“No.”
He called Megan.
She answered on the first ring.
“Dawson—”
“Whose son is Oliver?”
Silence.
Megan's breathing changed.
Dawson's voice hardened.
“Do not hang up.”
She began crying.
“I was going to tell you.”
He laughed once.
“Apparently everyone in my life was going to tell me eventually.”
I knew that feeling already.
“Megan.”
He repeated.
“Whose son is he?”
Her answer came so quietly I almost missed it.
“Ryan's.”
I stopped breathing.
Dawson shut his eyes.
For a second I thought he might drop the phone.
I took it from him and switched to speaker.
“Megan.”
Silence.
“It's Claire.”
She made a sound.
“Oh, God.”
“Yes.”
I said.
“Excellent summary.”
“Claire, please—”
“How old is Oliver?”
“Four.”
My stomach turned.
“Which means Ryan slept with your sister while he was married to me.”
Megan began sobbing.
“It happened once.”
There it was.
The traditional sentence.
One time.
As though betrayal becomes mathematically small if the number is one.
