“What are you doing?” I ask, when we are halfway home and his hand moves farther up my thigh, dangerously close to the hem of my dress.
He flashes me a saucy grin. “What does it look like?”
I slap his hand away. “Are you hard of hearing?”
He frowns.
“I told you I want to take it slow. This isn’t slow.”
“Come on, Abby. We’re not eighth graders.”
“When it comes to sex, you were never an eighth grader. You went from zero to ninety overnight.”
He throws back his head, laughing. “True, but there’s nothing wrong with sex, Abby.” He pins, dark, wanton eyes on me, and I shiver all over. But not in a good way. “It’s natural and healthy. And it’s what married couples do.”
“We haven’t even been married a week,” I counter.
“Most married couples have sex on their wedding night.” He opens his mouth, to take it back, no doubt, instantly realizing his mistake.
“Yes. But we’re not most married couples, are we?” I bark. “Because you were out screwing some whore.” I pretend to fume, while I’m secretly smiling inside. This is a good way to keep his hands off me. I’ll just start an argument any time he tries to get frisky. If I rile him up, he’ll think twice about wanting to fuck me.
I hope.
“You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, Abby.”
“And you’re beginning to sound like the stereotypical cheating husband!” I roar. “How fucking dare you say that to me! I have every right to be pissed, and you don’t get to dismiss it like that.”
He sighs, rubbing his hands down his face.
I’m fuming as I turn in my seat, faking a glare. “Who was she? I want to know who my husband spent our wedding night with.”
Now, it’s his turn to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s no one. Inconsequential.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I still want to know who she is.”
“No.”
“No?” I pout. “I have a right to know!” I demand when I really couldn’t give two shits.
“Goddamn it, Abby.” He pounds his fists off the steering wheel. “I said drop it!”
Hmm. He doesn’t want me to know who she is.
This is interesting.
I tuck this little nugget away for future reference.
“Fine.” I sulk, glaring out the window, and Charlie drives us back to the house in complete silence.
When we walk into the house, we go our separate ways without speaking, and I lock my bedroom door, trying not to gloat as I grab my cell and head into my bathroom to call the man I love.
The following day, I insist we are having a family dinner. The funeral is tomorrow, and Charlie’s mom and sister need to be aware of the arrangements. I get why they want to bury their heads in the sand, and pretend this isn’t happening, but I need to at least try to prepare them. Tomorrow is going to be hell on Earth, and I’m already wishing I had a fast-forward button.
Normally, dinner is served at the formal dining table, but I’ve dismissed the housekeeper, and I’ve cooked a pot roast with all the trimmings and purposely set the kitchen table. Whether she likes it or not, Elizabeth Barron needs to face up to the fact it’s her husband’s funeral tomorrow, and she must put her best face forward.
I sent Charlie a text message earlier, telling him of my plans, and I got a curt acknowledgment in reply.
Suits me if he’s still sulking. The more this goes on, the longer I get to keep him out of my bed.
