I asked:
“Why did Megan send your company seventy-four thousand dollars?”
Ryan looked at Dawson.
“She used her own money.”
Dawson stepped forward.
“No.”
“Joint savings.”
Ryan went silent.
Then:
“She told me it was hers.”
I believed he might actually have believed that.
Did not matter.
“What did your company do with it?”
“Down payment.”
“Furniture.”
“Legal expenses.”
“For Oliver?”
“Yes.”
“And for you and Megan?”
Silence.
“Ryan.”
“We talked about living there.”
My chest hurt.
“When?”
He cried.
“After the divorces.”
“Which divorces?”
“Both.”
There it was.
A plan.
Not fantasy.
Not a hotel affair suspended outside real life.
They were going to leave us.
Move into the condo.
Raise Oliver.
And, presumably, introduce my three children to their new brother after the furniture arrived.
“How long were you going to wait?”
Ryan whispered:
“Until after Sophie—”
He stopped.
Wrong name.
I stared.
“Who is Sophie?”
He looked confused.
