by Minka Kent
If that’s his perception of me, I had no idea. I was quiet tonight, yes, but the last couple months I thought things were better than ever between us.
“Ben.” I force a smile, exhaling through my nose and tilting my head to the side. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
The car behind us honks, and we both gaze up in tandem at the green light. He releases my hand, placing his at two o’clock on the steering wheel, and presses his foot into the accelerator with gentle patience.
“All I know is you’re not you anymore.” His lips press into a flat line. “It’s like I wake up with one person . . . and I come home to someone else. One minute you’re up, the next minute you’re down.”
Clearing my throat, I scoot closer to him, resting my head against his tense shoulder.
“It’s weird not having a job to go to every day,” I say, searching for the words that will put his mind at ease. “I guess I’m still settling into this routine. Trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”
I glance up at him and spot a smirk.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asks.
Daphne McMullen, but since that’s not an option . . .
“I don’t know.” I shrug one shoulder, sitting up straight. “Maybe I’ll go back to school for nursing? I loved working at the clinic. I love kids.”
“What about teaching?”
I shake my head. Standing in front of thirty pairs of eyes all expecting me to be some kind of shining example for them sounds like a recipe for disaster. And I’d have to be myself, every single day. Day in. Day out. I’d die of mental fatigue by the end of the first school year.
It’s exhausting being me.
Living with my thoughts.
Hiding my vulnerabilities behind someone else’s clothing.
“Well, take your time,” Ben says, resting his hand on my left thigh and squeezing my knee. “I kind of like having you home more, especially on the weekends.”
Me too. I hated working Saturdays.
“Your hours were terrible too.” His face wrinkles, and I think about all those times I’d come home to Ben eating canned soup for dinner or a bowl of cereal. Which always struck me as odd, because Ben knows how to cook. I make us dinner most nights now, most of the time imitating something I watched on TV that morning and taking all the credit. He hasn’t explicitly admitted this, but I know Ben enjoys coming home to a hot meal like he’s some 1950s husband. And I know that he secretly loves that his dream girl no longer comes home in snot-covered scrubs with tired feet, and instead she pounces into his arms at five thirty with a smile on her face.
He gets me all to himself now.
At least as much of me as I’m able to give.
Yawning, I press my cheek against the cool glass to my right, my eyes growing blearier by the minute and the distance hazing over. I want to go to bed. I want to lie in Ben’s arms, feeling his warm breath on the top of my head as he pulls me against him. I never used to like it. The smothering. But I’ve gotten used to it. I can tolerate it now, and on the rare occasion, I even crave it.
I’ll probably close my eyes, pretending we’re Graham and Daphne like I do most nights. There have been times when I swear in the dark, through squinted eyes, Ben could pass for Graham. They share the same square jaw and dimpled chin, the same chocolate brown hair and vivid baby blues.
Ben turns the corner to our neighborhood, and for a fraction of a second, a sliver of warmth runs through me. It’s very possible that this is what contentedness feels like. I have to admit I am comfortable with the way things are. More so than I’ve ever been.
Sometimes I wonder what this would feel like if what we had were real. If we’d met on the street or at the grocery store. If our friends had set us up on a blind date and neither of us could deny the chemistry.
But it is what it is now, and I am what I am: his fantasy girl.
Letting him beyond my façade would shatter the illusion I’ve worked so hard to create. And the second that illusion is shattered, Ben isn’t going to want me anymore. He’s a rational, logical man, and he’s generous and forgiving and annoyingly optimistic and understanding.
But he wouldn’t understand this.
And I’d lose the only things I have left in this life; the one person who’s ever genuinely loved me. And a front seat view into Grace’s life.
Fifty-Two
Daphne
The soft hum of the garage door wakes me from a twilight sleep. The blurry numbers on the alarm clock beside me read 9:52 PM. Sitting up, I throw the covers off my legs and tiptoe to the bathroom before Graham comes upstairs.
The night before our wedding some twelve years ago, my mother-in-law sat me down and gave me an earful of advice: Never dress down. Wear makeup to bed. Keep your hair long. Always try to impress him in the bedroom, it’ll keep him from growing bored with you. Stay the beautiful girl he married, not false advertising . . .
Standing in front of the sink, I grab a boar-bristle brush and re-shape my blonde waves. Patting on a bit of breathable mineral makeup and brushing my teeth again, I give myself a once over and adjust the white satin nightgown that covers my matching teddy, both of which are new and both of which were purchased on a whim this afternoon.
We haven’t made love in three weeks; a concerning record.
The swoosh of the door against plush carpet tells me he’s on the other side of the wall.
“In here,” I call out. Not that it’s an invitation. Another one of my mother-in-law’s Marriage Rules included never becoming too comfortable in front of one another in the bathroom, so we’ve adopted a closed door policy during the tenure of our relationship. “Be right out.”
My heart pounds in my chest the way it always does before I see him.
I push the bathroom door open a moment later, standing in the doorway and watching the flicker of the TV as it paints colors across his bare chest. The covers are drawn to his waist, and his brawny arms open wide when he sees me.
My striking, handsome husband wears a dimpled smile just for me. The same one he’s always worn. The one that still makes my stomach do backflips and somersaults. The smile I’ve never grown tired of.
And the smile I’d foolishly assumed all these years would only ever belong to me . . .
“You’re home late this evening.” I say it with a lilt in my voice, as if I’m making a simple observation and not a pointed accusation. I don’t think there are many women who can do what I do. Who can see their husband with another woman and continue like it never happened at all. Maybe there are more of us, hidden away, silently keeping calm and carrying on because it’s what you do when your entire world rests in the palm of one man’s hand. Or maybe I’m the only one, and I’m completely crazy. “Kids missed you.”
They say it takes a strong woman to leave. I say it takes an even stronger woman to stay and fight for what’s rightfully hers.
He lifts the covers, and I crawl in beside him, taking my place in his arms and wondering if these arms held her tonight. Graham leans over, kissing my cheek, his eyes glued to the sports highlights on the glowing TV screen.
“Sebastian wanted you to read him a bedtime story,” I say with a smile.
“That’s adorable.” He offers a distracted laugh and doesn’t seem the least bit affected by having missed out on tucking his son into bed.
I lean against him, nuzzling my bloodhound nose into the bend of his neck and breathing him in–the way I do every night–comforted by the fact that his cologne still lingers, faded from his morning shower, and there isn’t a trace of perfume to be found.
He wasn’t with her tonight.
I exhale, shoulders loosening and feeling slightly better, existing in this space with my husband and trying my hardest to focus on the here and now. He isn’t perfect, and yet he is. He’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I know I can forgive him, even if he doesn’t ask for it, because that’s what you do when you love someone so much you can’t breathe
when you think about losing them.
We built one hell of a beautiful life together.
We can fix this.
I can fix this.
I can remind him that the things he has here, our beautiful home, our twelve-year marriage, our three children . . . those things have permanence and substance and value. This girl he’s been seeing . . . she’s the equivalent of a leased Porsche. There’s no real commitment and the fun will wear off soon enough. She might steal him away on lunch hours, but at the end of the day, he still comes home to me, and that has to count for something.
I even paused my Instaface account recently after much deliberation. Graham always complained that I spent too much time with my nose buried in my phone, so this is my attempt to be more present, more focused. My paid ads were generating me an easy few hundred dollars a month, but it was only ever a fun little project for me, a way to beautifully document my children’s childhood.
“Grace cut off Rose’s hair,” I blurt. “It’s awful. Short in the back, long on the sides. Some semblance of bangs.”
Graham’s attention whips to me, his brows lifted. “How? Where were you when this happened?”
“Bathing Sebastian,” I sigh.
“We need to get you some help around here.” Graham unfolds my arms, slipping his hand into mine and squeezing it. He’s sorry. He’s always sorry, even if the word doesn’t care to exist in his vocabulary. “I know the kids are a handful sometimes. I don’t expect you to do it all. And Rose’s hair will grow back. I’m just happy nobody got hurt. I should’ve been here to help.”
I could cry.
It’s been months since Graham has recognized that I don’t have it easy, that being a housewife and stay-at-home-mom is work. Plus, hiring help would mean I could dedicate more time to my budding social media empire. I’m up to eleven thousand followers, growing by hundreds every day. Companies are starting to send me products to sponsor, and I might have a shot at making an actual career out of my little hobby some day.
“I hate that you work late, especially on Fridays.” I pout, missing the days when we could paint the town together or venture off to the city for a long, romantic weekend without worrying about hiring a babysitter equipped to handle Grace if she’s in one of her moods.
“Me too.” He brings my hand to his lips, depositing a kiss as his gaze affixes to the screen once more.
“I think Rose has strep again,” I say, visually tracing the outline of his strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, and perfectly straight nose. “She came home from school with a sore throat and those little red bumps all over her belly.”
When I met Graham in high school, he’d just moved to our little town from Manhattan, and I’d never seen a boy so gorgeous before. He was worldly, wielding charisma and exotic unfamiliarity even at eighteen, and I was a girl who tended to blend into the background most of the time, daydreaming about the day he might notice me but never expecting it to happen in my wildest dreams.
And then it happened.
He saw me. He asked me on a date. And another and another. He became fixated on me in a way that no one ever had before, leaving love letters in my locker and commandeering my evenings and weekends as we became inseparable. Graham made me feel beautiful and worthy, and for some wildly inexplicable reason I don’t care to explore, he still does.
Now I cling to that feeling like it’s my lifeline.
I exist wholly in this space he has created, this space where I’m the most wonderful thing he’s ever loved, and he’s the only man I ever want to be with.
“One of us is going to have to take her to the urgent care clinic in the morning. She needs antibiotics,” I add.
“Okay.”
“But I’m scheduled to play Bunco at Heather’s, and I have to pick up a French silk pie on my way. If I can’t go, I’ll need to find a replacement,” I say. “And on top of that, I have a hair appointment I can’t reschedule. I had to cancel last time because Grace forgot her field trip permission slip, and I had to run to Brinkman Academy before the bus left. Anyway, the salon will charge me a fee if I cancel again. They might even blacklist me, and that would be a shame because nobody in this town does hair like Mario.”
“I’ll take her,” he says, turning to me, his expression softening.
My shoulders are lighter with those three little words.
“Really? Are you sure?” I try not to get my hopes up because he’s done this before, but I think he means it this time. He must sense the exhaustion pouring out of me. He must smell the heartbreak and the undying devotion, its silence urging him to do the right thing and come back to me. “You’ll have to take all three of the kids. Dr. Harrington likes to test and treat all three of them when one has it, otherwise they’ll keep spreading it back and forth.”
“Not a problem.” He says it like it’s nothing, but I’m so happy I could kiss him.
So I do.
I crawl into his lap, reaching for the remote and clicking off the TV. He attempts to protest until he realizes what’s going on, and then his full-lips arch into a delicious smile – one he wears just for me. At least tonight.
“Is this new?” He’s tuned to me now, and he slips a finger under the spaghetti strap of my teddy, releasing it and letting it fall off my shoulder. He breathes me in and cups my face, and just like that, he’s mine again. His attention belongs to me. His body belongs to me. I possess him and he possesses me.
And I’m never letting go . . .
. . . at any cost.
And maybe, if I kiss him hard enough, I won’t think about what I did last week.
Acknowledgements For The Perfect Roommate
This book would not have been possible if it weren’t for the following incredibly talented and passionate souls.
Louisa Maggio, thank you for another gorgeous cover. Your talent is second to none.
Wendy Chan, your eagle eyes and timeliness are a godsend. Thanks for always squeezing me in and working with my insane deadlines!
To my betas, Ashley Cestra, Pamela Hull, Deanna Finn, Jacqueline Scifres, and Shannon Casey, this book would not be what it is if it weren’t for your invaluable feedback. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedules to read and critique for me.
To my ARC readers, social media followers, fans, and all those who have showered me with kindness, encouragement, and support since THE MEMORY WATCHER released, your messages and emails have not gone unnoticed. It’s been a wild ride, and I hope you’re buckled in tight!
About the Author
Minka Kent has been crafting stories since before she could scribble her name. With a love of the literary dark and twisted, Minka cut her teeth on Goosebumps and Fear Street, graduated to Stephen King as a teenager, and now counts Gillian Flynn, Chevy Stevens, and Caroline Kepnes amongst her favorite authors and biggest influences. Minka has always been curious about good people who do bad things and loves to explore what happens when larger-than-life characters are placed in fascinating situations.
In her non-writing life, Minka is a thirty-something wife and mother who equally enjoys sunny and rainy days, loves freshly cut hydrangeas, hides behind oversized sunglasses, travels to warmer climates every chance she gets, and bakes sweet treats when the mood strikes (spoiler alert: it’s often).
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If you’d like to contact Minka personally, please email her at [email protected] or head over to www.facebook.com/authorminkakent or contact her via www.minkakent.com.
Lastly, if you enjoyed this book, Minka would be eternally grateful if you took the time to leave a review at Amazon and/or Goodreads. No spoilers, pretty please. ;-)
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