“Watch these. You might like them,” he said shyly. “Though not many people do.”
They were YouTube videos. At first I couldn’t figure out what I was looking at. Then I realized: uncensored shark attack videos.
I was fascinated, to be honest. By the videos. And by the beautiful pale boy who showed them to me. He was like amealmade only for me.
Joe. God, I fuckingdevouredthat boy. Our strangeness was like a secret we shared: We must keep our madness to ourselves. Me and Joe. Just two weirdos.
But now I get to watch as my darling husband begins his ownself-eviction fromme.I shake my head almost violently and clutch the armrests until my knuckles turn white. It’s not over between Joe and me. I won’t let go of him—us—that easily.
4:58p.m.Perfect. Show’s over,folks.Time for me to deliver a parting line of wisdom. And since my book is full of them, I reach into my frontal lobe and try to pull one out. And of course, I can’t remember. I open my mouth, then close it. Shit. Hang on.
What was it again? That great line from the marriage chapter. The one so popular that someone actually made it into a viral Twitter post. Something about not giving up, yada yada.
I smile toothily at the Millers and whip out my phone, pretending to check the time. But I’m really typingSarah Slade+book+giving upinto Bing, Google’s crackhead brother.
Ah, there it is.
“If you give up every time it’s hard,” I say softly, leaning back to really nail the next line, “you’re going to have a very short marriage.”
It doesn’t land well, and we all feel it. I’m an actor who just flubbed their line. But I’m too emotionally strung out to smooth shit over. In the excruciating silence that follows, Richard does the strangest thing. He clears his throat and looks right in my eyes. Really looks. Examines my face like a doctor looking for disease. I feel caught out, exposed. And for just a moment, I think he sees right through me. He’s seeing the Shiraz I’ll down in half an hour. The shit I’ll impulse buy tonight.
I bolt up and practically shove the Millers out the door.
“Take it easy, folks,” I babble, waving them off. I’m losing it. I’m slithering out of my Sarah Slade skin. I’m done with the show. Amy gives me an odd look before disappearing around the corner with her husband. I watch them go and remain in the doorway, exhausted and staring at nothing.
“Sarah?”
Oh, shit. I straighten up and smile automatically at Emily. Her office is directly opposite mine. Now we stand feet apart as she locks her office door with a softclickand peers at me with worried eyes.
“Are you okay, lovie?”
I imagine she asks that a lot as the grief and loss therapist. But oddly enough, she sounds genuine.
“I’m okay!” I call out far too brightly. Emily smells of lavender, and she has a thing for ankle-length paisley skirts and slide-on sandals. Motherly, you’d call her. She has a square, thickset body and a long blond plait as thick as a horse tail. There’s something calming about the way she moves and talks. She has a liquid voice and languid eyes. It’s no wonder there’s a waiting list to see her.
“You have a good night!” I tell her.
“You too.” She smiles warmly. Her hand slides off the doorknob, and she surprises me by reaching for my shoulder and patting it softly. “If you ever need anything, just sing out, okay, lovie?”
My eyes fill with tears, and I turn my head so she won’t see. I thank her and dart back inside my office. The second her Nissan leaves the parking lot, I race to the bottle shop. And I’m pretty sure that by midnight tonight I’ll be wasted and screaming out the office window again.
Chapter 3
I bolt awake and think,Someone’s in my office.My heart thumps so hard it makes me cough in the dark. My office door is wide open, the hallway rolling out behind it like the back of a crocodile’s throat. I can’t see shit. But I hear something.
I squint in the dark, hold my breath. And I hear it again: footsteps creeping up the hallway. I freeze in my chair, facing the open door like a bird fallen out of its nest and waiting for the hungry cat to arrive.
I bolt up, and my chair gives a traitoroussqueak.Shit. The footsteps come to a dead stop. They’ve heard me. I know it. I stand frozen at the window, and the moonlight casts a vague milky glow around the room. How long have I been asleep? Two bottles of Shiraz wait silently at my feet like good little soldiers, and I snatch the half-empty one in my fist. I wait there so long my head starts to throb with the birth pangs of a massive hangover.
I eye the other bottle, the empty one, and it eyes me back, all critical and accusatory:Are you sure you’re not imagining this, Sarah? You drank the shit out of me tonight and passed out in your office. And you really shouldn’t be drinking on your meds, remember?
I count to ten in the dark. And then I hear it: a foot stepping over the threshold of my office. My fingers go numb with terror, and my heart gives one giant thump. There’s someoneright there.
I scramble to my desk and fumble for the lamp, when out of thedarkness steps a man. I scream, staggering back into my bookshelf, thrustingthe heavy end of the bottle out to defend myself. Red wine sloshes out from the loose cap and trickles down my chin and collar like blood spatter.
“Getout! Get outta here!”
The man steps in, flicking the office light on. “Mrs. Slade?”
