Page 45 of Baker

“Not yet,” I said.

She walked to the window and peered down at the street. “You don’t see that as weird?”

“Everything’s weird to you.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Hank started doing weird stuff. Six months later, I found out he was having sex with that Simon chick.”

“Sierra,” I said. “Her name was Sierra Simon.”

She gave me a condescending look and then turned toward the window. “Yeah. Sierra. Fucking bitch.”

Holly placed blame for the affair on the waitress, saying that she should have had enough common sense not to fuck a married man. She set up fake accounts on every social media platform imaginable, and friended her on Facebook while posing as another person. After a few years of stalking her, she eventually let it go.

But she never found fault in Hank’s actions.

I, on the other hand, viewed it no differently than I viewed my father’s decision to cheat on my mother. He had a responsibility to be faithful to her, and he didn’t meet it. He made a conscious decision to crush her belief that he loved her and her alone. I viewed the aftermath, entirely, as being his fault.

It wasn’t a matter of if a man would cheat, it was a matter of when. For men, it seemed lying was second nature.

“Hey!” Holly shouted. “Is this him?”

Her voice brought me back to reality. I wiped my watering eyes as I walked toward the window. “Huh?”

She pointed toward the glass. “Is this your guy?”

The faint sound of a motorcycle running grew louder as I approached her. I stepped to her side and looked out the window. A man with crazy hair was seated on a motorcycle that was parked at the curb in front of the adjoining building. Standing on the sidewalk beside the man’s motorcycle, was Baker.

“Oh wow. Yeah. He’s the one on the sidewalk with the beard and tattoos.”

Holly pressed her forehead against the glass. “That guy on the motorcycle took off his helmet, and I was like, holy crap.”

I looked at her. “What?”

“He’s sexy.”

I took another look at him. His long hair hung in his face, and his arms weren’t completely tattooed, like Baker’s. Instead, they were spotted with small pieces of illegible artwork. “He looks like a thug.”

“So does that other guy.”

“Whatever.”

Baker seemed nervous. Every few seconds, he glanced over each shoulder. After a moment, the man on the motorcycle nodded and put his helmet on. Then, Baker turned toward the building, and the man rode away.

Holly took a step back and looked at me. “Looks like they were doing something shady.”

“Looked to me like two friends talking.”

She made a face as if she’d swallowed a worm. “Your guy looks sketchy.”

“Not as sketchy as that ex-con on the motorcycle.”

“He kept looking over his shoulder, like he thought the cops were coming.”

“Who? The ex-con?” I asked, although I knew she meant Baker. For some reason, I felt the need to defend him.

“No. Your guy.”

I gave her a cross look. “His name is Baker.”