“As bad as I know it is, it’s worse?” he asked, the toxin threading through his tone.

Oh boy.

“If it was that bad, honey, I’d tell you,” I said soothingly. “But yes, it’s worse.”

He was silent for long seconds before he muttered, “I’ll call the Club’s attorney.”

I let out a breath.

Then I said, “You need to call Tat, later, after school. She needs to rest in the knowledge that you’re doing something to help out.”

“I’ll call her, babe.”

“Thanks, Buck,” I whispered.

He was silent again for long seconds, before I heard him say, “Love that you look after my girl, gorgeous.”

And I loved doing it.

And I really liked him calling me “gorgeous.”

“I’m glad,” I said softly.

“You didn’t bake last night. You swingin’ by to get the staff donuts?”

“No. Cookies from Safeway. That’s why I left early, it’s out of my way.”

“Save me some.”

“I’ll try, but Jimbo’s been hungrier than normal.”

“Jimbo eats more a’ your shit, Toots, Jimbo will stop bein’ useful ’cause he won’t fit in the aisles of the store.”

This was unfortunately true.

Jimbo was a big man when I met him, and he was growing.

“I’m uncertain of my desire to discuss diet and nutrition with Jimbo and equally uncertain of my willingness to wrest a cookie from him.”

Buck’s chuckle came at me from the phone.

That made me feel warm and sweet too.

“Remember, babe,” he finally said, still chuckling, “your man’s got your back.”

Without saying good-bye or letting me do it, he disconnected.

I dropped my phone on the passenger seat and headed to Safeway.

I did this thinking of my phone calls that morning.

I also did it thinking of the post-sex conversation Buck and I had the night Tatie and Gear went back to Flag last weekend.

I was on top of him, draped down his body, where I had noted he liked me to be, especially post-sex.

I had also noted I liked to be there too, post-sex or whenever.

He had his arm around my waist, where it normally was, his other hand, though, usually wandered.

But that night, he’d cupped it to the back of my head, holding my cheek to his chest.

He’d then asked, “Do you miss it?”

I stared at his shoulder, but I felt my body tense.

“Sorry?” I asked.

Buck rolled me to my back, positioning his long, hard frame body down my side, but his chest was pressed to mine, his face close.

This position change, I felt, was important, denoting this conversation was important, and I felt my breath get funny.

“Do you miss it?” he repeated.

“No,” I said quickly.

I then kept talking.

And I also did this quickly.

“No, Buck. Never. The house was big, and we had a nice pool and the pulls in the drawers in the bathroom had Swarovski crystals in them. Rogan did it all up just so, meticulous, top-of-the-line everything. I had a big soaking tub I could spend ages in. And I loved doing that. Unwinding with a good book and a glass of wine in the tub. But I don’t miss it. I don’t miss any of it. I prefer your deck. And your room, which is all warm colors and filled with Buck smells. And the quiet. And the peace. And knowing, during the week, we’ll have the kids back on the weekend so the house will seem busy and full. But I also like it, just you and me for Pop-Tarts in the morning and at night in front of the TV. I’ve never slept as good in my life as I have in this bed. So, no. I don’t miss it.”

For a second, he said nothing.

For that second, I couldn’t read his face.

And then he said, “Buck smells?”

It wasn’t teasing.

I looked to his beard and mumbled, “You smell good.”

“Baby?” he called.

I looked to him.

“I was talkin’ about your job.”

His tone was serious. Questioning and warm, but serious. Not playful or amused.

“Oh,” I muttered, feeling like an idiot.

“I don’t even know what they do there,” he said. “But everyone knows the Hunter Institute. I reckon, for a librarian, that’s a big score.”

“It was,” I said quietly. “We…a library usually has as much stuff on every subject as they can afford to have in as much room as they can get to house it. A research library has a depth of things on one or two subjects. Hunter is rare books and papers. We had things like scratch paper John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote lyrics on. Or letters written by famous people to other famous people, like we had a letter written by Abraham Lincoln to the mother of a fallen soldier. Or letters written by non-famous people to non-famous people but about famous things. Or early or first editions of books. We had all of Hemingway. Copies of the Pickwick Papers. Things like that.”

“The Pickwick Papers?”

“Serial publications by Dickens.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” he muttered.

“I loved it,” I told him. “I was training to restore when they got rid of me.”

Buck had nothing to say to that.

“But they got rid of me, Buck,” I reminded him.

“You should look for a job as a librarian,” he murmured.

“They got rid of me, Buck,” I repeated.

He again said nothing, but now he kept his silence as he studied me intently.

“I did nothing. I was never even charged. And they got rid of me,” I stated. “You were right when we were fighting. I know the other world, and I don’t belong there. I don’t belong with the snobby, snooty women who lived in my neighborhood. Or their men who drive BMWs mean and aggressively, like where they have to go is more important than you, or anyone. The generation of the entitled whose parents gave them everything they wanted for reasons I don’t understand. It seems to me the best thing a parent can give, outside of love, is good lessons. And learning you need to work for what you want, and that you are just one of many in this world, we’re all living in it together and we all have to work together, are two of the most important lessons you can get.”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

His tone on that one word was one I couldn’t read either.

Though it was heavy.

But I was on a roll, and I had a point to make, so I kept explaining.

“They know nothing of foster care or the system or living paycheck to paycheck or struggling to make ends meet. But I do. And I didn’t belong there. I never felt comfortable there, even before it all happened and my place was taken away.”

I took in a big breath and kept going.

“So, to answer your question, no. No, I don’t miss it. There are things about it I miss, especially at the library, but they showed no loyalty to me. I was good at what I did, and I was an exceptional employee because I know how important it is to have a good job and further know to take care of it. None of that mattered. Reputation mattered. And they didn’t like theirs dragged through the mud whenever I was mentioned in a paper along with where I worked. No one there had the guts to say, ‘We know Clara Delaney, she’s an exceptional librarian who has given years of service to our Institute. She’s a good person and she had nothing to do with this. So we stand by her.’”