I shrug lightly, aiming for humor. “It’s totally respectable.”
She huffs softly. “Two people getting drunk and married in Vegas and then divorced six months later. Very respectable.”
“It happens,” I say, my mouth twitching.
She glances at me. “To you?”
“No.”
She almost smiles.
“We have a plan,” I continue. “We get divorced. Quietly. If we’re lucky, no one will ever know. Besides Daniel.”
“Do you really believe that’s possible?”
I hold her gaze. “Yes.”
I don’t know if that’s true.
But I need her to believe it is.
She studies me.
“My dad always finds out,” she whispers.
I nod slowly.
“He might,” I admit.
Her shoulders tense again.
“But if he does,” I add, “we’ll handle it. Together.”
12
TALIA
Domesticity
It’s late afternoon, and golden light pours through the wide living room windows, stretching across the hardwood floors and catching dust motes in the air like drifting sparks.
I step back from the canvas propped against the wall, squinting at it. I’ve been working on it all day. Layering color. Stepping back. Adjusting. Stepping in again.
Deep blues and smoky grays melt into warmer streaks of gold that cut through the center, like light breaking through storm clouds.
I wipe my hands on an old rag and tilt my head.
It would fit perfectly above the mantel on Jake’s fireplace, where there’s nothing right now but a wide, empty stretch of wall.
The size is right. The tones match the room. It softens the space without disrupting the clean lines he seems to like.
It feels like him.
But I have no idea if he’ll like it.
The clock on the microwave reads 4:37 p.m.
I don’t know what time Jake gets homefrom practice.
