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Back Man of the Year
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1.
  5. 2.
  6. Jonah
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. Luna
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. Emily
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. Alexis
  28. 21.
  29. 22.
  30. 23.
  31. 24.
  32. Naomi
  33. 25.
  34. 26.
  35. 27.
  36. 28.
  37. 29.
  38. 30.
  39. Simone
  40. 31.
  41. 32.
  42. 33.
  43. 34.
  44. 35.
  45. ONE MONTH LATER
  46. 36.
  47. Elizabeth
  48. Jonah
  49. Acknowledgments
  50. Readers Group Guide
  51. About the Author
  52. Copyright

“No, I know.” She twists her mouth into a question mark. “Now I’m confused, though.”

“Because?”

“Because it seems to me that the award was the treat. Right? And it didn’t come cheap. Cost us far more than an Aston Martin.”

Stay sweet. “Excuse me?”

“Well, they gave you that trophy because of how generous you’d been with the Children’s Hospital Fund all year, right?”

A zap at my throat. “No.”

“It’s not?”

“Are you suggesting we bought the honor?”

“God, no.” She rubs my back: a pat on the head for a silly boy. “But philanthropy is a significant measure of character for this particular award. Right? Charitable contributions? You know this, Robert.”

I should get into bed, sleep and start over, but that electric sadness zaps my throat and neck, zaps me under my skin from head to toe, and if I sit down I will feel it all, all too much.

Elizabeth holds out her hand again. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Come here.”

“Maybe I should sleep downstairs tonight.”

Her hand falls back to her lap. She sighs, shakes her head and says, “If that’s what you want.”

It’s not. What I want is for her to insist I sleep beside her, but she’s called my bluff, so now I’m stuck. Backtracking shows weakness, and weak is worse than lonely, so I gather my pillows and blankets and leave Elizabeth, inviting her heart to grow fonder.

14.

It’s four thirty in the morning when nature calls. Takes me a minute to figure out where I am. This isn’t my nightstand. That isn’t my wall. But of course it’s my house (our house), after all. The boxer shorts I dropped on the floor last night are nowhere to be found, and I’m too tired to turn on a light or be bothered with decency, since nobody’s down here anyway, so I head for the hall stark naked, half inclined to use my own bathroom in my own bedroom and crawl into my bed where I belong, but if I’m too tired for lamps, I’m not fit for confrontation. It’ll be time to get up soon enough. An extra hour of solitude won’t break me.