Page 172 of ClickBack

“Rae used to call me from the pediatrician’s parking lot with questions she could have asked the pediatrician.”

“Because you know her.”

I look at Bellamy. She is working a piece of cheesecake loose with her spoon, not trying to make a point. I had always answered those calls with a little exasperation. I hadn’t thought enough about why Rae wanted me to be the one to tell her.

“Yes,” I say. “I suppose that was part of it.”

Bellamy looks up when my hand goes to my purse. “You need something?”

“No. I was thinking about Jarrett’s card.”

“Ah.”

“You saw him.”

“I was standing there.”

“I can pay for myself.”

“Giselle, I watched you talk yourself out of that dress without asking for a sponsor.”

I laugh. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” She sets her cup on the table. “I used to find it easier to take a gift from a man I wasn’t expecting much from.”

That makes me look at her.

“Really?”

“Some men can buy you a bag faster than they can answer a difficult question. I liked bags. I wasn’t mistaking one for an answer.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“Sometimes it was. Sometimes we both got what we came for.” She considers her spoon. “With Cole, I wanted things he couldn’t put in a box. That made the boxes more complicated for a while.”

“Because you wanted to know what they meant.”

“Because I wanted him to mean them. And show up the next day. And finish a conversation even if we weren’t enjoying it.”

“Does he?”

She smiles. “He’ll tell you I don’t give him a choice. He has one.”

I look at the shopping bags beside her chair. “And your father?”

“Daddy is different. He buys things because he thought about me. Half the time he forgets to tell me they’re coming.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is. Except when the thing is enormous and I have to find somewhere to put it.” She nudges my cup. “You eating that last pecan?”

I give it to her. We talk about a restaurant she wants me to try, and for several minutes I leave the card where it is without thinking about what using it might obligate me to do.

A group of teenage girls passes our table. One has on bright orange trousers and a cropped jacket, her earrings swinging while she tells a story. Her friends begin laughing before she gets to the end. She stops walking to finish it, making them all stop with her.

I watch them until they move on.

“I used to want to be that loud,” I say.