Forrester narrows his eyes, knowing I’m lying. Shit, I should know better. Before he became the principal at DuBose, he was a renowned therapist—my therapist. The guy knows me better than my parents do.
“No one is pressing charges, and we’re brushing this off as a misunderstanding,” Forrester continues.
“Thank you.” I lower my gaze, shame making me unable to look my friend in the eye.
A police officer unlocks my cell and then leads me to a different part of the building where I can collect my personal belongings. Forrester stays behind, but Enzo tags along. It doesn’t take long for him to speak his mind.
“What kind of stupid bullshit was that?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine. Don’t. But don’t come crying when Nadine wipes your bank account clean and Forrester fires your ass.”
I scoff. “I’m not in the mood for Italian dramatics, Enzo.”
“What were you doing in front of you-know-who’s building? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
Ignoring Enzo, I check that all my belongings are accounted for before signing the paperwork the clerk presented me.
“Nadine set me up. She had paparazzi waiting for us outside the restaurant. She kissed me in front of them.”
“That’s ridiculous. What is she trying to accomplish by doing that?”
“She’s trying to score a contract for a reality TV show, and she needs drama.”
Enzo makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. “Let me guess. She won’t sign the divorce papers now because of that.”
“You got it. That’s why I was where I was. I needed to talk to Chiara, to explain to her that those images aren’t what they seem. But her phone was switched off.”
We walk to the front of the police station. Forrester is waiting for me there, so any criticism Enzo might still have about my behavior dies in his throat. My boss rises from his seat, his hard gaze transporting me back to when I was younger. Shit. It feels like I’m about to receive a tongue-lashing.
“Since all is well, I’m heading out. I’ll call you tomorrow, Alistair.” Enzo walks out of the precinct before I can stop him.
I was hoping to score a ride with him back to my truck.
Forrester must have read my mind, because he says, “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”
Resigned that I won’t escape getting stuck with him in a moving vehicle, I follow him outside. The rain has mercifully stopped, but my clothes are still damp from before. I bring the lapels of my jacket closer together, but it does nothing against the chill seeping through my clothes.
Forrester turns on the heater as soon as the engine is on, and less than a minute later, I’m nice and toasty on the outside. On the inside, it’s a different story.
“I’m sorry about tonight.”
“I’d believe that if you were being honest with me.”
“Shit, Forrester. Nadine and the divorce are getting to me. That’s why I wanted a year off.”
He sighs loudly. He’s probably feeling guilty now. It’s not the complete truth, but it’s not a lie either.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to come back. I know. Listen, if you need to talk like old times, my door is always open.”
I chuckle. “You want to be my therapist again? You might need to fire me after our first session.”
Forrester laughs at my joke. If he only knew it’s not a laughing matter.
“Good point. I can refer you to someone else. I’d hate for you to feel like your life is unraveling again. I don’t want to see you derail.”
“That’s the last thing I want. You know that.”
He doesn’t speak for a moment. He’s wearing his therapist hat, even though this isn’t a session. Old habits are hard to break, I guess.
“Listen, I want you to take time off. Go visit your parents in the vineyard. If you leave me your lesson plan for the week, I can cover for you.”
I whip my head to face him. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. You’re one of the best teachers I have. I won’t lose you on account of a mental breakdown.”
I open and shut my mouth. Here I am, hiding a truth that can devastate my friend’s institution, and he’s going out of his way to help me.
I feel like a fucking prick.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s only one thing you can say. It’s ‘Yes, boss, I’m taking a break.’”
Shaking my head, I look out the window, noticing we’re already back on Chiara’s street. A moment later, Forrester parks next to my truck. Before I can open the door, he turns to me.
“I mean it, Alistair. I don’t want to see your face next week. I expect your lesson plan by the end of the day tomorrow.”
