“Did you know Blake’s wife is pregnant?”
I grit my teeth. “No.”
“That, Hudson. That’s my problem. Paying attention to what’s going on with your family is what everyone wants from you. Not only when shit goes wrong, but also when shit is right.”
“Fine, I’ll call Blake.”
“And check on your dog.” He smiles. “He’s cute. Let me know if she named him yet. We were thinking Prince.”
Red alerts spin in my head. “We?”
“Benny and I.”
“Benny?” My wife’s name is Benedetta. I glare at the screen. Bishop glares back. I lean in, almost making contact with the phone screen. “The fuck you calling her Benny for?”
“That’s her name.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“She likes to be called Benny.”
“Why do you know this and I don’t?”
Bishop smiles. “You’ve walked right into this one.”
He doesn’t say it, though. I get it. I don’t know this because I have no idea who my wife is, and so I better find out before my fucking brother steals her right from under my nose. “You’re banned from my house until further notice.”
Bishop chuckles. The camera moves as he walks, and I hear him pissing. He sighs. “She invited me for lunch today.”
“At my house?”
“Duh.”
“What the fuck?”
“Probably didn’t know you’re coming back.”
Stunned, I stare. “Bishop,” I say, my voice a warning. “Better tell me you’re joking.”
He shakes his head, purses his lips, and strokes his five-o’clock shadow. “Gotta shave for my lunch date.”
“You come here, I’ll pop you in the forehead.”
He laughs and ends the call. I stare at the phone in disbelief. Bishop’s messing with me. He wouldn’t touch my wife. Would he?
2
It’s eight. I know it’s eight because I’ve checked the clock a dozen times in the past half hour. Even though Gerald said “around eight,” I still think she should appear in the kitchen at eight sharp. However, that’s on me. I have a complicated relationship with whole numbers and time. Everything I do is carefully calculated for the best timing.
I’m prepared as well. Showered, shaved, dressed in jeans and a black polo that hugs my body a bit but not too much. I may have also pressed my ear to the door of the spare bedroom, hoping I’d hear the water running in the shower or her bare feet padding across the hardwood floors. I heard sniffing under the door, which I presume is the dog.
Footsteps sound over the staircase, and I hustle into my previously staged place in the kitchen, at the counter pouring another cup of coffee. I decided“Would you like a cup of coffee?”is the best conversation starter. I’ll get to learn how my wife takes coffee. I bet it’s with sugar and milk.
I’m facing the cupboards and feel eyes on me. Clearing my throat, I pour a cup. “Would you like cup of coffee?” I ask, already pouring it. When no answer comes, I glance at theentrance to the kitchen. A massive gray dog with sad eyes stares at me. A white heart-shaped patch at the center of his chest makes me smile. Cute. I crouch. “Come here, boy.”
The dog wags his tail and approaches on his belly, gaze on the floor. He’s practically crawling to me, whining too, and stops not quite at my feet so I have to stretch to pet his head. He winces as I touch him. “It’s okay, boy.”
Under my fingertips, the hair around his neck feels coarse. I check the back of his neck and see scars. Pointy marks, maybe from one of those collars that stab dogs. Frowning, I lift the dog’s head so I can look him in the eyes. He’s avoiding my gaze.
