Never Trust a Callboy by Birgit Kluger Read Free Book Online Page B

woman outside the hotel. But it is also impossible that he came directly home from Brussels. He must have been here first to pick up this shirt. Why did he do that? And above all, when?
    My heart starts to pound wildly in my chest, while the questions dance a frenzied jig in my head. Faster and faster they turn in my brain. Until there’s only one left:
    Did Ron lie to me?
    No! I order myself. I will not allow myself to be guided by flights of fancy. I know where that leads. This fight was the worst we have ever had, and I will make sure that it never happens again. I’m wrong. Can I really know with one hundred percent certainty which shirts I packed for Ron almost a week ago? I already have problems remembering the birthdays of my closest family members!
    In any case, maybe Ron packed the shirt in his suitcase before he left. I have to stop with such suspicions. Although it is understandable that my nerves are not at their best, I can't expect Ron to tolerate such thoughts. Particularly when he doesn't know why I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
    Despite these considerations, my hands have begun, as if by themselves, to go through his jacket pockets. Of course, I’m just making sure no important documents go through the wash, I justify to myself. I trust Ron. I know he would never lie to me. The thought that he could sleep with another woman in a hotel is totally absurd. Unthinkable. Ridiculous.
    My fumbling hands freeze. A hotel bill!
    For several minutes I dare not look at it.
    Ron would never do that.
    He loves me.
    He wants to marry me.
    My fingers tremble as I finally unfold the paper and flatten it out.
    Everything is okay.
    Ron is true to me.
    Just like he said.
    Except, that’s a little strange, the hotel bill issued by the Spa Hotel is for a double room. Mr. and Mrs. Krämer.

12
    R on lied to me! And I believed him, like an idiot. Although I would prefer to hide under the duvet for the next three years crying in self-pity, I force myself to do something. I shouldn’t grieve in any case. I should be angry. But how do you transform a howling misery into a powerful fury?
    Perhaps, by doing something. I mumble incessantly to myself while I randomly yank any clothes out of the closet and stuff them into my suitcase. I carefully put Ron’s gun in there too. The safety is now on, because I had the conscience of mind to look it up on the internet. I want to feel sure I can defend myself. Nevertheless, I feel like a criminal.
    I have to go. Right away. Out of this house. Out of Ron's life. The lock on my Samsonite snaps shut with a loud click. Shortly thereafter I drag the heavy piece of luggage down the stairs, toss it in the trunk of my car and drive.
    "Honey, I am so sorry for you!" Nana eyes me with a look full of worry and awkwardly pats me on the back. I fled to her, just as I did as a child when I had a fight with my mother. But I have also often visited without the need for refuge. I love her fervently and intimately and unconditionally.
    “Yes. Me too," I mumble and unsuccessfully try to suppress the tears that have steadily flowed since the discovery of Ron's hotel bill. You'd think that they’d have to stop at some point. Especially when you consider that this son of a bitch does not deserve my grief. It happened again: he never loved me. He was only interested in me, because I come from a rich family. A family that has connections.
    "Believe me darling, I know how hard it is when you can’t trust anyone, because you come from a wealthy family. What you need now is a glass of champagne!" Nana jumps up, without waiting for a reply. Years ago Nana had a butler, but since he was put to rest several years ago, she hasn’t found a new one. "It's an outdated tradition," she said at the time. I have to say I think she’s right, but still I miss Edward. He belonged to the family. Since he's been gone, I feel like I’ve lost an uncle. These thoughts feel meaningless now. Just as meaningless as the entire