When Linda finally walked toward the parking field, David went after her because reflex still made him imagine he had the right.
“Linda, please,” he said, reaching for her elbow. She jerked away. “Do not touch me,” she said.
“Not until I know if you touched him after touching me on the same day.” He stopped as if slapped. That question had not occurred to him in those terms, which told Linda more than she wanted to know. They crossed the dark field with its rows of pickups and family SUVs while midway lights blinked behind them and country music floated faintly through the heat.
David tried several openings during the walk.
None survived contact with her face. Finally he said, “Can we at least not do this in public?” Linda laughed once, sharp and incredulous. “You brought it to the public the day you decided a fairground fling was worth gambling our whole life on.” She kept moving, her denim jacket swinging hard around her body. “And if you say ‘it just happened’ I swear to God I’ll leave you right here and make you figure out how to get home with your carnival lies and your baseball cap.”
The parking lot conversation did happen, of course, but it was not a conversation so much as an excavation conducted with blunt instruments.
Linda sat in the driver’s seat because if David drove she might open the door while the truck was moving. He stood outside at first, one hand braced on the open window frame, while she asked for dates. Exact dates. When had he met Nia.
When had he slept with her. How many times. When did he learn about the pregnancy. Had there been other women or just the one.
Had he ever taken money from their accounts to support the child. Had he ever brought Nia to town before tonight. Had anyone else known. Under the parking-lot lights David answered in the flat shocked tone of a man who understands, too late, that partial truth only postpones impact.