“Why?”
“Because he’s tough and he’s smart. And I think he has the hots for you.”
“What? No. Griffin doesn’t even like me.” She sounded shocked and maybe something else . . . pleased?
“Yeah, he does.”
“But I’m married.”
“For now.”
Cricket sighed. “Okay, whatever. All I’m saying is I’m not sure about this, Ruby. I’m not as strong as you are. I’ve been fooling myself thinking I can be some badass who makes her husband pay.”
“Bull-to-the-shit. You’re strong. Stronger than you think. And you’ve got me. Together, we’re going to figure this out. I promise.”
I wasn’t sure my words were true. But I wanted to believe them. I longed for a world in which the dickheads got theirs and those of us who had treaded water for so long, just looking for a place to rest, a hard piece of ground to build something, could win. So if I lied, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to believe my words. Women like Cricket, women like me, we deserved to come out ahead sometimes.
“I don’t see how, but I will meet you at Juke’s office. I’ll pick up lunch for all of us. Maybe Cush’s or Fairfield. I’ll text you for your order.”
Of course she would. One thing I knew about Cricket—every occasion deserved sustenance.
“Don’t worry, Cricket. We got this.”
If I put it out into the universe, the gods of justice would hear it.
Please, gods of justice, hear me and make this work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CRICKET
My palms were sweating. I had always thought that was just a saying, but my hands were legitimately wet, and I could feel perspiration beading on my upper lip. Oh, and I was certain that at any moment, I would vomit on the table.
A few days ago when we had come up with this plan, it had sounded easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
But that was a few days ago, on the day I had nearly bailed （and probably should have bailed） on this whole being-an-amateur-private-eye thing. Now I knew how Nancy Drew felt. Or those meddling kids in the souped-up van with the dog. I was so nervous that I couldn’t even remember the name of the cartoon. But they stuck their noses where they shouldn’t have, and so had I. Meddling kids. Meddling Cricket.
I pressed my hands against the folder in front of me. And looked back at where Griffin was nursing a beer. He winked at me, which gave me a small bump of confidence, but not nearly enough to stop the pit stains that were no doubt marring my silk blouse.
After I had discovered the threat in the pictures of Julia Kate, I’d had a near breakdown that involved three-fourths of a bottle of pinot grigio and a failed science experiment. The last one was because Julia Kate had forgotten that she had to turn in a project that involved household products being combined for chemical reactions . . . which she had to film. The night ended with me half-drunk and Julia Kate in tears because I had refused to call an Uber to take us to Kroger to get more baking soda. At this point, I accepted the fact that I had allowed my child to fail. In the grand scheme of life, a zero in physical science wasn’t the end of the world.
Not to mention, Scott hadn’t come home. He hadn’t answered my texts, and his Find My Phone app had long been turned off, so I went to bed alone and woke to a message that he’d stayed over at a friend’s house because he’d drunk too much. Join the crowd. No mention of who the friend was, and since I had a foggy headache from the wine and intended to file for divorce anyway, I didn’t worry about responding with much more than Okay.
Julia Kate accepted that her dad had worked late and slept on a friend’s couch. She was much more interested in how she was going to navigate not having the science experiment done correctly and in how that would affect her grade and in how she wasn’t going to get into Princeton or Yale. I hated to burst her bubble and tell her that was a far-fetched possibility even if we had gotten the baking soda, so I just let her rant.
I dropped my daughter off, went through CC’s Coffee House for a double-shot espresso, and then dropped by the store to make sure it hadn’t burned down and that Judy Barr had gotten the French armoire she’d been hounding me about via text. Twelve texts was excessive. Like I could do anything about a dock strike. The morning was busy for a Wednesday, and Jade was in a good mood. Me? My stomach felt sour and my mind floaty, and my entire life teetered on the edge. But I soldiered on, pretending to be interested in the history of Wedgwood for some older gentleman who seemed very intent on giving me a lesson. Finally, I left the store at eleven a.m., picking up lunch and heading north to Juke’s office.