He looks up. “Hey!” The faux cheer is not fooling anyone—he’s squirming and doing a dreadful job of hiding it. Presumably, his impromptu post-work drinks yesterday evening had nothing to do with a last-minute invitation and everything to do with Susan’s message. Celeste can imagine him peering into their bedroom late last night, making sure she was asleep before sneaking in. And feigning sleep when she left this morning. She looks at him, sets her expression to disdain and walks over to the sink.
“Can we talk?” he tries.
“There’s nothing to say.”
Celeste plucks a Marni dinner plate from the display shelf above the granite sink and turns to look at him.
His forehead glistens with sweat in the glare of the evening sun.
“I’m so, so sorry.” His voice cracks over the awkwardness, the unfamiliarity of the words, and he clears his throat.
Celeste opens her fingers, letting the plate slip to the tiled floor.
Warren’s jaw drops.
“Oh my god, Celeste. Did you…” Then, resolutely: “It was an accident, I’ll get a dust pan.”
“Don’t get a dust pan. Say sorry to the plate.”
“Wait, what?”
“Say. Sorry. To. The. Plate.”
Eyes wide, he’s silent for another moment before seeming to realize she’s serious.
“Sorry,” he mutters, his face coloring.
“Now, did the plate go back to the way it was before, when you said sorry?”
His face is beet red now, right to the roots of his dyed hair. He thinks she doesn’t know he dyes his hair. Everyone knows he dyes his hair.
“No.”
“Well then.”
A whisper. “I get it. If there was anything I could do to turn back time, I would…but it’s no diff—”
He stops. She knows what he wants to say:It’s no different to other times I’ve strayed.Only it is, because this time it’s public. And Celeste can handleanythingas long as it’s not public.
“So where do we go from here?” he says instead.
“When I decide, I’ll let you know.”
“The Sullivans are supposed to be coming for dinner Sunday night…” He trails off, his questions unasked—will they be talking by then? Will she forgive him by then? Will he be living here by then?
“You and I are nothing if not good actors, Warren.”
He bows his head.
She re-reads Susan’s text, debates for a moment, then presses call.
11
Susan
Wednesday
“Oh shit. She’s phoning me. What do I do?”
