So hubby decided I was fancy enough to go back to school at the ripe old age of 29 (we had a kid really young, okay?). Been sinking my teeth into a Bachelor's in English Lit and Creative Writing since Christmas which is why this story went dark again. Just sent off my first assignment and churrned this all out in two days as I had missed it terribly! Review and keep me going! Love you all x - Ty
Their destination was inevitable. Blue marched Stan along the coast with all the airs of an annoyed sibling. The pace was merciless. Stan was sure his side was littered with bruises from the amount of shoving the Raptor was doing.
"Why are you so mad at me?" He demanded, slapping Blue's face away after the fifth shove in as many minutes. Regretting the action instantly, he winced. Blue hissed at him.
"No! I stopped that asshole Jorge from stealing your eggs. I let your pack into the Park so you could help Owen out." Stan insisted, "What exactly is your beef with me?"
Usually, Blue would have blinked contemptuously. This time, the Raptor was clearly not in the mood. The shriek was deafening, fierce. She was inches from Stan's face, a clean swipe of her tail knocking him onto his ass. The Raptor stamped her foot and hissed at Stan one final time before taking a step back and indicating at the trail with a jolt of her head.
Stan swallowed his racing heartbeat and stood up cautiously. "Alright. Jesus." He held up a hand as Blue snarled at him, "I'm going!"
They reached the clearing, sand catching the rising sun like a line of crushed ice. Stan blew out a breath. The Costa Rican coast guard were out in full force. At least five boats bobbed in a row. Armed, suited and booted, men and women prowled the shoreline. A body, zipped into a bag, was being hauled away. Paramedics were treating a group of blanket-covered individuals. A defibulator was being used nearby, presumable in an attempt to resucitate.
Resucitate who?
Stan was overwhelmed. He barely had time to process what he was seeing before Blue unceremoniously shoved him down the sandy hill with her snout. He tumbled, failing to regain footing as he landed face first in a pile of sand.
"Seriously?" Stan muttered between mouthfuls of sand. He glared up, but Blue was already gone. He shook his head, "Typical."
"Hands up!" A man and woman, both sporting the gear of the Costa Rican coast guard, were aiming handguns in his direction. They jogged towards him, "Don't move!"
"Well, make up your mind!"
"What did you say to me?" The woman snapped as she reached Stan, already pulling out a pair of cuffs.
"Well first you said 'hands up' and then you said...never mind." He groaned between closed lips as she yanked his injured arm behind his back, snapping the cuffs over his wrists.
"Is 'shut up' clear enough for you?"
"Crystal."
"Detective." The woman hauled Stan down the beach, "Found him hiding by the bluff."
The bullet-proof vest was emblazoned with tall, white lettering. Agent Fisher looked him up and down.
"Nice of you to join us." She nodded, "He's fine."
Stan rubbed at his wrists after they were grudgingly freed, "Where's..."
"Over there." Fisher gestured with her head. He broke into a jog, heading towards the swarm of paramedics. A booted foot was twitching on the ground. Stan shoved his way through.
"We've got a heartbeat!" One of the medics called.
"Pupils are responding." A bright light was waved around.
"Eric." Stan took in the blood, wet clothes, purple lips. "What happened to him?"
"You need to come away." Gloved hands, cold and wet on his skin, pulled at him.
Shoved out of the circle, Stan searched for other survivors. He fended off attempts from paramedics to treat the blood-soaked bandage on his arm.
Lowery was the first one to spot him.
"Stanley! Over here!" A foil blanket around his shoulders, cracked glasses pushed up his nose. Something resembling algae in his hair. Stan resisted the urge to hug him.
"Where the hell have you been? Do you realize we've had people scowering the island for you all night?"
The urge faded fast.
"Just what did you think you were doing? We had a plan. Everybody stuck to it. But not you, oh no! Stan the Man is just too cool for school, is that it?"
Stan had tuned out after the first sentence. He spotted Zack and Gray. The younger one was sobbing inconsolably into his arms. Zack had wrapped his blanket around them both and was exchanging heated words with a coast guard officer.
Stan had barely stepped towards them when he was accosted by a slap to his head. Putting up a hand just in time to block a second and third, he turned to face none other than a furious Claire Dearing.
"What is wrong with you?" She punctuated each word with another slap, each missing their target and bouncing off Stan's arms.
"Easy!" He jumped backwards, palms up.
"'I'll meet you there'?" Claire was still livid, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"What happened? Where's Owen?"
"Right here."
Stan turned to see his father marching towards him, damp clothes clinging to his skin. A paramedic was running after him, waving a first aid kit and looking visibly agitated.
"Owen!"
"Don't you 'Owen' me!" Owen's reponse steeled Stan for a lecture. Instead, he was wrapped in yet another warm embrace.
Caught off guard, Stan waited for the yelling to commence as his father moved him to arms length for an appraisal.
"Are you okay? You alright?"
"Did they find Tejeda?"
"He escaped." Fisher had caught up to the group, "Shot your friend and took his boat. Lucky for Eric, Miss Dearing here fished him out of the water and managed to stop the bleeding till we docked." She eyed Claire admiringly, "Seems you saved his life. He needs surgery but he's gonna pull through."
"Well, did you send anybody after him?" Stan demanded, "I mean, he couldn't have gotten far..."
"No. I just thought I'd let him sail off into the sunrise with a stolen baby Raptor as a parting gift." The agent snapped. The teenager turned to his father.
"No. That's impossible. The Raptors..."
"Were distracted when Tejeda let the other dinos into the Park." Owen replied grimly, "He used the window to steal one of Blue's eggs." He dug into his pocket, producing a broken fragment of shell. "She brought it to me when we met up with the others at the beach."
"That explains why she was so upset." Stan regretted his exchange with the Raptor.
Fisher fiddled with her earpiece, "Just got word. Coast guard found Eric's boat twenty miles out to sea. It's been abandoned. No sign of Tejeda or the egg. Best guess is a chopper picked him up, although radar isn't showing an aerial traffice in the area. Trail's gone cold."
"What, so that's just it then?" Stan felt fury coiling inside him. Zack Mitchell joined the conversation, picking up the tail end.
"You mean all this was for nothing? You're just gonna let that bastard get away with it?"
"That is not what she said." Claire reprimanded.
"It's pretty tough to go off-grid with an infant Velociraptor. We'll find him." Fisher sounded confident. "In the meantime, Grady, could you please let this medic here check you out before he has a breakdown?"
Owen shook his head at the first-responder. "You want someone to treat?" He steered his son forwards, "Merry Christmas."
"She said you should...hey!" Stan's protest trailed off into a yelp as Owen propelled him the last few steps with a good-natured smack to the seat of his jeans.
"Move it."
Finding Owen's calm and amicable demeanour unnerving (and borderline creepy) Stan offered his arm to the medic for inspection.
Giving individual statements felt more draining to the group than the incident itself. It was bordering on nightfall when Fisher finally gave the order for the exhausted band of six to be taken back to Costa Rica. The detective herself remained on the island with a team, gathering evidence and searching for further clues. Owen warned them not to go inland. Fisher replied she did not need to be told how to do her job.
Several x-rays, shots, stitches and about twenty miles of red tape later, the group tucked into a local buffet.
Claire smiled as Gray practically inhaled his food. The band-aids on his fingertips were slick with grease. The thick grime coating his face was stained white with tear streaks. Gray had finally stopped crying on the boat trip back, slumped against his brother and fallen asleep.
"Oh god," Lowery mumbled with his mouth full, "this is amazing. Someone needs to give these guys a Michelin star, am I right?" It was only then he noticed Stan's vicious glare across the table, "If you're trying to move the salt shaker closer with The Force..."
"He took her baby." Stan spoke quietly, through grit teeth.
"What?"
"Blue. She helped us, trusted us. And he stole her child." Stan leaned over, "And it's on you, Lowery."
"Stan..." Claire attempted. Owen's hand squeezed hers under the table. A steel glint gleamed in his eye. Apparently he was backing his son on this one.
Of course he was. This was Blue.
"You know what, I am offended you would say that to me." Lowery stammered, "I'm the one who convinced Fisher to come here. Without me..."
"Without you," Stan's voice rose an octave, "Tejeda's operation would still be in diapers!"
"Would you keep it down?"
"You're helping us find him." The tone of Stan's command left zero room for argument. "Because if you don't, I'm getting in that witness stand and I'm ripping you a new one in court. If you're lucky, they won't throw away the key!"
"There they are!" Karen Mitchell's fraught voice echoed through the open-air restaurant. Flanked by her ex-husband, she wove through packed tables. Pale, haggard, rumpled clothes, red eyes. They both looked as drawn as their children.
The reunion was tender. Embraces, kisses, reassurances (the latter mainly from Zack who did his best to assure his parents they had not sustained any fatal injuries). Karen sobbed all over Claire. The boys' father shook Owen's hand. Arms were still intertwined and fingers locked together as Zack and Gray were whisked away to their parents' five star hotel for some much-needed rest.
"Wow, that was, like, super OTT, am I right?" Lowery began after the silence became unbearable.
"Lay off them, Lowery." Stan's defense of anything Mitchell was highly uncharaceristic.
"Well, excuse me, Oprah Winfrey." Lowery pushed away from the table, "Think I'm gonna go now."
"I'll come with you." Claire snatched his bicep hard enough to produce a wince, "We need to talk." She led him, protesting, to the outdoor porch.
Owen set his beer down and nudged his son across the table.
"What's your favorite color?"
Stan groaned, "You talked to Claire."
"I'm gonna go with gray."
"That's why you've been acting like such a weirdo."
"You seem to wear it a lot."
"I'm fifteen years old. I don't have a favorite color. Can we please talk about how we're gonna find Tejeda?"
"In a minute." Then, "I can be an asshole sometimes."
A soda bottle cap drummed on the table, "You and everybody else. This isn't going to help us track Tejeda down any..."
A large hand closed gently over Stan's, stilling the drumming. "It can wait."
Owen left his hand there. Stan felt it burning a hole in his skin. He avoided the man's eyes.
"Look, buddy...you were good out there. Not just good. You were freaking awesome."
The genuine praise brought the blood to Stan's cheeks.
"I've just never been great at letting go of things. And it's even harder with you because..." a throat cleared itself, "I feel like I don't even really have you yet. You were right, what you told Claire. I missed everything - your first steps, your first day of school..."
"I said it wasn't your fault."
"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean it's fair." Owen released Stan's hand with a squeeze, leaning back to choose his next words carefully, "I mean...what I'm trying to say is sorry. Sorry I'm such an asshole. 'Do as I say, not as I do' is a pretty shitty way to parent."
Stan shrugged non-commitally, "You're trying."
"Well I'm gonna try harder." The man offered. Then, "If that's okay with you."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
The walls Stan had put in place since his mother's death, the ones Owen had painstakingly been tearing down brick by brick, seemed firmly back in place. Or maybe it was a new wall. Not armed with barbs and hooks and vats of hot oil. Just indifferent, flat, faceless - like a block of concrete.
"Okay." Owen didn't like it, wasn't having it. "I love you. You know that, right?"
"Yeah." Stan moved on quickly, "So, I've been thinking. We should see if Fisher will let us access La Guarderia and snoop for clues."
"Already tried. She's got the place locked down tight. Plus, the feds want us back in the States so they can build their case. Our plane leaves in an hour."
"So basically, you're saying there's nothing we can do to help Blue get her baby back."
"I'm saying that the best thing we can do for Blue's baby is give Fisher the ammo she needs to open a wider net." Owen's tone was patient, "Plus, I gotta get you home and back in school before Phil tears me a new one."
"I can miss another semester."
The back of Owen's hand inched towards Stan's forehead. He batted it away.
"I am not sick!"
"Well, don't say shit like that, then!" Owen leant back in his chair with an unhappy squint, "You freak me out, man."
The pout was enough to produce a grudging half-smile from Stan - which produced an even wider grin from Owen.
"Sorry about that." Claire returned briskly, "Just making sure Lowery touched base with Fisher's people before we head out. He'd conveniently forgotten that handing over his passport was part of the deal he cut."
"Take it you helped him out with that." Her fiance stood up from the table.
"I have an excellent memory." She raised her eyebrows at the pair, "Shall we?"
A week passed by. Then two. Then three. Miserable weather settled over San Diego - a perpetual downpour of drizzle. Then, the sun. Stitches were removed, scabs fell away to reveal fresh skin. Declarations of wellbeing were issued by medical authorities. Building works continued in Minnesota. Claire enrolled Stan in a local private school. Stan, for her sake, did his best to hide his utter contempt for it. Owen made it his personal mission to drive Eric across the country after his release from hospital to reunite him with his family. Zack and Gray, despite being grounded into oblivion, found ways to keep in touch.
Life went on much as it always had, considering the circumstances.
Until it didn't.
They were at the mall when it happened. The contractor supervising the ranch's construction needed confirmation on some tiling for the bathrooms. Claire decided she had enough stress to deal with and that it was high time Stan and Owen pulled their weight. Despite a contest during which father and son competed for title of Person Who Cared Least, they both ended up in the local homeware store with strict instructions not to come home until their mission was complete.
"Let's just get this over with." Owen muttered to his son, "You pick out the borders and I'll pick out the pattern. We'll meet back here in twenty minutes."
"Done." Stan was in no mood to hang around. Things had been uncomfortable for him ever since Isla Nublar Round 2. Owen's new approach to parenting was significantly softer round the edges than the rough-cut first edition. The fresh upheaval was the last straw for Stan, who had finally suceeded in regaining self-control.
He was one empathetic conversation-starter away from insisting on a cat-scan.
The border tiling took up two whole aisles. Clutching the approved color palette Claire had bequeathed them with, Stan perused the lines of swirls, squiggles and spots. He squinted at a charming paisely pattern and checked his sample.
"Duck egg Blue. Why does this say Duck Egg Green? Which is it, for Christ's sake?"
"It's the same thing." The gravelly drawl was soft on his back. Stan cocked his head, not daring to believe his ears.
His eyes were lying too, apparently.
"These salespeople, see," The man continued, "they paint it all with the same damn brush and give it a different name. Calling a fish a bird doesn't make it fly, though - does it, son?"
Stan felt his muscles tense, his throat constrict. He turned to leave, but a beefy arm swung out, blocking his path.
"What's the matter, Stanley?" He was tall, tanned, a tailored jacket hugging broad lines. The white of his perfectly groomed goatee matched that of his teeth as they flashed, "Too grown up to give your grandpa a hug?"
"Excuse me." Stan flagged down an employee, "My friend here needs help finding a good paint thinner. Oh, and...please speak slowly." He leaned in closer, "Suffers from dementia."
"Of course. Right this way, sir." The employee moved in, allowing Stan the window he needed to beat a hasty retreat. He practically skidded to a halt as he bumped into Owen.
"Whoa." His dad's tree trunk of a frame steadied them both.
"Waxy floor race!" Stan yelled abruptly, spotting his stalker heading towards them, "Three, two, one, go!"
"What?!"
Leaving his totally bewildered father in his wake, Stan ran, then broke into a slide. He heard Owen call his name, louder than it should have been. A moment later, Owen raced past him, shoes skidding across the polished floor.
The man was grinning from ear to ear, "Aha! Eat my dust!"
The grin disappeared as the pair approaced a giant palette of cans.
"Shit!" Stan tried to stop. He really did. Only a well-timed shove from Owen saved him from his fate. The pair hurtled towards the household aisle and collided with a stack of toilet rolls.
"You had one job. One job!" Claire was far from impressed.
"Hey. We got the tiles!" Owen stated in his defense.
"Yes. Luckily, Security were kind enough to let you buy them before escorting you out of the building!"
"Stan started it!"
"And finished it." The young man muttered.
"Oh hell no. I beat you, fair and square...I mean..." Owen cleared his throat at a scowl from his fiance, "...what matters is that nobody was hurt. Don't you think?" Eyebrows rose at Claire.
She rolled her eyes, "I'd ground you both but then I'd never get rid of you." Instead, she opened a bottle of wine as she rummaged through the plastic bag of samples on the counter, "And what the hell am I supposed to do with paint thinner?"
Owen frowned at the item, "I didn't put that in there."
"Cashier must've scanned it by mistake." Claire shrugged as she filled up her glass. She didn't notice the color drain from Stanley's face.
"Anybody want anything from the store?" He pulled his jacket on. His father cast him a befuddled look.
"Not really. Seeing as we were just at the store and all."
"We forgot Twinkies. I'm just gonna go to the 7-Eleven. Back in a sec."
Stan dashed through the front door before anybody had a chance to question his peculiar behaviour. The night air breathed in his face, pushed at his collar. Stan was still enjoying the fresher weather, a stark contrast from the humid hell of Isla Nublar. He pulled up his hood and walked a block. Rain began to spit at the sidewalk, staining the concrete black.
"I see you got my message."
He was leaning against a papered lamp post. Cigarette beween his lips, white buzz-cut catching the neon light.
"I'm here to buy Twinkies, Stewart."
"That what you told your daddy, is it?" Ash flicked against the curb, "Owen Grady - nice kid. Nice, and dumb. Your mother dipped her toe in that hick's pond just long enough to ruin her life."
Stan's jaw set, lips pressing tight against each other.
"Your grandmother's worried about you, Stanley. All this stuff in the news about Grady and that dinosaur island. Seems you were dragged out there twice in just about as many months. In and out of hospital. No school, no fixed abode, no...stabiity. I've got to be honest - it's cause for concern."
An attempt to brush past his grandfather was seen as provocation. A hand shot out, grabbing the tendon on Stan's shoulder. Fingers dug deep, trapping nerves, stopping him dead.
"Look how tight that Grady's got you wound." The artificial worry was sickening, "Too scared to speak up, even to your mother's own family. Used to be we couldn't get you to shut up." Fading green bruises were traced with a callous fingertip, "This how he keeps you quiet?"
"Maybe I just have nothing to say to you."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're afraid of what'll happen if you talk about what that hillbilly's been putting you through. At least, I'm sure that's how a judge will see it."
"They'd have to have pretty fucked-up eyesight to see past a restraining order."
"I thought you'd bring that up. See, that's been overturned." A cold smile, "God bless Lady Justice. She really is impartial."
"She's blind." Stan leaned into the man's vicegrip, ignoring the pain, "But those cops over there? They can see just fine."
Stewart's gaze flicked sideways. Two police officers, hands full of steaming styrofoam, stepped out of the store. Eyes rolling back to his grandson, the man caught a glimpse of something new - and dangerous. He swapped the iron fist for a friendly pat.
"See you soon."
Stan watched the tall man nod at the cops as he ambled towards the car park. His shoulder burned. His anger burned hotter. Stan's pocket buzzed. A Whatsapp message from Zack Mitchell appeared on the screen.
Call me. I found him.
"Where are the Twinkies?"
Stan pulled off his headphones as he strode through the door. "Sorry?"
Owen was fresh out the shower, shirtless and still towelling his hair, "You said you were getting Twinkies."
"I did."
"So?"
"What?"
"Hand them over!"
Stan rolled his eyes as Owen held out a palm, "Pig." He produced the contraband package and tossed it at his father. "I didn't want any, thanks for asking."
"I didn't." Owen was already scarfing down the treat. "Bunch more in the snacks cupboard, by the way."
Shit. Stan kept a straight face, "I didn't see any."
"'I didn't see any'." His father laughed, "You didn't even look." He whacked Stan on the shoulder with the Twinkie multi-pack. The action was not designed to produce a wince.
It did.
Stan covered the wince in an annoyed huff, "Well, the way you eat, we can never have too many Twinkies."
"Ain't it the truth!" Owen's mouth was full.
Stan's phone started to ring. Zack's caller ID popped up.
"Aren't you gonna get that?" His father was pulling on a henley.
"God, what are you, the Question King tonight? Jesus!" The young man stomped off to his room.
"Hey, Grumpy!" A Twinkie hit the back of his head, "Get your blood sugar up!"
The bruising was literally finger-shaped. Stan just had to hope Owen wouldn't randomly bust into his bedroom while he was undressed. He prodded the swollen, mottled flesh along his collar bone and rolled his eyes.
"Zack."
"Are you alone?"
"Yeah."
"I found him, Stan."
"Where and how?" Stan looked through his curtains. The rain had started again. He fought against the shadows he imagined were lurking.
"Tejeda has clients and investors in the States. Whoever wanted that baby Raptor obviously has the means to cover both their asses, right?"
"So?"
"So I hacked Richard Dougal's LinkedIn and ran a seach for anybody connected to Costa Rica and the US in his circle."
"You need to stop binge-watching CSI."
"I found one match. Christina Perry. CEO of Bright Ideas, inc. Just sold her latest offshoot company for two milllion dollars. Google her."
Stan already had his tablet out. "Bright Ideas. Looks like she funds all kinds of think tanks, research facilities etc."
"One of which is a cloning lab InGen once considered for partnership." Zack sounded breathless, "Got shut down last year for unethical practice."
"You think it's still running?"
"It's a start."
"It's not Tejeda."
"Perry had a photo on her LinkedIn of her and Dougal having dinner in the same restaurant where Claire and Owen met Tejeda. I'm telling you, she's the client."
"Why not feed this to Fisher? She has resources, connections."
"You trust her?"
"My dad trusts her."
"And that's good enough for you?"
Stan tugged at his ratty hair, "You're not hearing me. He's not gonna sign off on any more recon. We threw Fisher the ball and she's running with it."
"Then how come she missed this?"
"Maybe she didn't."
A frustrated sigh, "Tahoe. That's where the facility is. The Dearings have a family cabin by the lakes. Already got my mom to sign off on a family weekend up there next Friday."
"Aren't you grounded till you're thirty or something?"
"Eh. My mom'll break before we do. We've already driven her crazy enough to lift the no-tech ban."
"Sounds great. Breaking and entering into an abandoned cloning lab - quality family fun." Stan wasn't convinced.
"Stan. Come on. This is Blue's baby we're talking about."
SIlence. Contemplation. Then, "Owen's never gonna go for it."
"So make something up."
Tahoe. Cool, crisp air engulfing rolling hills. Mist eating up fresh, clean water. It was a far cry from the humid hell of Isla Nublar.
And miles away from Stewart Simmons.
"I'll call you back in the morning."
Claire hated sharing the apartment block gym with Owen. It was one thing enduring the stares he recieved from the PTA moms or the store assistants. But Owen during a workout was apparently must-see, compelling footage. Claire had lost count of the number of times a woman (and sometimes, the odd man) had fallen off a treadmill or dropped a weight because they were too busy unabashedly gawking at Owen doing push ups.
The worst part was that Owen seemed entirely oblivious. He genuinely believed that the chiseled pair of abs in a WonderWoman sports bra wanted to discuss the benefits of burpees. Or that the clearly ripped blonde under the barbell was in sudden distress and urgently needed a spotter.
"You're just being paranoid." Owen would dismiss Claire's complaints. She was, however, vindicated when Stan, having forgotten his set of keys, ambled down to the gym to steal Owen's.
Stan had instantly been set upon by a swarm of Amazonion beauties.
"Oh my god, Owen, is this your son?"
"You never told us he was so good-looking. Must run in the genes."
"You two are so cute together!"
"So did you ever think of having another kid? I find that so attractive in a man."
Most teenage boys would have enjoyed the attention. Stan, who had very fixed ideas about the type of person that was worth his time, was far from impressed. After very loudly announcing that Claire would make a fabulous mother, which drew scowls (and a blush from Miss Dearing), Stan had refused to ever come near the gym again.
Which is why Claire was very surprised when the young man showed up during her morning workout.
"Stan." Claire pulled her earbuds out and paused the treadmill, "Are you locked out again?"
"No. I just...needed to talk to you."
"Okay." Sensing it was urgent, she hopped off, "Oh." Stan was even holding up her face towel, "Thank you. So, what's up?"
Stan was twisting the cap off her water bottle as he extended fought suspicion.
"Well, I just heard from Zack that they're all going to your guys' cabin in Tahoe next weekend. I was wondering if I could maybe go as well?"
She swallowed a cool draught and wiped her mouth, "I thought you didn't like my family. Why the sudden change in heart?"
"I never said I didn't like them."
"You used a more colorful description."
"A lot changed since we got stuck on Isla Nublar." Stan reasoned, "Zack and I are like...war buddies."
She fought a smile, "War buddies."
"Yes. You know, like Owen and Barry. Two men brought together through tragic events, forging a lifelong bond in the face of adversity, etc, etc?" Stan's straight face was the only thing holding back Claire's laughter.
"Look, I'm really glad you and Zack are getting along. But I have a full schedule next week and your dad has a follow-up with Fisher's team. It's really not good timing."
"Yeah, I figured. That's why I'm suggesting I go alone."
Claire winced sympathetically, "Good luck getting that past your dad." Seeing the slump in Stan's expression, she hastily changed course, "Let me talk to Owen. Maybe I can persuade him."
"You're a queen." Stan's compliment, while blatantly flattery, was still rare enough to bring a satisfied smile out in Claire. He folded her towel over her shoulder and headed out of the gym.
"Your son is so cute." One of the newbies, a brunette clad in underarmour from head to toe, commented asininely.
"Oh...no...he's..."
"You guys are in number twenty-five, right? I'm Ashley. I just moved in downstairs. I saw your husband in here the other day. I was saying we could all have dinner one night? I'm free next Friday."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Claire feigned distress, "We're all going to our family cabin in Tahoe."
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