Every Last Secret(38)

He groaned. “Something filthy. Wear that black-lace number I love so much.”

I grinned, rolling on my side and stuffing the feather pillow under my head. “Don’t give me any ideas.”

He chuckled, and even exhausted, he was lethal on my heart. I wanted nothing more than to have him beside me, his warm body curled around mine.

“Have you talked to Matt or Neena?” I pulled the sheet higher on my body.

There was a pause I didn’t like, a hesitation before he responded. “No. Why?”

“I was just wondering if they knew that you were back.” I closed my eyes, pushing off my paranoia. He was at the office. There wasn’t a safer place for him to be on a Sunday evening in terms of women or temptation. “Are you planning on sleeping at all?”

“Once I figure out the real numbers and talk to the legal team, I’ll lie down for an hour. What is it, eleven thirty there?”

“Yeah.” I yawned. “I’m in bed now.”

“In California, you’re already a year older.”

“Ugh.” I curled onto my side. “I prefer my Hawaiian age.”

“Happy birthday, sweetie. Call me when you wake up. I’ll be a little more sane then.”

“I will. Love you.”

After he hung up the phone, I lay there for almost an hour, my mind festering on my increasing age, his empty side of the bed screaming at me. Why had I agreed to have him travel back home alone? It went against every foundation our relationship was built on. We did everything together, yet I’d let him talk me into being here—on my birthday, all alone.



The next morning I opened up a bottle of chilled champagne and poured a healthy amount into my orange-juice glass. It was funny how birthdays, with age, grew more painful.

First, there were the obligatory gifts, which were an art in our social circles, each item carefully selected to send the right message and each requiring a perfectly worded thank-you card. Just the act of giving and receiving was a social minefield that had taken me years to navigate properly.

Then there were the calls—coming from my parents, my sisters, my friends, and a dozen business and social connections. All well intentioned but unwanted, especially on a day like today, when I only wanted William, grinning at me in the Hawaiian sun, a thousand miles away from Neena. This was supposed to be our time to reconnect, to have four days without her smug little smile, her foil-wrapped plates in the center of our counter, her opinions cropping into William’s conversations with me. If I heard Neena said one more time, I’d clench my hands around my ears and snap them off.

Even worse than William’s mention of her was his silence. I could feel him retreating from me. His phone had become an almost-constant attachment, his emails and text messages dominating our time together. We’d been together for thirteen years, and I’d never seen him this distracted. Something was wrong, and I’d started to count down the days to our trip with a secret plan to put us all back together on the island.

And look how well that had turned out. William was back home, and I was scrolling through Facebook messages from strangers wishing me birthday cheer. As if getting older were something to celebrate in my world. One day, would I be too old for William? I had never considered it, always so cocky in my view of our marriage. But lately, with Neena breathing down my back, I was questioning everything. I tilted back the glass, my empty stomach rolling in protest of the bubbles. Setting down my phone, I looked at the water and considered walking down to the beach and finishing the bottle in one of the waterside hammocks.

My cell rang, and I picked it up, seeing my mother’s face on the display. “Hey, Mom.”

“Happy birthday, honey.”

An unexpected swell of emotion hit. In the background I could hear my father’s voice and the sound of baseball on the television. I pictured him in his recliner, an afghan laid across his legs. I settled into the closest chair and listened to my mom chatter about the day’s events, getting updates on my sister’s family and their kids. She asked about our trip, and I stretched the first two days into four, playing up the weather and the decadent meals we’d enjoyed.

“Put William on. I want to tell him hi.”

“Oh, Mom, he’s in the shower. I’ll tell him when he gets out.” The lie stuck in my throat, my pride too strong to admit that I was spending my birthday alone.

I rushed through the remainder of the call and hung up, immediately dialing William’s number. It rang once and went to voice mail, as if he was on the phone. I sighed and ended the call without leaving a message.

My mind was starting to spin in dark ways, my solitude in this oceanfront home giving my doubts, insecurities, and paranoia free range to work overtime. The fear grew. Festered. Was something wrong between us?

I’d felt this way before. Six years ago, I’d had a similar feeling. William had been spending more time at the office, and I grew suspicious of the little changes. A cologne he began wearing with steadfast frequency. A new workout regime he was sticking with. An enthusiasm about the office I hadn’t seen before.

I’d remotely accessed his work computer one day and spent hours wading through emails before I found the potential culprit. First, an email between him and his assistant, where she called him Mr. President. That, while a little odd, wasn’t completely out of left field. He was the president and managing member of Winthorpe Companies. But in his response, he called her Ms. Lewinsky.