Good Rich People(48)

He steps back, presses his finger pads into my shoulders. “Where were you?”

All those hours walking and I never thought he would be here. I never thought he would be worried. Even now it’s hard to determine whether this is real or whether it’s a tactic, whether he is running a secret game.

“It’s silly, really.” I don’t want to tell him, don’t want to admit that I failed, but they will find out eventually. I will need him to pay the fine. “I got arrested.”

His jaw goes limp. “Arrested?” The word is zesty on his tongue. He follows me to the bathroom with awestruck eyes. “What did you get arrested for?”

“Trespassing.” I start to undress, turn on the shower.

“Trespassing where?”

“Just at the lake. I’ll tell you the story, but I need to shower first.”

I take off all my clothes. Graham watches me. I step into the shower. He stands there, arms apart, still breathing heavily, concentrating, like he is making or remaking his mind up.

Then he steps into the shower. He doesn’t even take off his clothes. His lips are on mine. His hand slips between my legs. He pushes me against the wall, first softly, then roughly. My brain rattles, like I am waking up, coming home only to find that I have landed in a strange new territory.

“I can’t believe you went to jail,” he growls. “That’s so fucking hot.”



* * *





“I LOVE YOU.” He kisses me on the jawbone. We are in bed together at noon, like it’s a Sunday and we’re hungover, a million years ago.

Graham isn’t going to work. He is hanging all over me like he just invented me, twirling my hair around his finger, kissing my cheeks, tracing my collarbone, sucking my neck. He is wearing the cashmere sweatpants I got him for Christmas, a soft T-shirt with an overstretched neck. We are like an ordinary couple finally. I want to enjoy it but I am distracted. I can hear Demi downstairs, taking one of her endless showers. Graham wants to know every detail.

“My little criminal mastermind.” He kisses my fingernails.

I start with the metal cutters.

“Wait.” He pulls away “You were trying to set up Demi?”

I prop myself up on a pile of pillows. “Well, I wasn’t trying to get me arrested.”

“And you ended up in jail?”

“It was a stupid mistake.” I observe my fingernails. The paint on my left index finger is chipped.

“And a stupid plan. Trespassing? The worst they would do is slap her with a fine.” Like he knows everything. Except he’s right this time.

“I know that now. I’ve never been arrested. How was I supposed to know? I did say she might have a gun.”

“Did you give her one?”

I shake my head. He looks disgusted. So much for our idyllic morning. I should have waited to tell him. I should have lied.

He’s right. It was a stupid plan. I wanted it to be easy. I wanted it to be over. He is scanning my eyes, as if reading my thoughts. He flounces out of bed in annoyance.

“I’ve never done this before!” I add in undertone, still loud enough for him to hear, “I don’t want to.” I pull my knees up, try to look small. “Can’t you just do it?”

“Of course I can,” he says, taking off his shirt. “That’s not what this is about. It’s about you proving yourself.” He drops his pants. He is scolding me in his underwear, and it’s a credit to how handsome he is that he looks sexy instead of ridiculous. “You went against the family. How can I trust you? How can I ever trust you again?”

“You can trust me.” My voice is reedy. I thought maybe this directive was coming from Margo, but hearing Graham now, it’s clear it came from him. He doesn’t trust me. If I don’t get his trust back, I will lose him, his money and probably my life.

He marches to his closet. “By the way, we’re having dinner with Margo tonight.”

“Tonight?” My heart flutters. “Can’t we do it another time? I didn’t sleep very well in jail, if you can believe it.”

He disappears into the closet. “We need to meet. Discuss the situation.” Reappears with a dark blue suit draped over his arm.

“What situation?”

“The you situation.”

“You’re not going to tell her.” I know he is going to tell her. He knows Margo hates me, but he doesn’t see why that should affect their relationship. He doesn’t see why anything that upsets anyone else should be any concern of his.

“I called her when you disappeared.”

“Why would you do that?” He hates when I use that tone. He ignores me, slips on his shirt, buttons it all the way to his throat. I adjust my tone. “What did she say?”

He slips into his trousers. “Hmm?”

“When you told her I disappeared?”

Buttons and zips. “Wait forty-eight hours.”

I know I shouldn’t but I do. “. . . What did she think happened?”

“I don’t know.” He slides his arms into his vest. “You used to run away.” He is referring to the times early in our marriage when I would storm out over something, use his money to check into a hotel, usually down the street, hoping he would come find me. At first, he did. But when that game got boring, he just left me to cool off. “She said to keep an eye on my bank accounts.” He acts like he is doing me a favor by telling me the truth.