Page 35 of What Boys Learn

“Right,” I said, not truly feeling right about anything. Jobs. Finances. My reputation. “Phone numbers, too?”

When we were finished exchanging contact info, I said, “Thank you, Dr. Campbell.”

“Curtis, please. You’re not my student anymore. We’re colleagues. I don’t suppose you’d like to . . .”

My phone buzzed. Benjamin couldn’t be showered already.

Want to go home.

“Sorry—it’s part of being a parent, I guess. Pavlovian response to a text. You were asking . . . ?”

“I was going to ask if you’d like to go somewhere for a glass of wine.”

“Things are a little shaky at home, so I’d better say no.”

“Well, I hope we can stay in touch.”

“I’d like that.”

On the way home, I asked Benjamin to dig into my purse and pass me a piece of chewing gum, to stop me from thinking about the cigarette I wished I could smoke or the clonidine I wished I could take, in order to settle my nerves.

He held up the first thing he pulled out. It was the sign-in sheet I’d swiped from the Dartmoor. “What’s this?”

I didn’t answer.

“Mom?” He studied the sheet. “Why do you have this?”

“Because it looks bad.”

He held up the paper, rattling it. “It looks like I left the pool. And Izzy left the pool. Because we’d both finished our laps.”

“It’s too close. You look like you left together.”

“Oh, that makes fucking sense. I gave her a ride to her mansion on my handlebars.”

“I didn’t saythat—”

“And then when she was still feeling sad, I gave her a ride on my bike to a motel that’s miles and miles away. A rich girl like Izzy would have loved that.”

He kicked the speaker in the door’s side panel, hard and loud enough to make me startle and yank the steering wheel. An oncoming car laid on its horn.

“Hey!” My heart pounded. “Careful! We could have had an accident.”

For several more blocks, I massaged my chest with shaking fingertips. “Jesus,” I said under my breath.

When we reached a red light, I looked over again. His expression had changed. A door closing. Flesh into stone.

When we reached the curb in front of our apartment, I said, “I didn’t mean to sound like I was assuming the worst. I’m not assuming anything.”

In a low voice I barely recognized, he said, “What you’re thinking didn’t happen.”

He grabbed at the door handle.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin.”

But he was already out of the car, heading for our front door and likely to his room, where he’d hide as long as he could.

Inside, while I hung our wet towels to dry, I kept thinking about my apology, wishing I’d phrased it differently. And then I replayed his sarcastic words:I gave her a ride on my bike to a motel that’s miles and miles away. A rich girl like Izzy would have loved that.