15
Sydney’s thumbs are slippery on the phone’s keyboard as she types Jameson Drew’s name into the search bar.
She finds numerous articles detailing his arrest and conviction but no coverage of his recent death.
The media reports on suicides carefully.
And sparingly. Research shows that sensational coverage can be triggering to high-risk people.
Plus, a prisoner dying while incarcerated is so common that it’s rarely newsworthy.
A thump travels up from the floor below.
Bianca is downstairs, shifting boxes, throwing drop cloths, preparing to paint the plaster in the future games room.
Sydney is going to help, of course. She only came into her bedroom to change into painting clothes and got distracted by her phone.
But she needs to check one more thing. Has Curtis’s lover blocked her on Facebook?
Or was her last fruitless internet search for Collette an anomaly?
Seeing Collette’s image only fuels her jealousies and insecurities, but Sydney can’t stop herself.
It’s like picking at a scab, poking a wound.
She has the screenshotted photos for those dark moments when she feels the need to fuel her hurt and anger.
But still, she types the woman’s name into the Facebook search bar.
The same list of Collettes appears, women around the world who did not sleep with her husband.
“Where the fuck did you go, Collette?” Sydney mutters into the silence. “Why did you block me?”
Closing the Facebook app, she types the name of Collette’s business into the internet browser: Anderson Technologies. The uninspiring name is matched by the basic splash page.
Coming soon!
No dates. No details. Just the downtown address. Why would this company lease significant and expensive space and then take months to move in? It makes no business sense.
Shaking off her questions, she jumps into a pair of jean shorts and one of Curtis’s old T-shirts and hurries down the stairs.
“I’m here,” she says, joining Bianca. The Aussie woman has already covered the storage boxes and mismatched furniture with plastic sheeting, poured primer into a paint tray.
She hands Sydney a roller. “I’ll cut in the edges, and you do the rolling. ”
“Sounds good,” Syd says, dipping the roller into the stark white priming paint.
She presses the microfiber to the wall, hears the satisfying squelch of the viscous liquid.
“Sorry I took so long,” she says, moving the roller back and forth across the wall.
“I stupidly glanced at my social media. You know how addictive it is.”
“Not really,” Bianca responds, dabbing paint around the doorframe.
“Seriously?” Syd glances over at her. “I thought everyone who traveled around in a van did it for Instagram?”
“We don’t have social media,” Bianca replies, eyes on her work. “We’re not performative like that.”
“You’re a gorgeous couple in a cute van in Spain. You could get tons of followers and all sorts of free swag.”
“Probably,” Bianca says. “But we’re private people. We don’t like to put on a show.”
The words feel like an opening. Syd swallows her nerves, keeps her gaze forward. “I don’t want to sound like a prude, but when Curtis is here, would you mind wearing your bikini top?”
Bianca laughs, as if Syd’s just asked her to wear lederhosen. She pauses her painting, turns toward Syd. “Are you serious?”
Sydney lowers her roller. “Curtis grew up in a really conservative family.” It’s an exaggeration, not an outright lie.
His mother was a devout woman who considered sex and the body shameful.
Curtis has worked through his issues, but his uptight background provides a good excuse.
Because Sydney doesn’t want to admit that she’s insecure.
That she still doesn’t trust her husband.
“He seemed totally comfortable this morning,” Bianca says, eyes narrowed. “Did he say something to you?”
“I just know him,” Syd says, her cheeks getting warm. “I mean, Damian would probably feel awkward if I was topless, too.”
“No, he wouldn’t.”
“Well, Curtis does, so…”
Bianca snorts. “You talk like you’re so European, but you’re still so puritanical.”
The insult makes Syd’s temper flare. “This is our home, and we want to feel comfortable here. I hope you can respect that.”
Bianca sets the brush on the paint can. “Is this about Curtis? Or about you?”
“Me?” Syd chuckles awkwardly, roller still in hand. “What do you mean?” But she knows what Bianca sees in her. A weak, jealous woman, afraid her husband will stray if he sees a pair of breasts other than her own.
Bianca’s tone softens. “There’s something between us, isn’t there? A bit of a spark?”
The suggestion is a surprise. While Sydney finds Bianca beautiful and compelling, she’s not bisexual. There was some experimentation in college—as one does—but it had felt somewhat forced and performative for her. She’s undeniably attracted to Damian, but not to his partner. Is she?
“You’re gorgeous, Bianca,” Syd manages. “But I’m married. And I’m not—”
“It’s okay.” The Aussie woman holds up her hand. “I’ve got a bit of a crush on you, but if it’s one-sided, I won’t pursue it.”
“But… you’re with Damian.”
“Damian knows I love women.” Bianca moves closer, and Sydney can smell her shampoo, a sweet almond scent. Beneath it, a slight, not unpleasant, tang of sweat. “I’m open and honest about my needs, and Damian respects that.”
Shame settles on Sydney’s skin like mist. Her marriage is built on secrets, lies, and a lack of respect. No amount of therapy will change that.
“I believe in love and consent and exploring my sexuality,” Bianca says. “But I won’t pressure you if you’re not into it.”
Suddenly, Syd’s conflicted. Bianca and Damian’s relationship sounds so mature and evolved compared to her own.
Is she attracted to this undeniably sexy woman standing so close to her?
Is that the real reason she didn’t want Bianca topless by the pool?
Has Syd been so conditioned by her upbringing and her traditional marriage that she’s shut down that part of herself?
Maybe she could be happy with a woman? Happier.
Bianca’s gaze is intense, magnetic. “I don’t think your husband appreciates how amazing you are.”
“Yes, he does,” Sydney croaks. Because Curtis wouldn’t have sold his company and moved them across the ocean if he didn’t.
“Okay…” Bianca steps back, returns to her paintbrush. “If you’re happy, then that’s great.” But there’s pity in her tone, a whiff of judgment.
“I am,” Sydney says. “We are.” It sounds hollow and desperate, even to herself.
Bianca smiles. “And I don’t want to make Curtis—or anyone—uncomfortable. I’ll keep my top on. I promise.”
She dips the brush into the paint and returns to the wall.