CHAPTER 30

Grant's reaction to me getting Sophie out of soccer camp was overblown, to say the least. I thought he would be happy about it, but he stared at me as if I had devil horns growing out of my head.

"What?" I dropped the set of dumbbells on the mat and moved over to the squat rack, ducking to position myself under the bar. I was in the basement gym with a 50 Cent song playing over the speakers, my workout halfway through.

"I swear to God, you better be joking with me right now." Grant was dressed in his work attire, his stiff short-sleeve button-up still tucked neatly into his powder-blue slacks, his security lanyard hanging around his neck.

"You act like we didn't discuss the cancellation policy and the fact that Sophie doesn't need this camp. It was bullshit, and it's still, what, a month out? They can fill her spot." I spoke with effort, huffing out the words as I completed the deep squats in quick succession and with perfect form.

"So you told them Sophie died ? What the fuck's wrong with you?"

I finished the set, counting silently in my mind until I hit fifteen, then reracked the bar and ducked underneath it, coming face-to-face with him. "Nothing is wrong with me," I said evenly. "Don't make this about me. There was a problem, and I solved it. I don't understand why you care. They aren't going to find out the truth. They're in Minnesota, for God's sake."

"It's not about them finding out the truth, it's about ... I don't know, karma! There's shit that you just don't do, Perla, and this tops the list." He raised his voice to make sure I could clearly hear him over the music.

God, he was such a wimp. I rolled my eyes and picked up the remote, turning the volume of the song down. "Karma? So when you tell the office that you're late because you got stuck in ‘traffic'—you're saying that the next day, you're going to run into traffic as a result? That's bullshit, and you of all people, with your love of statistical probabilities, know it." I reached up on my toes, grabbing the upper bar, and began a series of pull-ups, my knees raising, biceps working.

"You're going to call them and tell them the truth. We'll pay the remaining balance and accept the loss. That's what is going to happen here."

I went to ten, then dropped back to my feet and shook out my arms. "Yeah, I'm not going to do that, Grant. There's no scenario where I'm going to call them back and tell them I lied. They're going to think I'm crazy."

"Yeah," he said through gritted teeth, "because it is crazy to say that to someone. And if it's hard for you to fix that mistake, it should tell you something about the gravity of it."

I sat back down in front of the dumbbells and prepared for my extensions. "I'm not doing it," I said flatly. "I solved the problem. Just leave it alone."

I didn't look at him in the mirror. I focused on making sure that my triceps were fully engaged, the weight movements slow and precise.

A new song came on, this one by Eminem. I heard the gym door scrape across the rubber mats, and when I looked up at the end of the set, he was gone.

It didn't matter if he was mad. He would get over this, as he did with everything. There were perks that came with having the "rough childhood" I'd had, and one of them was my husband's acceptance of certain behaviors and decisions. It was like a lifetime Get out of jail free card, one that would double in value after Sophie's party.

I reached over and turned up the volume on the song.