Frayed Silk(28)

“Well, when you figure it out, you just ask. I mean that, too. Okay?” I say firmly. “Don’t give us any of that too proud bullshit. We’re here for you.” I rub her back.

She wraps her arm around my waist, resting her head on my shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispers croakily.

“I can’t believe this. Is there anything you can do to work it out?” Lola asks.

Fiona lifts her head from my shoulder. “I don’t think so. He was adamant that it’s over. Was a total asshole about it, too.”

“What, you don’t even get a say? What about marriage counseling or something?” Lola’s brows furrow as she puts her hands on her pink tank covered hips.

Fiona shakes her head. “No … no, I think we’re beyond that kind of help.”

We help her back into her car after she insists she’s fine to drive and tell her to call us.

After watching her back out of the lot, I mutter, “Well, there’s that.”

Lola snickers, nudging me with her elbow. “Hey, at least you’re not the only one with problems.”

“Shut up,” I mumble, shaking my head. I can’t help but laugh, though. Because as much as I feel terrible for Fiona, it is nice to know I’m not the only one.





“Charlie!” I holler from the bathroom. “Where’d you put your swim trunks?” I dig through the hamper for the second time, but I still can’t find them.

He walks into the bathroom, scratching at his belly. “I dunno.” Then he promptly turns and leaves me here, bent over with clothes everywhere and no swim trunks in sight. Damn it. He has a swim meet again on Saturday morning. It’s only Thursday, but after doing two loads of laundry, they still haven’t shown up. I make a mental note to buy a spare pair.

“They’re probably in Daddy’s car, Mommy,” Greta says from the doorway.

“Is he home?” I glance over at her.

She nods. “Just got here.”

Sighing, I pick all the clothes up off the floor and carry the hamper downstairs to the laundry room. It all needs to be washed anyway.

The oven dings on my way through the kitchen.

“Crap.” Dropping the basket and washing my hands, I turn the oven off and pull out the cupcakes I made for tomorrow’s bake sale at school. After placing them on the cooling rack, I then continue hauling the clothes to the laundry and put them in the washer. Standing back up, I spot Leo’s keys on the hook and grab them, wondering if he’s already locked himself away in his office for the night. Probably.

I unlock it and search the trunk, not finding anything but his own gym bag. Cursing, I move to the back seat and dig around on the floor. Then I see the blue swim trunks on the leather seat right in front of my face. Of course, I laugh quietly to myself as I back my ass up to get out, then I see it. A piece of paper with numbers written on it on the floor. Huh. Bending farther, I snatch it up and hop out of the car, closing the door behind me and glancing at the messy scrawl.

Why the hell would he be keeping random numbers on a piece of paper? I’d think nothing of it, except for the little important fact that our marriage seems to be on the fast road to nowhere good. My pulse kicks up speed, ringing in my ears as I march back through the door and into the kitchen.

“Mommy, can I—”

Cutting Greta off with a wave of my hand, I mutter, “Give me a minute.”

I storm through the kitchen and down the hall. Grabbing the handles on his office doors, I walk straight in before closing them and falling back against them.

Leo glances up from his computer.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

His brows pull in. “What does it look like?”

“Never mind.” I march over to his desk and drop the piece of paper with the number on the mahogany wood below, watching as it flutters downward to land near his keyboard.

He scowls at it. “What’s this?”

With my hands on my hips, I glare at him. “Why don’t you tell me? I found it in your car.”

He shakes his head. “And you’re searching my car for bits of paper … why?”

Oh, my God. I could slap him.

“Just answer the question,” I growl.

He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers together as his eyes study me for a moment. “And what do you want it to be?” he finally asks.

What? “What the fuck do you mean?”

He smirks, but it’s not playful. No, it’s full of arrogance and malice.

“I said,” he leans forward, the leather chair creaking as he rests his elbows on the desk and stares straight into my eyes, “what do you want it to be, Dahlia?”

I blanch, rearing back. “I don’t want it to be anything. What the hell are you playing at by even asking that, Leo?”

He merely shrugs, glancing back down to his computer and rubbing a speck of something off the desk with a long finger.

His head lifts as he sighs. “Are you finished?”

My face scrunches up. “Finished? I don’t think so. I want to know whose number it is.” I point at the offending piece of paper, quite aware of the fact that I probably seem a little crazy right now, but … so be it.

“Why? Would it make you feel better if you knew?” He raises a brow at me.