Unmissing(40)

Taking my hand, he lifts it to his lips and deposits a distraction in the form of a kiss.

“Go. Rest,” he says. “Put your feet up. I’ll be home soon.”

He helps me out of the guest chair and escorts me all the way to my car. Either he’s being a gentleman to make up for his actions . . . or he wants to guarantee I leave the premises.

I drive home, half-blinded by tears that fall far too easily these days.

Hormonal or not, I know one thing: I’m losing him.

Piece by piece, day by day, lie by lie.

Everything I do is for Luca, for our marriage, for our children, for our life, for our future. Anything I’ve ever kept from him has been for his own good.

Now I can’t help but wonder if he could say the same.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


LYDIA

“I’m going to need an identity of some kind,” I tell Luca Monday afternoon, when he slides a fat envelope across my assistant manager’s desk. It’s a tiny office, the size of a bathroom maybe. A desk, a computer, no windows. It reeks of stale kitchen scents and could use a more comfortable chair, but I demanded, he delivered, and that’s all that matters.

“What are you talking about?” He shuts the door.

“I’d love to, you know, open a bank account to put this money in at some point.” In any other scenario, it would be wrong to accept a thousand bucks in cash for literally sitting on my ass all day browsing the internet. But given the last nine years and everything I’ve missed out on, my conscience is happily making an exception. “Kind of need that so I can get an apartment . . . a car . . . basic life things.”

His hands rest at his narrow hips. “How’ve you been getting by the last several months?”

“Oh, you mean grifting and working under-the-table jobs for pennies on the dollar? Hired by people who had no qualms about taking advantage of my situation?” I don’t blink, don’t miss a beat. “Sleeping in homeless shelters and on park benches?” I lean forward, elbows sliding across my desk. “I’m done surviving, Luca. I want to live.”

His shoulders slump, and he drags a hand through his hair, which catches on his polished wedding band.

I don’t envy this man.

Merritt is his rock, and I’m his hard place—he’s caught between us.

“Listen, I know this arrangement isn’t going to last forever,” I say. “Nor do I want to have to come in here and see your face five days a week, because it represents some life truths I don’t want to have to think about on a regular basis. But . . . this is the way it has to be. I’ve thought about this from every angle, and this is the simplest way to make this fair.”

His lack of response is a silent agreement.

He doesn’t need to know I’ve no plans to use the stolen identity I’m requesting—I simply need to buy time so I can continue to save money, and this was a logical solution given my extraordinarily unusual circumstances. It’s not like he can strut down to the big box store on the south side of town in his Italian leather loafers, slap down his black AmEx, and order me a new identity. The longer this takes, the more thousand-dollar paydays I’ll collect, and the closer I’ll be to living out the rest of my life the way it was always supposed to be.

No one ever said life was fair, and I’m living proof.

“If you don’t mind, I should probably get back to work,” I say with a wink. Pointing to the door and making a shooing motion with my hand, I add, “Close it on your way, please.”

Luca lingers, studying me with a quiet intensity as if he’s taking me in for the first time all over again.

And then he’s gone.

I can’t imagine the cocktail of thoughts filling his head. If he’d have an actual conversation with me, I’d be happy to tell him there’s no sense in worrying. Everything’s going to work out exactly the way it should.

For everyone.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


MERRITT

“All I ever wanted was a family of my own,” I tell Lydia over lunch Tuesday afternoon. I haven’t seen her since last week, but I’ve driven past the restaurant every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of something—though I don’t know what.

Today I stopped in to say hello to my husband and happened to catch his first wife on break in her office—alone, thank God. On a whim, I had the chef whip up a couple of lobster mac and cheeses and cozied up to her desk for an impromptu lunch date.

The baby is scheduled to arrive next Wednesday, the C-section planned for eight AM with a check-in at seven. I have a week to get to know Lydia better, to vet out what she really wants, and to show her I’m only human in hopes that she won’t do anything to tear my beautiful little family apart.

“My mother was something else,” I say. “I was always so in awe of her. She had this larger-than-life presence about her. And not just because she was gorgeous. I mean, she was, but that wasn’t where her strength lay. She was the kind of person who refused to take crap from anyone. She had this invisible steely exterior. You couldn’t offend her, couldn’t hurt her. It also made her a little distant, you know? Hard to get to know. I admired her as a woman, but I always thought I could do a little better as a mother.”

“And are you?” Lydia asks. “Are you a better mother than she was?”