She turned onto the interstate when her husband called. His dark, mustached face appeared on screen and she sighed.
She didn’t want to talk to him now. She’d reserved the drive home for silence and introspection, trying to process everything that had happened, a painful reminder that she had failed. She’d have to go home to him, and maybe they’d really have to talk for real about quitting.
She put the phone to her ear.
“Hey, babe. I’m driving.”
“Where are you?” Demetrius asked. His voice was gruff, a tone that pervaded his voice after an interrogation. One that had not gone well.
“I had to get away.”
“You’re not mad about what I told you earlier?” he asked. “About dropping out?”
“No.”
“We should meet for coffee,” Demetrius said. “I’ve got something interesting to tell you.”
“I can
