Unmissing(21)

CHAPTER TEN


LYDIA

“I take it this is the friend you were wanting to reconnect with?” It’s pouring when Delphine pulls into my husband’s extralong, extrawide driveway and parks in front of the fourth stall. Her wipers swish and screech across the windshield as Neil Diamond croons an uplifting tune from her tinny speakers—a nod to simpler times.

“It is.” I prop the hood on the leather jacket I found in Amber’s collection and tuck my hair back so it doesn’t get wet.

Earlier Delphine gave me a kitchen cut per my request, chopping my hair into a blunt style that stops just below my shoulders. It’s a flattering length, making my fine strands appear bouncier than before—not that I give a shit about that kind of stuff. This isn’t a beauty contest, and if it were, Merritt would beat me by a landslide with her glossy, highlighted ash-brown locks, her blinding-white, straight teeth, those full lips and dimpled chin, and her crystal-clear blue eyes unfairly accented with a fringe of dark lashes.

She may be older than him, but she’s poised and sophisticated. Quietly elegant, like someone who grew up on the East Coast attending boarding schools and becoming proficient in dressage and Latin. The kind of woman who turns heads and accepts free drinks from smitten men who want nothing more than a moment of her attention.

How Luca went from me to Merritt is a mystery I intend to solve—if only for the sheer curiosity of it.

“You have your phone, right?” Delphine points to my jacket pocket, referring to the prepaid wireless flip phone she gifted me two days ago.

“I do. Thanks for the reminder.” I pull it out to show her. I don’t yet have the number memorized, but Delphine said it had three sevens in it, which meant it was lucky. “Not used to carrying one of these.”

She places her hand over mine. “Text me when you want me to pick you up, okay? I programmed my number in there so you’d have it.”

The motherly tone in her voice almost shatters my heart for a myriad of reasons, but I force the sensation away. This isn’t the time or the place to get emotional.

“Good luck, angel.” Delphine squints at the exterior of my husband’s well-lit look-at-me abode, and her lips tuck down at the corners.

I almost question whether she’s getting bad vibes, until I realize how ridiculous that sounds. I’ve been spending way too much time in Woo-Woo World.

Making a mad dash for the front door, I skip over puddles in my holey shoes and seek cover under their front stoop. Clearing the tightness from my throat, I press the doorbell and then rest my ice-block hands in my pockets.

The moment of truth awaits.

My fingertips quiver, and my knees weaken.

Memories of the last time I saw my husband flood my mind.

I’m not the same person I was when he knew me.

We’re strangers now.

I tug my hood down and fix my hair. I want to look decent, but not too decent. I don’t want to underplay all the terrible things I’ve gone through. I don’t want to seem too well adjusted—because I’m anything but. I deserve all the sympathy and compassion my husband has to offer, and I won’t feel a sliver of guilt.

He’s the reason I survived.

And the only reason I’m standing here.

The door swings open, and warm air floods the stoop, enveloping me like an invisible hug.

“Lydia, hi. Come on in.” It’s only Merritt.

My heart lurches from unmet anticipation. If it could come out of my body, it’d have landed in a wet plop at my feet.

She steps out of the way, her floral silk kimono billowing with each graceful sway of her pregnant hips. Jet-black leggings cover her long legs and a tight, white maternity tank top conceals her protruding bump. Her shampoo-commercial mane has been curled, and when she smiles, I spot a hint of lipstick on her mouth. A nude pink. Brushing past me, she leaves a faint trail of department store perfume.

I envision her standing in her fancy bathroom, fussing with her hair and slicking on a tasteful coat or two of lipstick—but it doesn’t seem logical. This isn’t the kind of thing a person dresses up for. Then again, she strikes me as the nervous type. Maybe this is her way of getting a handle on some aspect of the situation?

She can’t control what’s about to happen to her life, but at least she can look pretty . . .

Or maybe she wants to assert her place in the hierarchy.

The beautiful one.

The refined one.

The one who bears the literal fruit of his loins.

“I’m so sorry.” She closes the door behind me. I wipe my feet on a pristine jute mat that looks like it’s never been used a day in its life. “Luca’s flight was delayed. He’ll be home any minute, though.”

Mellow music plays from speakers—the kind you’d expect someone to play while entertaining the neighbors over platters of expensive meats, aged cheeses, and olives.

Her anxiety is showing.

Straight ahead is some kind of family room with a wall of windows pointing toward the ocean. It’s dark now, but I imagine the view is breathtaking—with the kind of price tag that steals the air from your lungs if you’re not prepared for it.

A beautiful house for his beautiful wife . . .

I’d heard my husband was doing well for himself, but I didn’t realize he was doing this well.