“I’m not a type.”
“No,” he says, turning from the storm to look at me. “You’re completely original, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say that, either.”
“I would.” He keeps looking at me, as if astonished to be in my presence. I don’t entirely dislike the attention. “I appreciate that you’re putting up with Grace. But don’t let her bully you. Most people just indulge her petty cruelties because she’s niche famous.”
I turn to meet his gaze, expecting to see the familiar, mildly flirtatious twinkle in his eye, but there’s none of that. He looks sad, serious, even a little old.
“Do you?” I ask. “Do you indulge them?”
“We’re cruel to each other, I guess. It’s a bad habit we’ve got into. One of many.”
I look out at the trees whipping across violently in the wind. I feel like the weather is trying to punish us, somehow, with its intensity, though that’s not a very scientific thought. In reality, the weather doesn’t care about us at all. It’s just a constellation of forces, with no intention or purpose to any of it.
No higher power. Is that what I believe, now? These are all thoughts I’ve tried to avoid since Mom died.
“Tell me,” he says. “What would you do? If you were me?”
The question makes my heart skip. I try to sip my wine, so I can buy a few seconds before I answer, but the glass is empty. I must have been sipping nervously this whole time. Before I can object, Bradley leans across, tops up my glass, and empties the bottle into his own.
“I need to make a certain amount of money to support Grace. I’m not making it right now. It would be manageable if Grace published a book every year, but she doesn’t. And she won’t take money from her family. It’s still my job to support her, though.”
“She’s your wife.”
He looks at me strangely, as if I’d just uttered something sad but profound. “Yes, she is.”
I’m feeling light, almost giddy. The wine is doing its job. My lips are loosening.
“What if you didn’t need to support her?”
“What are you saying? I knock her off like a character in her novels?” He laughs as I stumble over my objection. “It’s not really a question. She’s my wife. Like you said.”
I feel the words forming, dynamite in my hand. And why shouldn’t I say them? It’s the right thing to do. Bradley is a nice person, and he’s suffering because of her. She doesn’t deserve him.
“There’s something I have to tell you about Grace.”
“What did she do?”
He sounds angry, and just as I’m about to reply, a flash of lightning crosses the sky, followed soon after by the boom of thunder. If this were ancient Rome, I’d think the gods were weighing in. But what does a bolt of lightning even mean? Is it a warning? In Shakespeare, the graves yawn, a lion walks the city streets, an owl visits the market at noon. But what are we meant to do with that? That’s the problem with gods. Humans are always left to interpret their actions.
“It’s three miles away,” I mutter. “Maybe four. That’s close.”
“What did she do?”
“Do you get wildfires around here?”
“Damn it, Brie. Spit it out.”
I finish my wine, then close my eyes. The dynamite is here. It’s time to light the fuse.
“She’s unfaithful,” I say. “She’s having an affair with her agent.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“It happened last night. I saw it. I think it’s been going on for a while.”
He stares at me, and though I can’t quite see his expression, it almost looks like he’s smiling. “You saw it?”
