Chapter 1 #2
The tool slips from my fingers. I catch it before it strikes the floor and place it beside the mat. “Please stop saying my name like I'm exhausting you.”
His face shifts. “I didn't.”
“You did.”
“I said your name.” He opens one hand, offering the literal fact as if tone leaves no mark.
“I know how you say my name.”
His mouth opens, then closes. Irritation flashes across his face, aimed at himself this time.
I pull off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don't think you're sleeping with her.” His shoulders release.
“Okay,” he breathes.
“I think you like her.” I set down my glasses.
The relief disappears. “I work with her every day. Yes, I like her.”
“I think you like that she thinks you're incredible.”
He gives a short, harsh laugh. “People cheering for me is part of the job.”
“I'm not talking about people.” I mean one polished woman with a direct line into my marriage. His phone vibrates, but Keegan doesn't look down.
“You answer her when you don't need to,” I say.
“How would you know?”
“Because I'm sometimes sitting beside you while you do it.” His mouth closes.
Our bed. His phone glowing between us. Me trying to tell him about a buyer who wants to carry my work while he types with both thumbs. Sorry, babe. One second. It wasn't one second.
“That's work,” he says, but the conviction has drained from it.
“She asked whether your hotel had decent pillows.”
“You cannot possibly remember every random text she's sent.” Disbelief roughens his voice.
“I remember the ones I read over your shoulder while waiting for you to look at me.” His eyes break away. My anger thins. “Do you know what I did tonight?”
He gestures at the tools. “Worked.”
“I watched your game.” I rub the groove left by the pliers.
“You always watch.” He makes devotion sound automatic.
“You scored, and I made a sound I'll never repeat in public.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That bad?”
“That enthusiastic. There's a difference.” I almost smile. Almost.
A crack opens. The Keegan I miss nearly smiles, and my mouth nearly answers. This is how we've kept surviving. One stupid joke. One look. One hand reaching across the mattress. Then we pretend the bad part passed instead of admitting it moved in.
“I wanted to tell you about the Belleroque order,” I say, destroying the truce.
His almost-smile fades. “What order?” I look down at my hands.
“The hotel?” he asks.
“Yes.” I keep my eyes on the mat.
“Did you get it?” He leans closer now that my victory has finally reached him.
“Yesterday.”
“That's huge.” He sounds like the husband I wanted to tell.
“It is.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” Regret crosses his face.
“I tried.” The same answer returns to the same man who wasn't listening.
“When?” His brow furrows.
“Yesterday morning.” I fold my hands.
“I had practice.” The schedule arrives between us like a locked door.
“Last night.”
“I got home late.” Another ready reason.
“Today before the game.” I watch him reach for the next reason.
“You know I don't talk before games.” He waits for that to settle it.
I do. I know when not to talk, when not to call, what he eats before games, how dark he needs the room for afternoon naps, which shoulder to avoid when it hurts. I know which version of my husband will walk through the door from the score before he arrives.
“You should've told me,” he says.
“I tried.” The words have worn smooth.
“You could've texted me.”
The kitchen goes quiet. It takes him a moment. Then his eyes close. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“That isn't what I meant.” He opens his eyes but cannot quite meet mine.
“No?” I wait.
“I meant if it was important...” He cuts himself off, and I wait.
“To tell me right away,” he finishes. “You know what I mean.”
“My work is important to me.”
“It is.” He nods, but the words aren't chosen.
“What did I make for the Belleroque?” My fingers curl beneath the island. He looks away.
I regret turning my marriage into a test the instant I ask, but I already know how badly he will fail.
“Evie.” My name asks me to withdraw the question.
“Never mind.”
“No. Don't do that.” He steps closer, wanting to stop the withdrawal without answering the question.
“I shouldn't have asked.”
“Jewelry.” The answer lands between my tools. I stare until he flushes.
“I know what you do,” he insists. Jewelry. My entire career, filed under one word.
“I'd hope so.”
“That came out wrong.” His flush deepens because both of us know it came out true.
“Everything seems to tonight.” I push back the stool.
He steps toward me. I stand before he can close the space.
Keegan stops. Hurt flashes across his face, immediate and genuine. He hates when I move away from him. Physical distance is the only kind he recognizes while it's happening.
“I'm not cheating on you.” His voice drops.
“I didn't say you were.” The island stays between us.
“I've never touched Chloe.” He gives me the boundary he has protected and none of the ones he hasn't.
“I believe you.” The next answer will cost more.
“I don't want her.”
“Okay.” I wait, leaving enough silence for him to find the rest.
“What else do you want me to say?” His hands open.
I grip the edge of the velvet mat. “Tell me you would rather talk to me.” Keegan stares.
The answer should be instant. We both expect it to be. Instead, his brows pull together and the clasp under my palm bites into my skin. Not because he wants Chloe. I don't think he does. My husband is trying to answer without lying.
“Evie, that isn't fair.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
“You talk about stuff I don't understand.” Pain cuts clean through the anger in his voice. He hears himself and rushes forward. “Jewelry. Your clients. All the design stuff. Chloe's at the rink. She knows the players, management, the kind of shit I'm dealing with.”
“So she's easier.” I give him the word.
“Yes.” Relief breaks across his face. “Because she's there.” I look at him until the relief dies.
“No. I mean...”
“It's easier to talk to her,” I say evenly.
“That isn't what I meant.” He shakes his head, but he cannot pull the answer back.
“You said yes.”
“To her understanding the work.” He leans closer.
“She's always there because you let her be.” I hold his gaze until the word let lands.
“She's doing her job.”
“And apparently part of the job is being the person you want to talk to.” I align my glasses with the pliers.
“You're twisting this.”
“I'm not.” My voice stays calm.
His frustration surges back. “What do you want me to do? Ignore her? Make work miserable because my wife doesn't like another woman texting me?”
“I want you to care that it hurts me.” Nothing remains to hide behind.
“I do care.”
“Then why are you defending her?” The bracelet sits unfinished beneath the task light.
“I'm defending myself.” He touches his chest, finally naming the person he has protected all night.
“I haven't accused you of cheating.”
“You keep saying that like it makes the rest of this reasonable.” His hand drops.
He drags both hands over his face. “I'm tired.” His answer to everything lately.
“Go to bed,” I say.
He drops his hands. “Are you coming?”
“Not yet.” I turn the bracelet beneath the light and look for the alignment I can still repair.
“Evie.” My name is almost a plea.
“I need to finish this.”
“It can't wait until morning?” He watches my hands as though the work is what keeps me from him.
“It could have.”
He flinches and stands between staying and escape for another second. Then he picks up his water.
“You're making Chloe into a problem she isn't,” he says quietly.
I fit the hinge back beneath the task lamp. “No.”
“What does that mean?” He stops in the hall.
“She isn't the problem.” I bend back over the bracelet. He waits with the bottle loose in his hand. I lift my eyes to his. “You are.”
His footsteps cross the hall and climb the stairs. No slammed door. No fire left to throw. My husband goes to bed because he is tired.
His phone vibrates on the island. He left it behind.
CHLOE
You alive, Captain?
A second message appears beneath the first: Don't tell me the wife has you in trouble again.
I don't touch the phone. Upstairs, water starts running in our bathroom. The unfinished bracelet waits beneath my hand while I read that last message until the screen goes black.