She watched him closely. “Think before you answer.” “No,” he said again, more firmly. “Never here.” “Did you bring her around Isaiah?”
His hesitation was smaller this time but still visible. “Once,” he said. “Maybe twice. Not like that.”
Nicole’s voice dropped. “What does ‘not like that’ mean?”
“Work situations. One Saturday I had to pick Isaiah up from swimming because you were at your mother’s. Tessa had been at the office with me. I dropped her at her apartment after.” “And Isaiah was in the car.”
“Yes.” Nicole pressed both palms flat against the table. “How many times has my son been near your affair?” “He didn’t know anything.” “That was not my question.”
Adrian exhaled through his nose. “Three times. Maybe four, if you count the day she met us for coffee near the office.” Nicole’s stomach turned.
She could picture Isaiah in his booster seat behind them, kicking his sneakers, asking endless questions, while his father and another woman carried on a secret inches away. Children are not stupid because they lack adult vocabulary. They notice tones, hand movements, silences, the private smiles adults think disappear when they turn around. “Did you kiss her in front of him?” Nicole asked.
“No.” “Touch her?” “No.” “Hold her hand?” “No.”
“Lie to him about who she was?” Adrian looked down. That was another yes. Nicole sat at last because standing had become too expensive.