Moondogs - Alexander Yates [110]
It was past midnight when Monique left the annex, motion sensors brightening empty halls as she passed, tracing a trail of lights through the building that ended at the main exit. She signed out with the young Marine at Post One and returned to the promenade. She walked south on Roxas, past the yachts waltzing darkly in their moorings. The moon was out, and though it was almost full it looked aloof; excluded and humiliated by the brighter skyline. There was a dark shape ahead; a car parked in the middle of the promenade. Reynato’s car. They’d been out to dinner when the call came in, and he’d dropped her off a few blocks away so as not to be seen. He sat on the hood, elbows on his knees, chin propped on his little hands.
“You didn’t need to wait for me,” she said, so thankful that he had.
“Don’t be silly,” he said, hopping off the hood. He reached into the open passenger-side window and produced her purse, dangling from his rigid finger by a leather shoulder strap. “Besides, you forgot this.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” He kissed her lightly and handed over her phone, which was supposed to be in her purse. “Your husband has been trying to call,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that. I joke plenty, but I would never answer it. I was just trying to turn it on silent.”
She looked at the screen and saw five missed calls from Joseph. He knew how late it was here. Something must be wrong. Monique took a few quick steps over to the seawall—for privacy—and called Joseph back.
“Are the kids all right?” she asked, stepping on his “hello.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Joe? Can you hear me? Is everything okay?”
“What are you talking about? Everything’s fine here.”
Air rushed out of her lungs, pushing up words. “Shit, Joe. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night? You had me scared to death.”
“What?” He always said “what” when he was hurt. Like he couldn’t believe you’d hurt him. “I was calling to check on you. Jeffrey phoned a few hours ago and he told me what happened.”
“Oh.” She put a hand on the seawall, the concrete moist under her fingertips.
“I thought you would want to talk.”
She did want to talk, but not now. And not over the telephone. And maybe not even to him, but admitting that felt lousy. “Thanks. Thank you.”
“Listen …” he sighed. He must have been sitting, because she heard him stand. She imagined light coming through the windows, a closed book on the table beside their recliner. “I have been thinking about this. I have been giving this a lot of thought. And I want to say I’m sorry. I’m still angry, though, about the way you treated me. You should have told me, Monique.” He paused, maybe giving her time to concede the point. “I don’t regret leaving. But I didn’t think about you, not as much as I should have, at least. I regret that. I know that being there is hard on you, too. I know it’s not … really what you were expecting, I guess. I know how important it was for you to have that place feel like home. I’m sure my complaining all the time did not make it easier. And now I have left you there alone, with so much extra work … with this horrible thing to deal with.”
“The thing wouldn’t be less horrible if you were here. But thank you. And you’re right not to feel bad about going. Leaving made sense, for you and for the kids.”
“Of course it did.” She heard the crumpling sound of leather as he sat again. Then the metal-spring creak of the leg rest extending. “So, would you like to talk about it? I cannot imagine how it feels to work on something like this.”
“It doesn’t feel like anything, yet. Oh—” she jumped a bit when Reynato touched her lower back. She hadn’t noticed him join her at the seawall. His hard little fingers pushed up and down her spine like he was sewing crops. “I’m seeing the man’s son tomorrow,” she said. “I’m the one who has to tell him.”
Reynato made a sound like “piff-piff” and she glanced at him, turning the phone into her chest. His