She was tempted to post a clarification right now, but she was saved by her own impulse when her client’s white Lexus pulled up outside. She knew it was better not to call attention to the question. Just let it go.
Everything is fine, she told her racing heart. Everything is fine.
And what was the worst that would happen anyway? She’d end up divorced and free?
The thought shocked a laugh from her, and her pulse finally began to slow. No one knew the truth. Sydney would continue living in a stable nuclear family for a couple more years, at least. Woohoo.
When Mrs. Washington entered, Veronica gave her a big hug, her sudden relief making her squeeze too hard. But the older woman didn’t care. She didn’t even need occupational therapy at this point, but she was wealthy and widowed, and she’d discovered a new world of socializing after her stroke last year. She’d made friends at the rehab center. She liked coming. She paid every bill without complaint.
She’d ignored her graduation from therapy and every gentle reminder since, so Veronica invented new tasks for Mrs. Washington to work on every week, each more intricate than the last. After her session today, the older woman would head out for a water exercise class at the local YMCA pool. It kept her active, and her left arm was nearly as strong as her right at this point.
Mrs. Washington pulled back from the hug and held Veronica at arm’s length. “You’re famous,” she said calmly, as if imparting solemn news.
“That’s a terrible exaggeration.”
“Perhaps. But you’re famous for today, and you’re going to make me famous in swim class in about an hour!”
“So you’re finally admitting you’re just here for gossip, Mrs. Washington?”
“Yes. Absolutely yes. Now tell me all about this handsome husband of yours. He looks like he could pick you up and carry you right to the bedroom. A man hasn’t done that for me in nearly thirty years!”
Veronica laughed. “Mr. Washington was a big man, huh?”
“Oh no. Not him.”
“I thought you married him when you were twenty!”
The woman’s grin spread slowly, crinkling her brown cheeks. “Well. A wedding isn’t the end of life, is it? In some ways it’s just the beginning.”
Veronica pressed a hand to her mouth to cover her laughter.
“Now give me some details to pass on to my friends. And why haven’t I ever been invited to your support group?”
Her gut twinged with faint alarm, but Veronica shook her head and ignored it. “That was a misquote. The group has nothing to do with this center.”
“You’re not just leaving me out?”
“No, I promise.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to believe you. Now tell me everything your husband knows about that little boy.”
Nobody really cared what Veronica did with her time. For once, she was damn thankful to be the mousy-brown bookworm of her world.
By the time she left work, she’d been asked six times about the support group and had finally lost the fear response that came with the question. Now as she pulled into the garage, she wasn’t worried whether Johnny would bring it up. She had a good answer ready for him. And frankly she was just too exhausted to be afraid. Too exhausted to care about anything but getting these damn bags of groceries into the house.
She hated grocery shopping more than any other chore. Something about it felt insulting. Probably because it was basically doing the same chore four times. First you moved the groceries into the cart, then onto the checkout belt, then into the car, and finally into the house. Hell, it was really a fifth time if you counted putting everything away once you got to the kitchen.
She just . . . hated it. But when Johnny went, he came home with ground beef and protein powder and fruit and that was about it. So she did the shopping and half of the cooking, and he did all the dishes. That was the deal. One of the little, everyday deals that kept their lives moving smoothly. Sex on Saturdays. Laundry on Sundays. Grocery shopping twice a week. An occasional date night. And for her, Wednesday nights in a sleek fifteenth-floor condo downtown.
Maybe Johnny had a special day of the week just for himself too. She wouldn’t ever know. She hadn’t suspected the first time, after all. He worked at gyms and parks and occasionally in people’s homes. Hell, his job was to make his clients sweat, to get close and work their bodies, to shape them into people who felt more alive and attractive. He could come home reeking of another woman and she’d never be able to prove anything.
Had she ever even expected he’d be faithful when she’d picked him? Or had she wanted to remove the suspense of it so she wouldn’t spend her whole life wondering whether he was like her father? After all, she’d married a man a little out of her league who liked attention from women. It must have been purposeful.
Not that it mattered anymore. She’d given up on the fantasy of “till death do us part.” Now she was just trying to get through the work of it all.
She hooked as many bags on her arms as she could lift and pushed through the back door. “I hope you’re okay with sandwiches tonight,” she said. “I’m not up for cook—” The last syllable faded out to a soft breath when she glanced up and saw Micah sitting at the kitchen counter. She gasped before she could stop herself.
“Hey, babe,” Johnny said. He grabbed the bags and gave her a kiss, but her eyes were still locked on Micah.
“Hey,” she murmured. “I didn’t . . .” She couldn’t quite think what she meant to say. Micah’s lips lifted in a small, secret smile. Her pulse tripped and she wanted to slap him. Kiss him. Run away. Scream.
He was out of place, and she desperately needed things in their places right now.
“Are we having another party?” she finally asked, the words strange and high as they left her mouth.
“Nah. Micah just dropped by.”
He’d dropped by? Why would he do that?
Johnny took the bags to the counter and she narrowed her eyes at Micah. He winked and sipped his beer, his shoulders slouched in relaxation. Did he think this was a game? What the hell was he doing here?
“Just in the neighborhood, Micah?” she asked in that same odd tone.
“Something like that.”
Johnny cleared his throat. “We hardly got to talk the other night. Too many people around.”
“Yeah,” Micah agreed.
She stood frozen in the doorway until she realized they were both watching her. “I’ll get the other bags,” she finally said, then closed the back door too hard behind her. Neither of them offered to help. And that was a good thing, she told herself. She needed a moment alone.
It wasn’t that she never saw Micah with Johnny. He was one of Johnny’s best friends. They hung out together. Went to movies. Trained for marathons. It was just that she always had time to prepare herself. Micah couldn’t just show up like this, popping into her kitchen like some illicit genie here to tease her with guilt and wishes.
She paced outside, sucking in the fresh air, then returned to the trunk of her car. But she couldn’t go back in quite yet. This was too much. It was all too much.
Instead of returning to the kitchen, she wandered back out the garage bay door and let dusk settle over her. The night was dark blue and lovely, but her eyes were still drawn to the bright-yellow square of the kitchen window. And beyond it, to the two men who faced each other. They stood close, talking, both of the men she took to her bed. Both of the men in her life.
Did Micah feel guilty? He didn’t look guilty. Johnny was the one who seemed tense. Micah looked like all was right with the world, and she wished like hell she could shake him up a little. Ruin a little of that confidence she found so sexy. It made her feel small sometimes. Insignificant.
At least if he’s here, he’s not with someone else.
She hated the pitiful thought. Hated it with all her soul. But hateful as it was, it soothed her. She watched him for a few more minutes, grabbing this chance to spy. But Johnny broke the spell by
glancing out the window toward the garage.
Veronica gathered the last few bags and slammed the trunk shut.
After twisting the knob, she kicked the door open. This time she was ready. This time she didn’t look at either man as she set the bags on the counter next to the fridge.
They both stopped talking, as if they were waiting for her to say something.
They could keep waiting. She put away the groceries quickly, though it still took nearly five minutes. The last step in this stupid chore she’d have to repeat again in a few days. They’d run out of something. Dinner plans would change.
“Where’s Sydney?” she finally asked.
“Online,” Johnny answered, the sound of his voice facing her even as she stayed turned away.
She should ask him about his day. Ask him about the article. The boy. The police. Instead she took out the bread she’d just put away, slapped some ham and cheese between two slices, and dropped it on a plate along with an orange.
“Going to take a shower,” she said as she took a Capri Sun from the fridge. “I’m tense.”
With that, she finally glanced up to find Micah watching her. Let him think of her pissed off and naked just a few feet away. Maybe he wouldn’t be so relaxed.
She forced her gaze to move to her husband. “I’ll take this to Sydney.”
He wasn’t looking at her. He was scrolling through his phone again. “Great.”
Screw both of them. She stalked out of the room to find her daughter. Their only computer was in Sydney’s room, just where a ten-year-old girl’s computer shouldn’t be, but there was no place anywhere else in the cramped house. Still, Veronica made sure the monitor was visible from the doorway, and Sydney wasn’t allowed to close the door while she used it. She was totally absorbed in a world-building game when Veronica walked in.
“Hey, sweetie. All done with homework?”
“Yep.”
“How did you do on the spelling test?”
“A-minus.”
“That’s great! Good job. Maybe you should always study with Grandma.”
“Maybe. Hey, Grandma reminded me that Grandpa’s birthday is next week. I made him a card. Can we go see him for his birthday? I don’t want him to be lonely.”
Veronica winced, but her daughter was still staring at the computer screen and didn’t notice. “He won’t be lonely, Syd. I’m sure he’s going out with his friends.”
“That’s not the same as family, Mom.”
No, it wasn’t. Friends were more important. Especially pretty young friends who lived in Las Vegas. Or LA. Or London. Anywhere but here in the boring suburbs of the high plains.
“I’ll see if he’ll be in town,” Veronica offered, though she hadn’t decided whether she would. “Here’s your dinner.” She set the plate on Sydney’s desk and retreated to the master bedroom.
She knew she was being hypocritical about her father, treating him like he was beneath her for his transgressions. After all, she was a cheater too.
And it was more hypocritical than that, because she’d known who he was since she was fourteen, and she’d ignored it all those years. A woman had called the house. She’d thought Veronica was the wife instead of the daughter. She’d wept and yelled and confessed her love.
“I just want you to know who your husband is,” she’d sobbed. And so Janet hadn’t known what her jet-setting husband was up to, but Veronica had. And she’d still loved him.
In fact, maybe she’d loved him more. His love and attention had become a prize to her. Something to compete for. And her mother . . . her mother had just seemed pitiful.
So she’d kept her father’s secrets. She’d been his accomplice. And now she gave him the cold shoulder.
Not because he’d cheated. That was the worst part of all. At fourteen, her child’s heart had learned to accommodate his flaws and make excuses. He was successful and handsome, and life in Lakewood, Colorado, was just so boring.
No, the wandering eye she’d learned to accept. Now she gave him the cold shoulder because he’d cheated too much with too many, and he’d forced his wife to leave, and that had ruined Veronica’s plans to leave her own spouse. That was the reason she couldn’t look at her father anymore. Not because he disgusted her, but because she disgusted herself.
So she didn’t want to see her father or see herself in him. The wound was too deep. Maybe she could drop Sydney at his place for an hour and drive away without interacting.
Too exhausted to deal with washing and drying her hair, Veronica pinned it up in a clip and jumped in the shower to stand under the hot spray. Steam filled the tiny shower stall, fogging the glass until she was completely cocooned from the world. Once she was hidden, Veronica let her head fall until her forehead touched the cool tile. Her face crumpled. She wept. She wept until she had to cover her face with her hands to hide the sound.
She was so tired. So goddamn tired.
And she didn’t even have any real problems, did she? She had a job and a home. Her child had love and food and friends. Everyone was healthy. She was fine. This was a life others dreamed of.
Her own selfishness just made her cry harder. All those years of thinking her mother was a fool and her father a wicked sinner and she’d become both of them somehow. Her only chance at redemption now was keeping everything steady for Sydney. So she wept quietly and stuffed the remaining scraps of emotion back down.
By the time their old water heater’s effort began to fade, she felt spent and almost relaxed. She washed up quickly in the lukewarm water and wondered whether anyone would notice if she just crawled into bed and slept for twelve hours.
Probably not. They’d all be happy she wasn’t there to remind them of tomorrow’s appointments or tonight’s obligations.
By the time she’d dried off and brushed her hair, her eyes looked almost normal, though they still felt sandpapery and overworked. She ran her fingertips under cold water and pressed them to her abused eyelids for a moment. She’d cried more this week than she had in the past six months.
What physical purpose did crying serve? Was there an evolutionary explanation? What weird mutation caused humans to release liquid from their eyes in response to stress? It must work, though. It must have made people healthier and able to deal with challenges more efficiently because our bodies wouldn’t bother funneling energy into a useless function.
Her strange turn of thoughts brought her all the way back to calm by the time she tucked her towel more tightly around her and stepped out to the cool, dry square of their little bedroom. It was a master bedroom in name only, a credit to the tiny attached bath. Otherwise the room was nearly the same size as Sydney’s. It had been all they’d needed when they bought it. And even now it felt more than big enough when she was alone.
As she opened a dresser drawer to dig out a T-shirt, she realized the bursts of male voices from the front of the house were too chaotic. Too layered. She stood and frowned, trying to puzzle out the sound. Just as she was tipping her head in an attempt to hear better, the bedroom door opened and the sound rolled in.
“Who’s here?” she asked as the door shut quickly again.
“Trey and his asshole friends,” Micah answered.
She gasped so deeply that she almost lost her balance as she turned, clutching her towel to her breasts. “What are you doing in here?”
“Shh.”
He ignored her shock and took a step that covered half the distance between them.
“Micah!”
“I excused myself to use the restroom.”
“What if he—?”
“He’s drunk and regaling Trey with the story again.” He said the story like it had quotes around it. “Why would he follow me to the bathroom? That would be really strange.”
“Micah . . . ,” she tried again, but another step brought him to her, and he slid his hands around her waist.
“Mm. You smell good.” One of his hands slipped under the towel and she was somehow paralyzed and hel
pless.
“Don’t,” she murmured. “You need to get out of here.”
“I never get to see you like this,” he whispered as he ducked his head to kiss her neck. “We’re always in such a hurry.”
“Oh,” she sighed. She raised her hands to his chest as if she’d push him away, but her head tilted to give him better access to her favorite spot.
“God, I want you,” he growled, sliding one of her hands down to the front of his pants. She felt stupidly, embarrassingly pleased that she affected him this way. She’d wanted to make him crazy and she had.
“There’s no lock,” she groaned.
“We’ll be quick.”
“No.” She was panting now, panting and rubbing him. “We can’t. Sydney is here. And Johnny.”
Her towel fell away, and her body surged with alarm at her own nakedness, but when he stroked a hand between her legs she could barely stifle a moan.
“Seems like we can,” he murmured. “Seems like you like this. A lot.”
She did. She more than liked it. She was already trembling with lust. But they couldn’t. They couldn’t take this chance. She was about to open her mouth to tell him no, but instead her hands were unbuttoning his jeans. Her legs were leading him toward the bathroom and a door that could lock behind them.
He sat her on the bathroom counter, and he was right: it was quick. And she liked it. She loved it. Pride surged through her when he choked out her name past gritted teeth and finished in a frantic surge of lust.
Because at least he was here and not with someone else.
She should have felt used when he adjusted his clothing and slipped back out as quietly as he’d snuck in, but all she felt was triumph. She let her head fall back to rest on the steam-fogged mirror. The counter burned ice-cold under her naked skin. She felt decadent and wrong as she pressed a hand between her legs, and that was so much better than weary and old.
This was what her father had chased all those years. The difference for him was that he’d wanted it all. The wife at home waiting. The loving daughters. The many chaotic pleasures of the road. All of it separated in ways that made his life as easy as pie.
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