“What changed?”
I’ve been angling for a car of my own for years. Adrian and I had a running, friendly argument about it since Pearl was born. I felt isolated out here in the country with Adrian spending so much time in the city, and I thought I’d feel better if I had my own ride. I could go to the library, the farmer’s market, that kind of thing.
I’d never had my own car. I was lucky I even knew how to drive. I probably never would’ve been taught if one of my foster moms hadn’t wanted me to pick up and drop off the other kids from school.
I don’t ever beg Adrian for things, but I did joke and tease him a lot about buying me a car. He thought it was safer for me to be driven by a professional, and since there was always a driver available to take me wherever I wanted to go, he didn’t think I had a point about a car making me feel less isolated.
He wouldn’t buy me a car to make me happy, but he’ll buy two so I’ll stop being mad. That’s asshole math for you.
“I don’t want anything from you,” I say, wetting a washcloth to wipe down the mat.
“Cora,” he says, stalking over, stopping inches away to lean against the counter, facing me. He’s too close. I can smell his deodorant, the kind in the orange stick that he wears when he exercises. He has different deodorants for work and evenings out, which blew my mind when we got together. Three deodorants for one man.
I focus on scrubbing the mat. He lifts my chin with his finger. I jerk my head away. He sighs, but he doesn’t step back.
“We have prospective clients in town from Delhi. There’s a dinner tomorrow night with the wives at Le Vignoble. I’d like you to come.”
“Pass.”
His eyes flash, but otherwise, his expression remains calm. “You know it’s part of the deal,” he says.
“Hardpass.”
He rests his hand on top of mine, stopping me mid-scrub. “Cora, we have to find a way forward.”
His warm hand envelopes mine completely. I used to love pressing our palms together to compare the sizes of our hands. He’d fold his fingers over top of mine, and I’d feel so safe, like I’d made it to home base in tag.
“We can’t,” I say softly, staring at our hands. “You ruined it.”
“No,” he says, lowering his head. I glance up. The flash in his eyes has become a simmer. His face isn’t calm anymore. It’s grim. Determined. “We’re going to get past this.”
“No, we’re not. There’s nothing to get past. We have a deal. I didn’t understand that before, but now I do.”
He swallows, and my gaze is drawn to his throat. I’ve always been fascinated by it. I’d never really noticed a man’s Adam’s apple before, but in those early weeks, when we were first talking, and I was too intimidated to hold his gaze for long, my eyes would always drop to his neck, and I’d watch that bump rise and fall as he spoke or swallowed. I missed it when his collar and tie covered it up, and I felt like he’d let me in on a secret when he unbuttoned his shirt or wore a sweater.
I’ve obsessed about every part of him at some point—stared and daydreamed and fantasized—and he’s always just been satisfied with his purchase. My heart cracks all over again, and it feels like my entireselfis spilling out. I lift my hands to my chest, an instinctual gesture to hold what’s left of myself in, and Adrian’s hand comes with mine.
He slides his palm up my neck to cradle my jaw, and histouch feels so familiar, so natural, that my broken brain doesn’t register alarm until his lips are pressing against mine, and they taste the same, they feelthe way they did when I believed he loved me, and I was happy, and I thought I’d ended up home safe in a real family, despite it all.
My lips part to say no. His tongue slips past my teeth, hungry and insistent, and my stupid heart leaps and shouts, he wants you. I whimper. He drags me to his chest.
All the hapless, busted love swirls up inside me like a dust storm. I clutch his biceps, digging my fingers deep in the muscle, holding onto him for dear life, opening my mouth for him, my skin tingling, coming to life as every nerve in my body remembersthis—the rightness, the sweetness, the delight.
And then my memory vomits up an image of Delaney’s bare pussy pumping up and down on his dick.
I shove him. Hard. He’s too strong to budge, or I’m too weak, so I do it again, and after a beat, he takes a step back. I’m panting. The pulse in his throat hammers against his skin.
“I’m not going to your stupid dinner,” I say and begin to toss things into the sink—the rolling pin, the measuring spoons, the butter knife. I flip on the faucet so I don’t have to hear him. “Take Delaney.”
“I want to take you. I want to take mywife.” He sayswifeangrily, like I owe him something, and I’m refusing to pay up.
I throw a dish towel over my shoulder and turn on him. “Make me an offer then.”
His brow furrows, his face darkening.
“Give me a number. If a baby is twenty million dollars, how much is a cheap fuck? What’s the Blue Book value of a new Rennard SUV?”
“You really want me to pay you to eat dinner with me?”Anger and contempt and something else, something raw and unfamiliar, war in his voice.
