Page 74 of The Husband I Left

I roll my eyes at that. “Mr. Hill is like seventy, Summer. His wife died only a few years ago.”

“Not him, dummy,” Liz says, and the way she says it makes Landon giggle. “The guy he’s teaching. Is he young?”

I could lie. I should lie. I open my mouth to lie, and what comes out instead is a reluctant nod.

Mom leans forward. “Your age?”

Another nod. I’m starting to feel like one of those bobblehead dolls.

Dad sets down his fork. “What’s his name, then?”

“I think Mr. Hill’s first name is Joe,” I reply, and Collin snorts into his water, nearly spraying the table.

“Not his name, and you know it,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Summer smacks his arm, but she’s trying not to laugh too.

I shrug, trying not to look too guilty. “I’m not sure.”

“Well,” Mom says, turning to Liz and Summer. “I think the three of us should visit Genny sometime this week. If we go around dinnertime, maybe we’ll meet this mystery chef.”

My stomach drops through the floor. The image of my mom and Liz and Summer showing up, finding Oliver hovering outside my apartment door, leftover container in hand, waiting for me to get home from work is too much.

“It’s Oliver,” I say, the words coming out in a rush.

Dad’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “Oliver?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Collin leans forward, his expression incredulous. “Why is your neighbor teaching your ex-husband to cook?”

“He moved into the building,” I say, the explanation sounding even more ridiculous out loud than it did in my head. “Kept burning his dinner. Mr. Hill took pity on him.”

Mom’s wineglass has stopped halfway to her lips. Dad is staring at me like I’ve just announced I’m joining a cult. Liz has stopped bouncing Landon entirely, her mouth slightly open.

“Why,” Dad says finally, “is Oliver Sinclair living in your building?”

Summer leans forward. “He had that penthouse, remember? The one with the doorman and the view?”

“He moved out,” I say.

“Moved out,” Mom repeats. She sets her glass down. “With all his things? All those fancy belongings? And his people? How’s he going to fit all that into one of those tiny apartments?”

The question is so perfectly my mother that I almost laugh. All the things she could wonder about, and she wants to know where Oliver is going to put his furniture.

“It looks to be just him,” I say. “I haven’t seen anyone but his friend Leo around.”

Dad snorts. “I’d love to know what all his high-class friends think of that.”

“I don’t know if he sees them much anymore.” I admit with a shrug. “He quit his job.”

Mom’s hand goes to her throat. “His job? At the company his grandfather started? He was always so proud of that.”

I nod.

Dad picks his fork back up and shakes his head, muttering, “I’ll bet his father wasn’t happy about that.”

All I can do is shrug. If I know Thomas Sinclair, he most certainly wasn’t happy about that.

Mom is studying me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Why is he doing all this, Genny?”