Page 95 of What Boys Learn

“Even if he doubts your love right now.”

“Especiallyif he doubts it.”

“And even if he’s at a critical crossroads.”

“Yes.”

“And even if your family history doesn’t generate much confidence in reversing a certain pattern . . . ?”

“A certain pattern,” I said, frowning, wanting him to explain further. “I know you believe that boys need male role models.”

He mumbled, “It’s not only that.”

I kept trying to make eye contact with Curtis, but he refused to look at me now. When he took out his phone, I assumed he was taking my advice and calling a car. But then I heard the whoosh of an email being sent.

He slid his phone back into his jacket. “We used group therapy at Menkoka for a while, but it backfired. The problem with housing and treating psychopaths together is that instead of getting better together, they get worse. They study each other. Learn from each other. How to deceive, manipulate, don useful masks—all while finding reassurance in each other’s company. ‘That persongot away with such and such moral violation; so could I.’”

Half an hour ago, he’d been venting about his father. Two minutes ago, he was pressing his warm thigh into mine.

“If you’re suggesting I’m a bad influence on my son, that’s ridiculous.”

“I’m only suggesting that it’s very important whom Benjamin spends time with right now.”

“My son isn’t one of Konrad’s ducklings,” I said, trying to diffuse the tension, expecting him to laugh at a psychology reference.

Curtis slid out of the booth. “I just sent you the transcript from our hypnosis session. I didn’t think you should read it before, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Okay,” I said, perplexed by his insistence. “Fine.”

I nodded and looked around, disoriented, following him halfway across the dining room before realizing I’d left my purse under the table. I’d just hooked a finger under the strap when a commotion erupted in the bar section of the restaurant, competing with the noise of the televisions. Curtis’s firm diction was drowned out by an even louder, familiar voice, braying with indignation.

Standing up fast, I banged the top of my head on the underside of the table. I closed my eyes for a second—men—and then hurried to break things up before someone did something stupid.

34

“Ourplace? You had to bring him here?”

Robert stood in the restaurant entryway, a few feet from the bar, blocking Curtis from leaving.

“You’re kidding me,” I said. “This isn’tourplace, you idiot. It’s just the only affordable restaurant on Main Street.”

Robert had his shoulders up, knuckles of one hand grinding into the palm of the other. Curtis moved closer, clasping my arm protectively.

In a gravelly voice, Robert said, “I suggest you take your hand off her.”

“Yousuggest?”

“Both of you,” I said, “chill out.”

“It’s a good thing I stopped you,” Robert said, sizing up Curtis. “How much you both drink? Two bottles of wine?” He pushed back the bottom of his Cubs jacket to reveal the holstered gun at his hip.

Curtis said, “I don’t know who you are, but we’d both like you to take a big step back.”

Robert ignored the order. “If either of you walk out that door and get behind a steering wheel, you are going to see blue lights so fast—”

“I’m walking,” I said. “Not that it’s your business.”

“It is, Abby. It definitely is. And you’re making a big mistake.”