The Stillwater Girls(47)

I read an article online last week about cheaters, and they all do the same thing when they’re trying not to get caught: deflect, distract, deny.

“You want to know what I think? I think you’re in over your head here. You’re taking on too much,” he says, working his belt buckle and shoving his jeans down his muscled, runner’s legs. I steal a peek of his rippled abs, the ones that haven’t grown an ounce of body fat in the thirteen years we’ve been together, which is more than most husbands can say. It’s funny how we stop appreciating these little things the more we’re around them, like we’ve seen them so much, we’re physically incapable of seeing them anymore.

Brant would be heart-stopping eye candy to any other woman, and I know that.

“You know how you get this time of year, and when you add something like this on top of it,” he says, “I worry it’ll take a toll on you.”

“It won’t.”

“And if it does?” He lifts a single brow.

I slide beneath the covers on my side of our massive bed, twisting to fluff the pillow behind me. I’m not even going to dignify his question with a response because this entire conversation is pointless and not worth a freckle-size speck of my energy.

Exhaling, he takes a seat beside me on the bed, his body bare save for his navy-blue boxer briefs. In the pale moonlight, his eyes glint, and the soft, natural scent of his warm skin fills my lungs.

If this were before, I’d be lying in his arms right now, feeling the burn of his lips against my flesh as his fingers tug and pull at my garments, exploring the parts of my body that have always belonged to him and only him.

Those days are gone, though. And even if we were to somehow get back to that . . . it wouldn’t be the same.

It will never be the same.

Brant reaches for my hand, holding it in his and running the pad of his thumb along the underside of mine, and I allow it, reminding myself he doesn’t know that I know anything, and I need to keep it that way.

But there’s nothing inside me when he touches me, no flutter in my middle, no thrum in my chest.

We might as well be rooted islands separated by an ocean.

“I just . . . I wish you’d have asked me first,” he says.

“You’d have said no.”

“I wouldn’t have,” he says. “I agreed to do the fostering thing with you, and I know this isn’t really different . . . but we have to be a team. We have to make these decisions together. We need to be on the same team here.”

My eyes find his in the dark. I’m not sure what this pep talk is about, but last I knew, when you’re on the same team, you don’t run off and have a baby with someone from the opposing side.

Pulling my hand from his because I don’t have what it takes to fake this bullshit heart-to-heart a second longer, I slide my back against my pillow, sinking down into the mattress.

“I’m tired,” I say. “And it’s late.”

“I know, I know.” Brant sighs. “We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

He strides around to his side of the bed before climbing in next to me. A moment later, his hand wraps around my waist, and he pulls me against him, burying his head in my neck, breathing me in the way he did when he once loved me and only me.

Eyes shut tight, I will myself to sleep, begging my mind to silence long enough that I can drift off without issue, but all I’m met with is the soft rumble of Brant’s breath in my ear and his warmth on my skin. He’s out cold, sleeping like a proverbial baby, my body half-pinned beneath his weight.

I can’t breathe, so I fling his arm off me and slide off the mattress. He rolls to the other side, stirring for a few seconds but never waking, and his raspy, steady breathing continues.

Running my hands through my hair before gathering it over one shoulder, I watch my husband sleep, jealous of his ability to shut out the rest of the world when mine is screaming in my ear every time I see him.

Deciding to go downstairs, I shut the door behind me and take soft, creeping steps as the rest of the house sleeps. A second later, I’m cozied in an oversize leather chair in the living room, a knit blanket wrapped around me as I stare through the picture windows toward the moonlight-painted woods behind our house.

Flashes of light in the distance serve as a reminder that the police are still searching for the girls’ mother and sister. They haven’t stopped. Combing the woods could take weeks, they said. There’s a lot of ground to cover, and they’re not going to stop until they’ve searched every square inch.

Resting my chin against my hand, I stare at the yellow speck of flashlight in the distance, trying to wrap my mind around what kind of woman would hide her kids away from the rest of the world.

Was she a selfish monster?

Or was she simply a woman willing to do whatever it took to keep her babies safe?

I won’t let myself judge her. I don’t know the full story. No one does. Perhaps they were escaping an abusive husband who wanted to hurt them . . . or worse?

Whatever it is, I’m sure she had a compelling reason.

No one would have done what she did without one.

The yellow flash grows closer, pointed down at times and swaying at others. I rise from my chair, the blanket wrapped over my shoulders as I approach the window to get a closer look. Only the light disappears by the time I get there.