Free Sweet Forgiveness by Lori Nelson Spielman Page B

you’re the real deal. But your ratings have been on a downward trajectory for the past three months.”
    I groan. I’d love to explain my frustration with Stuart and the inane topics he selects, but that just sounds defensive. It is, after all,
The Hannah Farr Show
. “It’s true. They’ve been better. I take full responsibility.”
    â€œI know Stuart Booker. Worked with him in Miami, before I came here. Your talents are being wasted at WNO. You’ll have a voice here, your ideas will be valued.” He points a finger at me. “You come on board and we’ll make the Fiona Knowles proposal happen, day one. That’s a promise.”
    My heart does a double take. “That’s good to know,” I say, feeling simultaneously proud and panic-stricken and utterly despicable.

    I’m still rattled at 9:00 p.m., when I enter the small boutique hotel on Oak Street. I scurry to the registration desk, as if to hasten my departure. I’m ready to leave this city, and the memory of my deceitful interview, behind me. As soon as I get up to my room, I’ll call Michael and tell him I’m coming home early, in time for our Saturday-night date.
    The thought cheers me. I’d purposely booked the return flight for Sunday, back when I thought Michael and Abby were joining me for a weekend in Chicago. But as I was packing to leave, Michael called saying Abby was “a bit under the weather.” They had to cancel.
    For a split second I thought about telling him to come anyway, alone, like he’d promised he’d do if I moved here. But Abby’s sick—or at least claims to be. What kind of insensitive girlfriend expects a father to leave his sick daughter? I shake my head. And what kind of coldhearted monster doubts a sick child’s motives?
    I’m halfway across the marble lobby when I spot him. I stop in my tracks. He’s sitting in an upholstered wingback chair scrolling his cell phone. He rises when he sees me.
    â€œHey,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket and moving toward me in that lazy swagger of his. Time slows. His grin is crooked, just as I remember, and his hair is as shaggy as ever. But that southern charm I fell in love with is nearly palpable.
    â€œJack,” I say, feeling light-headed. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œMy mother told me you were in town.”
    â€œOf course she did.” It breaks my heart that Dorothy is still clinging to the hope that somehow, some way, Jack and I will get back together.
    â€œCan we go somewhere and talk?” He jabs a thumb toward the elevator. “There’s a bar here, right downstairs.” He says it as if the proximity makes up for the fact that I’d be sitting down with my ex, alone, in a strange city.

    We settle into a horseshoe-shaped booth, and Jack orders two gin martinis. “One up, one on the rocks.”
    I’m touched that he remembers. But I’ve changed since we were together. Martinis are no longer my drink of choice. These days I prefer something lighter, like a vodka tonic. But how would he know? We haven’t shared drinks in over two years.
    He talks about his job and his life in Chicago. “It’s crazy cold,” he tells me, and offers his familiar deep chuckle. But his eyes hold a trace of sadness since we parted, something I still haven’t gotten used to. When we were together—especially in the early days when everything was new and full of promise—his eyes held only mirth. I wonder if I’m solely responsible for taking away his joy.
    The waitress sets our drinks on the table, then disappears. Jack smiles up at me and holds his glass aloft. “To old friends,” he says.
    I study the man in front of me, the man I almost married. I take in his rosy cheeks and lopsided grin, his freckled arms and the fingernails he still bites to the quick. He’s so real. And despite his infidelity, I like