Page 12 of The Book of Luke

“Except a video of your client fucking an employee with twenty-five million views.”

“Formeremployee,” he countered. “We’re comfortable with two outcomes. Mr. Griffin agrees to public reconciliation, retaining full access to the children and financial privileges. Or he pursues this divorce and walksaway with no money and no legal tie to the Appleby family.”

“We both know that’s not happening.”

“Unless a judge agrees Senator Appleby’s simply terminating a glorified babysitter.”

I stormed to my car rather than thrash Krazny in his seat. I was a disaster as I sped home, fully regretting my assurances to Jenny that she could return to Philly.

I should have known Barnes wouldn’t fall on his sword, forever the man so many people had warned me he was. I’d been a moron to ever think differently, but Barnes had miscalculated too. He should have remembered there was only one thing I’d fight to the death for, the true title I’d always chased—and it wasn’t “husband.”

I abruptly pulled into a loading zone to call Evelyn, who answered immediately.

“Luke, I’m so sorry. You’ll never see his lawyer again. Don’t let him intimidate—”

“No, I still want the divorce.”

“Good. We’re going to get everything he owes you.”

“I don’t care about the money. I’ll… make money.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself—”

“I only care about the kids. Get me my kids. Full custody.”

8

2003

SEASON 1, EPISODE 3:

“They Shoot Toucans, Don’t They?”

Not long after Greta’s exodus, I was exercising in the makeshift gym that production had assembled in the pool cabana. Everyone had passed out early, so I was surprised when a lone figure approached with a pitcher of margaritas and Solo cups. “Ditch your mic,” Arjun whispered conspiratorially. “The crew’s testing some dumb Tribulation with wooden toucans.”

“Mary Peach said I could only take my mic off in the bathroom or the pool.”

“No one will notice. Come on, all gym and no play makes Luke a dull jock.”

Arjun guided me down the dark path to the beach, where he arranged pilfered towels, the sand still warm. For once he wasn’t regaling me with stories of Los Angeles or London; he was asking about my family, Dartmouth, everything. Still, it all felt painfully platonic.

“So why football?” His head lolled to the side, puka-shell choker taut across his throat, wisps of chest hair flirting with the edge of his collar. I felt the urge to pull him closer, how elegantly his body would fit against me, but I wasn’t drunk enough to attempt it.

“Well, my dad coached it.”

“But you kept going.”

I examined my cup. “Mitch sat me down in high school and asked what I wanted my life to be. I knew I wanted a family,kids, more than anything, and he said, ‘What if you could get what you want because of who you are, not in spite of it?’ He was convinced a team would see they could make money drafting the first openly gay player in the league.”

“That’s a lot of concussions for some theoretical toddlers,” Arjun replied. “Sounds like he put a lot of pressure on you.”

“He’s just protective. A football scholarship got him out of the boondocks, so I get why he pushed it.”

“What did your mom say?”

“She died a while ago.”

Even in the dark I could see he was mortified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”