“Andrew,” she said. “He got there okay, right? I am in a bit of a rush.”
“Lauren, something is wrong with Tommy,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could. “He cannot sit down. He just tried to sit on the sofa and gasped in pain.”
“He is making a scene, just ignore him,” she said.
“He is pale, Lauren. He is sweating and he cannot bend his knees properly.”
“He is just trying to get attention because of the weekend transition,” she said, her voice dropping into that sweet, measured tone she used when she wanted to end a conversation. “You know how sensitive he is. Do not let him start.”
“This is not a tantrum,” I said. “Did he fall? Did something happen at your house?”
“He was perfectly fine when we left,” she said. “I really have to go, Andrew. I have reservations.”
“Lauren, wait—”
The line went dead. I stood in the kitchen, listening to the flat hum of the dial tone before I set the receiver back on its cradle.
