“You know.Trying. I’m supposed to stop birth control.”
Gretchen’s hand flew to her throat. “Wait—what? Surely you don’t mean that.”
“Bill doesn’t want to wait any longer, and honestly, whyamI waiting? I’m staying with Bill. So it’s going to happen. I mean, unless the affair changed his mind, but I don’t think it will.”
“I’ve never heard you say you want kids, Liv,” she said. “Not once.”
“I don’t think I know what I want,” I said slowly. “Maybe I was using David to sabotage the life I built for myself. The one that’s best for me.”
She bit at a hangnail, staring at me. “I’ll support whatever you decide,” she said finally. “You are my oldest friend, and I love you.”
We hugged, and I told her I loved her, too. Having broken down barriers with first Mack and now Gretchen, I was beginning to feel more like my normal self again. David was done. Bill knew the truth. We could all finally move forward. The problem was, none of that quelled the growing pit in my stomach.
22
As I arrived home to a dark apartment, I switched on the kitchen light and nearly jumped out of my skin. Bill leaned against a counter littered with empty beer bottles. “Bill?”
“Yeah.”
I hung my purse on a dining table chair and removed my coat, staring at him as I tried to gauge his mood. I waited for him to speak.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked without looking at me.
“At Gretchen’s.”
“How do I know that?”
It was a fair question, but it made me feel like a criminal nonetheless. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess you have no choice but to believe me.”
With red-rimmed eyes, he held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
“What? Bill—”
“Give it to me.”
I dug into my purse and handed it over. I had nothing to hide. I’d deleted my text to David and had erased any presence of him from my phone. But even if Bill found e-mails or forgotten evidence as he scrolled, I didn’t imagine things could become much worse than they were about to get.
“If you were with Gretchen, why’d you call her half an hour ago?” he asked, holding up the screen to show me my call history.
“She couldn’t find her phone, so I called it.” When he didn’t respond, I added, “It fell between the couch cushions. Ask her if you like.”
He set the phone down. “Who was it?”
I swallowed dryly and stared at my hands. I’d known this question was coming. What was the right response? What was fair? To hurt him with the truth or spare him with a lie?
I didn’t know. But I’d had enough lying—it was too hard and exhausting.
“Who?” he yelled.
I looked up. “David Dylan.”
He snapped his gaze to mine. “David . . . who? Who is that?” He paused, and I could practically see his brain piecing it together. “Andrew’s friend?” His voice faltered. “The architect?”
“Yes.”
Bill turned away from me and paced to the other side of the kitchen. Stopping at the fridge, he took out a Coors and twisted off the bottle cap. “That could have been our future home.”
Oak Park. “I know,” I said.
