by Minka Kent
Tossing a towel over my shoulder, I leave the bathroom just as he shuts off the water; I grab a paperback, a pair of sunglasses, my phone, and a room key before heading downstairs.
The pool area is moderately packed, but there are no children laughing and splashing about because Andrew selected an adults-only resort. Only tropical music and exotic alcohol.
I find a couple of empty chairs in a sunny corner and situate myself, propping the back of the chair up so I can simultaneously suntan and people-watch while pretending to read.
The kind of people who can afford to vacation at this resort are mostly of the rich, eclectic variety. The kind who spend $14,000 on jewel-encrusted swords emblazoned with their family crest just for the fun of it. The kind who hire entire teams of nannies to look after their bevy of spoiled children. The kind who trade in their Italian luxury sports cars for new models every six months for no other reason besides that they can.
A woman with a face full of fillers and dark hair extensions dripping down to the small of her back saunters past with a younger man. His body is taut and ripped, and he can’t keep his hands off her. I imagine she’s recently divorced, the recipient of a generous settlement, and he’s nothing but a plaything, yet another luxury only afforded to the rich.
I wonder if other people look at the two of us the way I’m looking at the two of them.
Curious. Quietly judgmental.
I don’t want to think about that anymore, about the two of us being a spectacle.
Several seats down, a man is being slathered in suntan oil by a girl who appears to be barely one-third his age, her soft hands working his glistening chest hairs. People watch the couple as if they’re some kind of entertainment.
A shadow covers me. “There you are.”
I shield my eyes, glancing to my left to where my husband stands. A pair of red and white striped swim trunks are tied low on his narrow hips, revealing his washboard abs and smooth chest. A disgustingly expensive pair of sunglasses rests on top of his head, and he slips them over his nose before taking the seat beside me.
We are these people.
Revolting wealth. Unapologetic self-indulgence.
Adjusting my oversize shades, I spread the spine of my book and follow the sentences on the page with my eyes, though I don’t read them.
I can’t focus right now with all these realizations hurling themselves at me faster than I know how to process them.
Taking five long, deep breaths, I focus on the here and now. The faint scent of chlorine in the air mixed with sunscreen. The trickling sound of the water feature at the end of the pool. Couples laughing. The heat of the sun baking into my skin.
My eyes burn for a moment, a mix of bruised ego and wayward sunblock, but I suck it up and flip to the next page.
A beautiful young woman with thick onyx hair and ruby-red lips strides in our direction, a small notepad in her hand and a drink list beneath her arm.
“Would you like to order a drink?” she asks, her accent thick but her English perfect. She’s wearing a bikini, and though her body is covered by a resort-issued sarong, there’s surprisingly very little left to the imagination.
Andrew orders a beer, his eyes glazing over as he searches her body. Either he thinks I can’t see through his sunglasses, or he doesn’t care. When she leaves, he swipes his fingers across his iPad, pretending to check his work e-mail as he stares at the beautiful women across the pool dripping from the arms of potbellied, gold-chain-wearing, new-money types.
A second later, I watch my husband from the corner of my eyes. He’s passed out now, his iPad lying on his ripped stomach and his head turned away from me. The faintest snore escapes from his lips.
My hand dips down, retrieving my phone from the cement ground beneath my lounger.
I text Ronan.
Just to say hi.
Just to see what he’s up to.
I’m playing with fire, but I don’t care.
Match. Strike. Whoosh.
CHAPTER 20
GREER
Day Five
I couldn’t sleep last night, which was nothing new or unusual, but the moment the sun came up this morning, I hightailed it to Ronan’s so I could hopefully try to put a few of these questions to rest.
“When was the last time you spoke to my sister?” I ask, standing in Ronan’s living room. His house smells like breakfast, the air savory and heavy. A small shelf lined with family photos catches my eye. They look like nice people, all of them smiling in matching blue jeans and various shades of blue sweaters and button-downs.
“A couple of days before she went missing,” he says without pause. “We ended things. For good that time. She’d found out she was pregnant, and she knew we couldn’t keep going. Plus, she always felt guilty . . . about being with me. I did, too. We just couldn’t stop, you know? And we’d tried. Many times.”
“So her leaving you . . . it didn’t send you over the edge?” It’s a difficult question, but one that needs to be asked.
He chuffs, his head cocked. “I hated Andrew. I hated that she was with Andrew. But our decision was mutual. We were two good people who did a bad thing, and we were making it right.”
I study his face, so earnest, so insisting.
“Is there any chance the baby was yours?” I ask.
He shakes his head, quiet for a second. “It’d be a one-in-a-million chance. I was told I couldn’t have kids a while back—sports injury in college. And we were always . . . safe.”
“And you’re sure Andrew never knew about the two of you?” I ask.
“As far as I know,” he says. “Unless she came clean about it when she told him about the baby? I don’t know. It’s possible. Anything’s possible.”
A scenario plays in my mind: Meredith confessing to Andrew, telling him she’s pregnant and that she strayed from their picture-perfect marriage. Andrew blowing up at her, wanting to hurt her for hurting him. Their future hanging in the balance. Emotions running high.
Meredith wouldn’t have wanted to hurt him. She would’ve wanted to please him because that’s who she was. A secret like this would’ve been one she’d have kept until her dying day.
“Do you think he ever suspected anything? Any . . . infidelity?” I move toward the window facing his front yard, watching a few cars pass by and slow down. Word spreads quickly in these small towns, and everyone loves a scandal, be it fact, fiction, or shameless speculation.
“Like I said, anything is possible,” he says, taking a seat in a weathered recliner that’s clearly seen better days. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he releases a heavy breath. “I keep asking myself . . . what if he knew? What if he knew all along, and he was waiting for the right moment to . . .”
He doesn’t finish his thought.
He doesn’t need to.
“He’s pointing the finger at you right now,” I say. “He thinks you had something to do with all of this.”
“And I’m pointing it right back.” His words slice through the small space we share, his eyes locked on mine.
“There’s also the possibility that neither of you had anything to do with this and you’re both wasting your time pointing fingers.”
Ronan sighs.
“What did you like about my sister?” I ask.
“What?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Everything,” he says, sinking back in the chair, his gaze fixed on the darkened TV screen across the room. “I could tell you how kind and thoughtful and funny she was, but I’m sure you know all of that. Guess the thing that drew me to her was how she had this childlike sense of wonder when she was with me. The way she looked at me. The way she touched me. She said I made her feel brand-new. In a weird way, when you boil it down, we had something special. The world kind of stopped when we were together, and that’s something you don’t find every day.”
Any other guy would’ve focused on her looks, the hot sex, the thrill of sneaking around.
But he dug deep
er.
I give him a pass.
For now.
CHAPTER 21
MEREDITH
Twenty-Three Months Ago
I tug my clothes on as Ronan kisses me, my pants unbuttoned and my shirt half-bunched beneath one arm. We step backward, stumbling and giggling in the darkness of his cozy house, his hands returning to all the places they’d known the hour prior.
“I have to go,” I say for the tenth time between kisses, my lips pressed against his as I speak.
His hands circle my waist, pulling me closer. “I wish you could stay.”
Me, too.
I always wish I could stay.
A month ago, I ran into Ronan at a little café on the corner downtown. He had the day off. And I was running menial errands to fill the void of an empty, rainy day.
We spent the afternoon together, and it was innocent enough until we found ourselves dashing through a puddled parking lot in a torrential downpour.
One moment we were running, the next he was pulling me under an awning, holding me close against him.
And then he kissed me.
Tender. Unrushed. His hands in my hair.
One taste of Ronan on my tongue was all it took.
Now here we are. Me in his living room. His scent covering my body, his eyes claiming every square inch of me.
Ronan scoops me into his arms again, sliding my legs up his sides and teasing like he’s going to carry me back to his bedroom again.
I beat on his chest, but I can’t stop grinning. “Stop. You know I have to go.”
“Maybe one day you won’t have to.” He lets me go, and I slide down his body until my feet hit the floor, which feels hard and cold, like reality.
“Maybe,” I say.
Reaching for his face, I run my fingers through his dark hair and drink him in. Even the dark shadows can’t hide his virility or the captivating way he looks at me.
I like him.
So much.
But I don’t love him. I mean, I could, but I won’t allow myself to.
My life is already complicated enough.
Ronan is my cheap thrill.
My dirty little secret.
He makes me feel alive.
He’s the place I flock to when I’m out of my gilded cage.
With him, I am free.
We make it to the front door, and I step into my boots. He’s still kissing me, his mouth arched at the ends each time, and not just in a single-bachelor-who-just-got-laid kind of way but in a genuine I’m-falling-hard-for-this-girl kind of way.
“When can I see you again?” he asks.
“I don’t know. It’s our week with the kids.” I glance at the clock on his fireplace mantel. I should’ve left a half hour ago. We’re supposed to get Calder and Isabeau from Erica’s by six before heading to Salt Lake City for a weekend of family-oriented fun.
Zoos. Theme parks. Kid-friendly restaurants with screaming babies and exasperated parents chasing after their overly tired offspring, so desperate to enjoy just one dinner out that they’ll subject the rest of the world to the fruits of their failed parenting labors.
I’d much rather stay here. With Ronan.
“I’ll call you next week,” I say, my hand on the doorknob. My gaze lands on his bare chest, and I’m taken back to the image of his body over mine, his arms creating a safe harbor, a refuge of sorts for my dirtiest fantasies.
Ronan, my clean-cut all-American boy, likes his sex dirty, but he’s not selfish about it. He may put me in handcuffs, but he doesn’t come until I do. He also likes to fuck me in public, knowing the best secret hiding spots and promising me we’ll never get caught, that no one will ever find us.
He’s my biggest thrill and my biggest weakness.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do to keep myself from coming back.
Slipping out the front door, I trek to my car, which is parked a couple of blocks away, along the side of a gravel road the locals rarely venture down because there’s nothing pretty to see, no landscape installations, no retaining walls built of eight-ton boulders, no luxury lodges. Only the closer I get, the more I see something strange on my back windshield.
Picking up the pace, I realize someone has drawn a single word into the dusty glass.
WHORE.
My heart races as my eyes dart around, but I’m surrounded with nothingness. Trees. Chirping crickets. A dusky sky.
Someone followed me out here.
Someone saw me go into Ronan’s house.
Someone knows about us.
My throat constricts as I fumble for my keys, which seem to have been swallowed by my purse. For a moment, I debate speeding back to his house with the irrational notion that he could possibly do something about this.
But my phone rings. And Andrew’s name flashes across the screen.
“Hey,” I say, trying to hide the shake in my voice. I rub my hand over the letters on my windshield, erasing them.
“Where are you?”
My jaw hangs loose as I try to clear my head long enough to come up with an answer. “On my way home.”
He’s quiet.
Does he know?
“Ran to the pharmacy,” I say. “Had to pick up a couple of prescriptions before we left for our trip. Spaced it off. I’m so sorry.”
I smell like sex and Ronan.
Climbing into my car, I start the engine and fish around in my purse for my travel-size atomizer of Gucci perfume—aptly named Guilty—before checking my reflection in the mirror.
When I look into my own mascara-smudged eyes, I’m disgusted.
I’m not this girl—this weak cliché of a woman, throwing herself at another man to spite her affectionless husband and rebel against her boringly privileged little life.
I have to end this.
“I’ll be home soon,” I tell him, inserting a casual cadence in my tone. “I’m so sorry.”
The line goes dead.
CHAPTER 22
GREER
Day Six
I think it’s weird that his kids came to stay, but I suppose Andrew’s ex couldn’t be bothered with adjusting her schedule to accommodate her former husband’s missing wife.
Isabeau sits at the head of the kitchen table, shoving spoonful after spoonful of Cocoa Puffs into her mouth as her eyes are focused on the small TV screen under the kitchen cabinets currently blasting an obnoxious cartoon likely meant for children a fraction of her age.
I’ve only met the children a handful of times . . . the wedding, a couple of visits here and there . . . and Meredith always spoke fondly of them. I know she said it was rough that first year, getting them to warm up to her, but she persisted.
At least that’s what she claimed.
I’m feeling like I don’t know anything anymore.
“How are you doing, Isabeau?” I ask, wiping down the spilled splash of milk on the counter from when she prepared her cereal lunch. “I know this must be a scary time for you.”
Her dead eyes move from the TV screen to me. Her chubby jaw works the crunchy cereal.
“Mom said she’s probably dead,” she says. “Dad probably paid someone to do it.”
I drop the dish towel in my hand. It lands at my feet. “Why would your mother say that?”
“I heard her on the phone with my Aunt Lisa.” She takes another spoonful, losing a few cereal pieces as she shovels it into her mouth.
As tempting as it is, I don’t pry. She’s in junior high. She doesn’t know anything about anything, and it’s possible she misinterpreted whatever speculative drivel was coming out of her mother’s Angelina Jolie–size lips.
“How is your mother, anyway?” I ask, feigning interest.
Isabeau rolls her eyes. “Like you care.”
I lift a brow. “I’m just wondering what she thinks about all of this . . . is she sad? Worried?”
Andrew’s daughter laughs, her braces covered in chocolate. “Seriously? My mom can’t stand Meredith. Nobody likes her. Not
even my dad sometimes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re always fighting,” she says. “They think I can’t hear them, but my room is right down the hall. I hear everything.”
“Fighting about what?” I move from around the island, taking a seat at the table next to her.
“Who knows?” She seems annoyed by my close proximity. Typical thirteen-year-old. “I don’t listen. I only hear them yelling and stuff.”
My chin juts forward. I can’t imagine Meredith yelling. She’s the chillest, calmest person in the world. Very seldom has she ever let anything rattle her to the point of throwing a tantrum.
The fridge door opens and slams behind me. I turn and see Calder grab a bottle of Evian and twist the cap.
“You know she’s fucking with you, right?” he asks, taking a drink, and I wonder how it is he swears so naturally at such a young age.
Isabeau shoots him a look. I take it they don’t get along.
“She’s a compulsive liar,” he says. “She made all that shit up. Don’t ever believe anything she says.”
With that, he’s gone, disappearing into the bowels of the Price manse, the shrill chime of his phone echoing through the halls when he gets a text message. Turning back to Isabeau, I fully intend to give her a piece of my mind, but she, too, is gone. Nothing but an empty cereal bowl and a milk-spilling spoon resting on the table.
Little shit.
Never has my decision to be child-free felt so reinforced as it does in this moment.
Returning to my room, I lie on the bed. It’s midafternoon now, but it feels like the end of the day already. A sleepless night will do that to a person. Exhaustion sinks into my bones, but I don’t want to take a nap on the off chance that I might actually have a shot at a decent night’s rest this evening.
Scrolling through my phone, I think about Erica and what Isabeau said. Despite the fact that Isabeau had me going for a moment and there’s no merit to what she said, I have half a mind to show up at Erica’s door and see if she wouldn’t mind talking to me for a minute, woman to woman.
My eyes are heavy and my mood is curt and impersonal, but I’m going.
I’ve got to keep going.