“Natalie.”
I froze, then turned.
He stood beside one of the concrete pillars in a navy suit that fit a little worse than it used to. He’d lost weight. His tie was crooked. The golden confidence he wore for years like a second skin had thinned to something strained and frantic. He looked tired in a way money usually prevents.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said.
“I just need five minutes.”
“No.”
“Please.”
That word again. Men never use please until the world stops arranging itself around them.
I shifted the box higher against my hip. “Talk to your attorney.”
“I’m trying to talk to my wife.”
“I don’t think you are.”
His face twisted. “You think I don’t know what this looks like?”
“I know exactly what it looks like.”
He took a step closer. “I made mistakes.”
I almost admired the smallness of that phrase. Mistakes. As if he’d forgotten dry cleaning, not built a side relationship while leveraging my father’s death.