I roll to my side. I took my melatonin, but it’s doing nothing. The walk-in closet door is open, and the right side is empty except for a row of pink padded hangers. Whatever Cora didn’t move to the nursery, she shoved into trash bags and instructed Vera to donate to charity. I had Vera launder it all and store it in a guest suite for now.
My mother would’ve lit the clothes on fire or thrown them out a window into the street. Cora would never be so dramatic. Or wasteful. She’s a very frugal gold digger. She wants security, not luxury. Another reason she was the perfect find.
I hop out of bed, shut the closet door, and shiver. Sixty-eight degrees is perfect when you’re sharing a bed with a warm body, but it’s too cold alone.
I tug on a pair of boxers and stalk down the hall. I need adrink. There’s a bar cart in our suite, but I’m in the mood for the Whistlepig in my office desk drawer. I have half a mind to take the new Rennard out for a spin before I tie one on. Cora left the key on the dining room table.
Minh made a point of seeking me out to tell me he’d hung it on the peg with the rest. He wanted the opportunity to look at me like I’m a piece of shit for whatever I did to upset my wife. He’d better be careful. His food is consistently five stars, but I’ve fired men for much less. I switched landscape architects mid-project because I didn’t like the way the man said Cora’s name. Too familiar.
I’m not sure if the Rennard was the right move. Even though it’s billed as a “shared performance vehicle,” in essence an SUV, it’s still fast. Cora doesn’t particularly enjoy driving, but she does love a fast car. We do have that in common, if nothing else. If she were distracted, it would be easy for her to exceed a reasonable speed without noticing.
Briefly, I’d considered buying her a dog, but it felt too much like pandering. I want to reassure her that her position as my wife isn’t in jeopardy, but I don’t want her to think that our power dynamic is going to change because I feel guilty. I don’t.
I’ve never told her I had feelings that I didn’t, and I made her no promises. We had a courthouse wedding, and the justice of the peace kept it short and sweet as requested.Do you take each other as spouses, to live together in marriage? By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you married.
The girls should be involved in choosing a dog, anyway, to make sure it’s a good fit. Pearl, at least.
Rage still smolders in my gut when I picture Schmidt turning with Pearl pressed to his chest to hide her face. The entire scene was unnecessary. Schmidt should have called ahead. He should have refused to take them out so late.
Ultimately, though, the blame lies with me. I should’ve taken it to a bedroom and locked the door. Cora had no business dragging the kids into the city in the middle of the night, but when it comes down to it, it’s my own fault that the girls were exposed to that scene.
I have no trouble confronting uncomfortable truths. It’s why I’m as successful as I am. I don’t delude myself that people are better than they are.
I pause at the nursery door before I head down the stairs. It’s closed, but not latched, so it opens silently when I push. Moonlight streams in the window, lighting the middle of the room while casting the corners in shadow.
Winnie is asleep on her back in her crib, her arms thrown straight over her head like she’s scored a touchdown. In the other room, I can just make out Pearl’s bare feet sticking out of the covers. Cora is curled in a ball on the daybed, her back to the wall.
These rooms were meant to be for guests, but Cora didn’t like how far the intended nursery was from our room. She made the right call. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. I’d never relax enough to pass out if the girls were on the other side of the house.
I take one small step into the room, just to hear Winnie breathe. The girls are healthy as horses, but things can change in an instant.
As I listen, my eye catches on Cora’s hair. It’s glowing almost white in the moonlight. My stomach muscles tighten. She is objectively the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. It’s not the reason I married her, but it would be a lie to say it wasn’t a consideration. It’s a miracle she reached adulthood relatively unscathed. I can only imagine what she had to do to keep herself safe. Men can be monsters.
I stalk quietly across the room toward the daybed. Like Pearl, Cora’s feet are sticking out from under the covers.Something’s wrong with the bottoms of them. I squint and lean closer. There are dozens of small cuts or scrapes on both soles. What the fuck happened?
She was wearing shoes earlier in the dining room when she “tripped” with the dishes, and besides, these scratches don’t look fresh.
Schmidt and Tiller didn’t report anything. Unacceptable. If I hadn’t already decided to fire them, this would be the nail in the coffin.
Has Farhadi even been called? I would have been apprised if he were. The cuts appear to be healing, but that’s never a given, especially if they weren’t tended properly when the injury occurred. Did Cora take care of them herself? She’s vigilant about the girls’ bumps and bruises, but careless about her own.
I shouldn’t have stayed in the city. It’s not like I got anything productive done. I worked, drank, and went car shopping.
I hope Schmidt’s ringer is on. He’s going to tell me right now what happened to my wife’s feet and why I wasn’t told, or his severance is going to be my fist in his face. Tiller, too. He had his hands all over her that night, but he didn’t notice that she got hurt?
Didn’t notice, or didn’t tell me?
As if she senses my rising temper, Cora shifts, tucking her knees tighter to her chest and curling her toes. Still asleep, she whimpers. My stomach sours, and a burning sensation creeps up my throat.
I don’t like it.
The tight-chested, clawing feeling that’s been plaguing me recently strikes again. My hands clench in fists, my breathing so heavy that the sound fills the silent room.
I don’t understand such an excessive response to a few minor scrapes. She’s fine. I just watched her sashay awayfrom me down the hall after dinner with no problem at all.
But the raw, red cuts bother me—unsettle me in some kind of primitive way.
Breathing through the feeling, I force my muscles to relax. I need to talk to Farhadi about something stronger than melatonin. I haven’t been sleeping well for months, maybe longer, and the effects are stacking up.
