“I have to earn those privileges first,” I say sharply. “And maybe if you had sent me to a relaxing spa in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
He recoils like I slapped him, and I ashamedly stare down at my chewed nails.
“Maybe the next one will treat you better,” he mutters under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m just agitated. It doesn’t make me feel comfortable to live with strangers in an unknown place.”
“It will be like college.” Then he thinks about it. “Without the . . .”
“Fun,” I finish.
Exasperated, he throws himself down on the bed. “I know this isn’t what we wanted.” He finally stammers, “It’s not meant to feel like a prison. The website said the property is over seven thousand square feet, built into the mountain.”
“I just don’t want to be gone for too long. And forced to sit and talk about my feelings with random people.” Before he can respond, I murmur, “I know it depends on the person.”
He tries to talk to me about it, but half-asleep, I’m not sure if I answer the last question he asked me.
When I wake up, it’s early evening, and a sense of dread gnaws at my stomach. There’s an edge I need to take off, and it can only be alleviated by one thing.
The house is eerily silent when I tiptoe down the stairs. Maybe because of our tenuous relationship as of late, I feel like a guest in my own home.
When I call out Holden’s name, there’s no response, but I find a barely legible note on the marble kitchen island. His scribbled handwriting says he went to grab takeout from my favorite restaurant on our last night together. It’s a nice gesture, and I hate the fact I’m more excited to be alone, out from beneath his watchful and judgmental gaze, then to have food and his company.
With him gone, I can go on a mission.
In anticipation, I lick my lips, already tasting the smoothness. My hands are shaking, my heart having palpitations at the thrill, sending shivers down my spine.
It’s just one last time, I tell myself. No big deal.
I’m in the comfort of my own home, and no one will know.
“It’s not like you’re hurting anyone,” I whisper to the mirror. My mouth salivates, not for food but for the sweet friendship of wine tonight.
Except Holden one-upped me. He did a stellar job of finding every last one of my hiding places—starting with the linen closet.
I wander from our dresser in the guest room to the wicker basket filled with toilet paper in the bathroom. He even removed my stash from the shelving unit in the garage.
Slamming shut the heavy-duty lid of his indestructible toolbox, I’m about to self-destruct.
Hell, he even dumped out the vodka I poured into a gallon jug meant to look like distilled water. I’m rummaging in our shared office for the miniature wine bottles I hid behind a row of lawbooks.
Dropping to my knees, I’m surprised to find something else I’m missing. My purse was returned to me, but my phone wasn’t in its usual pocket inside the front zipper. Stranger yet, Holden refused to take me or go look through my vehicle at the junkyard to find it. His excuse was that I’m not going to be able to bring it with me to the clinic, so I might as well get used to not having one for the time being.
My supposedly misplaced cell phone is in one of his desk drawers. When I power it on, the red battery light flashes, indicating it’s about dead.
After typing in my pass code, I wait for the phone to unlock.
It doesn’t.
Fuck.
Holden changed my pass code.
My heart might as well have jumped straight out of my body, it’s pounding so fast. I’m debating what to do when Tanner’s face flashes on the screen. At least I can answer his call.
“Hey, Tanner,” I answer with fake enthusiasm. “Just a heads-up, my phone’s about to die.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you mean?”
Exasperated, he sighs. “I’ve been trying to call you for a few days.”
I open and shut my mouth, realizing Tanner most likely doesn’t know about the car accident, and I’d like to keep it that way.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “As you can imagine, I’ve had a lot going on. Holden’s pissed at me. Did you tell him who I was with on my birthday?”
“Of course not,” he says smoothly. “You know I have your back.” He adds, “When are you leaving for . . .”
I bite my lip. “Tomorrow.”
“How did Holden take it?”
“He’s convinced I’m having multiple affairs.”
“I wonder why.”
“No clue.” I play dumb. “Before my phone dies, I need your help. I have, or had, a client named Nico Marcona. High-profile divorce with a few mil in assets. I’ve got bank records and offshore accounts to incriminate his wife, Christine. She’s a real bitch, a total nightmare. She’s been blackmailing him.”
Tanner plays straight into my hands. I can hear him practically salivating over the phone. He loves money as much as I love liquor. I almost feel sorry for the weasel. He’s only human, and I shouldn’t hold his own demons against him.
But I promptly reconsider.
When you try and fuck up my livelihood and marriage, this scrappy midwestern girl will become the Wicked Witch of the West and shove a flying broom handle up your darkest crevice.
“Leslie has all the account information and an overwhelming paper trail.”
Tanner goes for lackadaisical. “You find a good PI to do the grunt work?”
“You know I use our guy, Chuck,” I say. “Out of curiosity, do you know which attorney is representing Nico now?”
Dead air follows, and I presume my phone has finally died. Fitting it would be in the middle of an important question.
“You there? Tanner?”
“Still here.”
“Did anyone tell Nico what happened to me?”
“No, course not. Bad for business.” Tanner probes. “You didn’t tell him where you were going, did you?”
“No!” I sigh. “I’m not allowed to contact any of my previous clients.”
“Then I’d follow that directive, Sib. Go to rehab. Stop squandering your talent on useless men.”
Before I can respond, my phone goes black.
Dammit.
After plugging the phone into a charger, I go into the bathroom and take a long, hot shower, steaming up the mirror, bawling my eyes out where no one can hear me.
Holden changed my pass code, and now I can’t see my messages or who said what. I’m resentful I’m being punished when he’s the one who missed an important milestone a few weeks ago: my thirty-fourth birthday passed without so much as a happy-birthday emoji.
That would be the day Holden didn’t check his social media, I think caustically.
It just so happened that Nico was my last appointment of the day, and Leslie stepped inside my office to say goodbye for the evening and to wish me one last happy birthday. “I can’t wait until tomorrow to hear what Holden planned as a surprise.”
“Thanks.” I forced a terse smile out, but Nico’s intuitive, and it didn’t go unheeded, at least not by him. I dumbly smiled when he asked about my evening plans. I tried unsuccessfully not to show Nico my disappointment or the tears I was holding back.
“Your husband must be planning one hell of a surprise party.”
I couldn’t keep the disappointment from my voice. “Then I hope you’re invited, because he hasn’t mentioned my birthday.”
“No!”
“Yes,” I said sulkily.
“You mean regarding your plans tonight?” He frowned. “You don’t mean he forgot your actual birthday?”
“No,” I stammered. “I mean, yes.” I leaned back in my chair as if I couldn’t care less. I’m a tough attorney, not a blubbering Barbie. “At least, he hasn’t acknowledged it. Who knows—maybe he will later.”
“Did he tell you to be hom
e at a certain time?”
“No.” I glanced at my watch. “He has a class to teach tonight.”
With a grimace, Nico said, “There’s no way I’m letting you spend your birthday alone.”
“It’s fine, Nico,” I objected. “I can go out with one of my girlfriends. They assumed I was busy tonight, so we scheduled something this weekend.”
But he wouldn’t let me off the hook, intent on celebrating with me. I told him it was a bad idea, but he wanted to know why. “We’re friends, right? Friends celebrate their birthdays together.”
“But it’s not appropriate.” I tried to dissuade him. “You’re a current client.”
He narrowed his eyes at me, and I withered under his disapproving glance. “Today is important, and we’re going to make it one for the books,” he promised.
I didn’t ask him to clarify his statement because I didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole.
Was I attracted to him?
No doubt.
It took Nico a couple tries to convince me to have a drink with him, which I think thrilled him because he likes an actual chase, not a sure thing.
After he left my office and I spent thirty minutes freshening up my makeup and persuading my reflection I wasn’t doing anything wrong or immoral, I met him at a dark speakeasy.
We sat in a dark leather booth, where we started on opposite sides, trading stories of our past and present.
To break the ice, we did a round of shots.
The liquor flowed, and so did the conversation. It’s easy to talk to Nico, not stilted like it is with Holden, who never pays attention. He listens but doesn’t hear me.
Another round of shots went down smooth.
Somehow, we ended up seated on the same side—I’m uncertain who suggested it first—and, by then, reasonably inebriated.
And then . . .
Lost in a trance, I don’t hear the knock on the bathroom door. Suddenly, I’m brought back to the present when another sharp tap interrupts my thoughts.
I’m sitting on the tiled bench in the walk-in shower when Holden walks in. He peers at my barely visible shape in the foggy glass. “Did you even know I was gone?”
“Yes. I saw your note.”
Holding my iPhone up, he says, “I see you found this.”
“You had no right to tell me it was lost,” I say irritably. “Not to mention changing my access code.”
“What did we agree on?”
Furiously, I rub at the steam on the glass to stare him down.
“Sibley.” He shakes his head angrily. “What did you tell me would be different after your birthday?”
“You mean the birthday you forgot?” I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. “That I would give you access to my phone. And I did,” I grumble. “Which is why you were able to change it in the first place.”
“You reached out to Nico before you crashed your car.” He shrugs. “We agreed you wouldn’t text him any personal messages, and you did it anyway.”
I don’t have a recollection of this, so I shrug my shoulders.
“Come on, let’s go eat.” Holden points downstairs. “The food’s going to get cold.”
When we go downstairs to eat, he’s lit some candles and set the formal dining table, and it only makes me feel more like a piece of shit. Even sitting close, we have a noticeable distance between us. It makes me sad, and I stare at his profile while he unwraps and uncovers our dinner.
He settles a napkin in my lap, and our eyes lock.
Mine are filled with tears.
“Sib?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head, forcing the tears to retreat. “This looks delicious.”
“I hope so. It’s your favorite.” He sits down next to me. “Are you okay? You seem off, like a light bulb just turned off in your head.”
“I’m just . . . apprehensive.”
With wooden expressions, we sit in silence at the table, both lost in our own thoughts. There’s so much I want to ask him, but I’m scared to open our collective wounds. My ego’s fragile, and deep down, I’m worried my inability to handle an answer I don’t want to hear will set me back.
Twirling some pasta on my fork, I finally say, “I know I need to do this. I know it’s been difficult. I want to fix this and fix us. I know I have to accept responsibility for my actions.”
“I know, Sib. I just hope it isn’t too late.”
“Me too.”
“Are you scared?”
“No.” I meet his eyes. “Petrified.”
He grabs my hands in his and holds them tightly.
“Will you please sleep with me tonight?” I plead.
Hesitating, he stares down at our interlocked hands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I just mean, in the same bed. Please,” I beg. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. It’s my last night here.”
Holden relents, and after we climb into bed later, he quickly switches off the lamp on the nightstand. Because of my constant headaches and a good chance of a concussion, we’ve kept the lights low or off.
He clasps my hand in his, and we lie together, side by side, in silence. I feel impending doom, a sign of a panic attack lurking, and my resolve to never drink again lessens.
I whisper, “It’s going to be weird to be cut off from society and have no access to technology. This will be the longest we’ve gone without communication.”
“It might be good for us,” he offers. “I think we can talk after you finish detox. That might be a good goal. Being able to speak with your husband after you purge the bad stuff.”
“Will you miss me?”
Even in the absence of light, I sense indecision.
Instantly, my body tenses, a knee-jerk reaction. I pull my hand from his.
“Sibley, stop,” he quietly commands. “I’m not going to lie and say it hasn’t been stressful for a while. You put us through the wringer.”
“What about what you’ve done?” I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re not innocent in this, Holden. There’s two of us in this marriage.”
“I know,” he concedes.
“So this will be a nice reprieve for both of us.”
“Please don’t say it that way.”
“Why?” I wish I could turn my back to him. “It’s true.”
“I don’t want to fight,” he begs quietly.
“Then let’s go to sleep.” I bring my hand up in the dark, and a fingernail goes to my mouth, a nervous habit of mine. My nails are already a wreck, but I find comfort in ripping away another sliver of skin, as shredded as my dignity.
I yelp as the metallic taste of blood hits my tongue.
“Stop biting your nails,” Holden chastises, yanking my hand away from my face.
Neither of us can sleep, and I fumble for him in the dark, hoping Holden will want to close the void between us. He doesn’t swat my hand away, instead choosing to entwine his fingers with mine, but it’s another glaring spotlight on our tenuous marriage, and I wonder if we’ll outlast the next six months or finally grind to a halt.
He wraps his hand around my wrist, and I become anchored to him. When he does this, I sometimes feel claustrophobic, as if caught in an undercurrent, and if something happens, he’ll pull me down with him to drown. But tonight, I need his superfluous touch.
Holden tosses and turns beside me, and coupled with my intrusive thoughts, neither of us can sleep comfortably for more than a few hours at a time.
It’s as if we’ve lost the power to tread water. Now we’re just floundering.
CHAPTER 12
Sibley
Bleary eyed in the morning, I’m surprised when Holden hasn’t loaded his Subaru up with my luggage but instead has breakfast waiting for me downstairs.
When I’m seated, he tells me there’s been a change of plans. He seems nervous, his hands fidgeting as he moves the salt and pepper shakers around. “I talked with Adrienne . . . about, uh, about
taking you.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’ll be here in a few to pick you up.”
“You don’t want to take me?”
“It’s not like that.” He removes his glasses. “Crap. I can go if you’d like me to. I didn’t mean for it to seem like I don’t care . . .”
“No. It’s okay.” I sip my coffee. “I’m just surprised. You haven’t let me out of your sight lately.”
“I worry about you.” He touches my cheek. “I thought you could use some time with Adrienne. I know she’s your best friend and probably a better support system than me right now.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze his hand in mine. “I appreciate you saying that.”
“I always hoped you’d be able to confide in me and tell me all your secrets, but there’s so much you keep in, Sib.” He replaces his glasses with a sigh. “Or maybe I’m not a good enough listener and haven’t made you feel safe enough to share. Either way, you deserve to have your best friend with you, and that’s not me anymore.” He covers his face with his hands. “Maybe it never was.”
His words tug at my heartstrings, and I burst into tears. His own are running down his now-wet cheeks. We swipe at each other’s faces and clutch each other’s shoulders as if we can erase our past mistakes. We’ve had a long marriage, and we’ve made many.
Both of us are scared to move, and our arms stay in a half embrace for a long time.
Eventually, we pull away from each other, and I don’t know if this is goodbye or good luck. Either way, we are both hurting, a sense of finality behind our emotions.
When Adrienne arrives, she’s unusually stoic, and I can tell she’s having a hard time with the reality of today.
We exit through the garage, and my eyes stare at the spot where my Tesla used to sit, now nothing more than an empty space with an oil stain from a previous vehicle. Holden drags his feet behind us and loads my suitcase into the back of Adrienne’s small SUV. He sends me off with a tight hug and a chaste kiss, and the smell of his cologne and the look of his sad eyes are etched in my memory as we back out of the driveway.
We have a long drive to what’s considered a state-of-the-art, luxury rehab facility inspired by the “tranquility of a resort and the secrecy of a mountain hideaway, with expert staff well educated and trained on addictions,” or at least that’s what the website touts.
The Imposter Page 11