shove.
And it’s not going to come to pushorshove! I’m meeting Dex’s partner in a coffee shop down the street from their club, a busy public place where people will notice if a guy hits a girl over the head and drags her out back to an unmarked van. Especially if that girl is wearing a bright red jumpsuit…
I smooth the fabric over my hips and keep pacing, resuming my silent mantra that everything is going to be okay.
Itisgoing to be okay.
And then I’ll find some way to make things right with Dean again.
He’ll forgive me, even if I can never fully explain what happened…right?
