If You Only Knew(92)

“I have no idea.”

“Please, Leo.”

“Sweetheart, I honestly have no idea. I’m not good at this stuff.” But he’s stroking my hair, and it feels so good.

“I’m afraid that if she knows about Dad, then she’ll justify staying with Adam.”

“Loki, what do you think?”

“I hate that she’s mad at me. I’m the good guy here.”

“You are. You’re a very good sister from what I’ve seen.”

That makes my eyes fill again. I pull another paper towel off the roll and blow my nose. “I don’t understand men,” I say brokenly. “They have everything, and then one piece of tail makes them throw away everything that’s good in their lives just for...for what? For sex? Is sex really that important that you’d screw over your wife and children and make them feel like dirt? Like they’re stupid and unimportant?”

Did the same kind of thing happen with him? Maybe he could pipe up and make me feel a little less freakish, all my emotional misery eviscerated, hanging there like intestines.

“Do you have any idea, Leo?” I ask, lifting my head to look at him.

“I don’t.”

I put my head back on his chest. “And even if they don’t cheat,” I say, my voice small, “they find some way to break your heart and make you wonder what you ever did wrong. But they don’t have time to answer you because they’ve already found the next love of their life, and you’re just left standing on the street corner, asking yourself how the hell you didn’t even notice your husband stopped loving you.” I’m crying again.

I guess we both know who I’m really talking about.

“Loki, what did she say?” Leo asks, but his face is kind. He frames my face with his hands. Kisses my forehead, then my cheek. “Not all men break hearts,” he murmurs. “Now mop up so I can kiss you.”

There’s that smile again, but there’s something else in his clear blue eyes. Kindness. Sympathy.

Sadness.

Did he break his wife’s heart? It doesn’t seem as if he’d be capable of that, funny, kind Leo. No. His heart was the one that took the hit.

I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Not the sexiest sound in the world, I realize, but he just looks at me, the smile, the eyes, the unfairly beautiful hair.

I’m fairly sure I’m in love with Leo Killian.

“Are we finally going to sleep together?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, and he does kiss me then, kisses me for a long time, cups my face in his hands, threads his fingers through my hair and kisses me and kisses me until my heart throbs with wanting him, and my whole body is tight and coiled and helpless with this, with soft, hot want that blots out all the ugliness from earlier. Then he takes me into his bedroom and makes good on his promise.

Makes very good.

Rachel

I don’t know if I believe Adam about when the affair ended. I almost feel like it doesn’t matter, because I’m just so tired. I’m tired of myself, tired of him, tired of the confusion, the sadness, the panic. I just want to watch Game of Thrones and think about nothing except how much I like Tyrion.

But I believe what he said in the street—he wants me back. A weekend without the girls and me was exactly what he needed—a glimpse of the life he’d have with a fractured family, going days without seeing Charlotte, Grace and Rose.

Without me.

The house is not exactly a mess when we get home from that debacle at Jenny’s, but my absence is graffitied throughout the downstairs. The unloaded dishwasher. The clutter of mail on the counters, the unfolded laundry in the basket. It’s evidence that he was here. Not with her. The plate on the coffee table, the single empty wineglass, sticky red residue in the bottom, tell me that this weekend, he was too scared to be with her. The slut. The home-wrecking whore.

Relief wraps around me like a blanket.

We get the girls in bed and tuck them in, and as Adam kisses each girl on the head, he whispers, “Daddy loves you.”

And he does. I know he does.

We look at each other. I’m not sure what to do next.

“Let’s talk,” he says, reaching for my hand.

We sit in the living room, and he gets me a glass of wine. Touches my shoulder. “That was some scene at Jenny’s,” I murmur, because I’m not sure what else to say.

“It was surprising,” Adam says drily.

I will die if this gets out—Jenny Tate and Rachel and Adam Carver, fighting in the street until the police were called. This entire spring, I’ve been grateful to my sister for a thousand reasons, but tonight is not one of those times. She’s always so...sure, always taking charge. (I conveniently dismiss the fact that I asked her to do just that.) But honestly. What if the girls had woken up and looked out the window to see their aunt shoving their father?

I hate the way she sometimes treats me as if I’m slightly dim. Mom, too. We’re not.

My anger toward her helps the other, more complicated feelings to slink to the back of my brain.

“How was your weekend?” Adam asks, and it’s funny, I can barely remember. It was like a dream I had a long time ago. The suite, the view, the shopping...Gus.

Him, I remember.

“It was nice,” I say. “I bought out SoHo and saw Robert De Niro and stayed in a ridiculous suite.”