Page 56 of Dice & Dekes

My first instinct is to breathe a sigh of relief. My disturbed mind had conjured vivid images involving my brother’s infamous oversized bathtub. Then the implications of his words sink in. My eye twitches. A few seconds later, it twitches again. Huh, I always assumed that this was just a turn of phrase, but the damn thing’s twitching like crazy.

“What’s wrong?” Viktor shifts on the sofa, making that black shirt of his cling to his chest in a series of increasingly distracting configurations. “It should be fun. We’re bringing the wine, Knight and Sofia already picked up the charcuterie, and they have the supplies. We’re going to paint each other’s portraits.” When I just keep staring and twitching, he adds, “I should warn you, though, that my artistic skills are a little, uh, lacking. So don’t be mad if my picture resembles a Dalí painting. I’ve never been great at drawing eyes. Or noses. Seriously, why are noses so hard? If you just draw the nostrils, it looks like you’re drawing a snake-person, but if you go too hard on the bits in the middle, it looks abstract and freaky—” He runs a fingertip along the ridge of his own nose for emphasis.

“Why would my twin invite us to a couple’s anything?” I demand.

With his finger still pressed to his nose, Viktor gives me a guilty smile. It reminds me of videos people post online after their dogs get into the trash and make a mess but still think they’re cute enough to dodge the consequences of their actions. “So…”

I spin away from him and stomp off to the kitchen. “Dammit! Does an NDA mean nothing to you?”

Viktor trails after me. “You expect me to believe Baylor doesn’t know?”

“That’s because of Dante.” I open the refrigerator in search of something to drink and find a whole box of pamplemousse LaCroix. Viktor knows it’s my favorite, not just because I enjoy the flavor, but because of the name. They could just call it grapefruit, but no, they’re too fancy for that, and so am I. I grab one, even as I swear to myself that I am not going to let Viktor win my good graces back with anything as asinine as a fizzy beverage.

He’s already reaching for one of my favorite mugs. Because he knows I don’t like drinking fizzy water from the can. Because he knows me. I should be grateful. Or touched. Or something other than brimming with resentment that I haven’t figured out how to process. But the fury’s easier to feel. Easier to weaponize. Mother. Fucker. “Dante told Baylor? Dante doesn’t even know Baylor!”

I ignore the mug he offers me and reach for one of my own. “Dante told the masseuses, and they told Baylor.”

Viktor sets the mug on the counter with a frown. “When were there massages? Did you take Baylor to our couple’s massage?”

I pour out my drink. “Let me make it up to you. Maybe you and Baylor should go paint each other’s portraits instead.” The words are already out of my mouth before I can stop them. Petty. Mean. But they hit their mark, and that ugly part of me feels… satisfied. For half a second.

Viktor grips the edge of the counter and takes a few deep breaths. I expect him to get mad, but he mostly seems… hurt. The petty part of me that wanted to hurt him, to get him back for the way he hurt me, is elated. The rest of me is conflicted. If he doesn’t care about me, why is he trying so hard? If he does, then what’s his excuse for not wanting to prioritize me the other day?

“Knova…” He sounds physically pained.

“Forget it.” I take my mug of fizzy water and clutch it close to my chest. “I’m going to unwind and shower, and then we’ll head over to Knight’s.”

The tension lingers between us when we cross the street half an hour later, each carrying a bottle of wine. It looks like he sprung for a decent vintage, and again, what the hell? What’s his game?

Sofia greets us at the front door with big hugs and a knowing smile. Of course, Knight told her. It’s only a matter of time before word gets out, and I have the unpleasant feeling that if I insist on an annulment after the beans are spilled, I’m going to look like the bad guy.Oh, Knova, how could you break that poor boy’s heart! After you burned down a building, too? I swear, I don’t know what’s gotten into you…

“Hey, Knova.” My brother comes bounding into the entryway while Sofia spirits our bottles of wine to the kitchen. “This is going to be so fun, right?”

“Um, sure.” God, this is so awkward. Knight would never wingman for Viktor if he knew that he might have cheated on me, but I’m not psychic enough to beam this information into my brother’s brain.

The painting station is already set up at the kitchen table. It looks like we’ll be working with acrylics, so we can use canvases that are set up on tiny easels. This is a genuinely cute idea, and under other circumstances, I might even be able to enjoy myself, but it feels like ever since Viktor and I got married, he’s become someone else. Someone I don’t know. A familiar face with a stranger behind it.

I’m off kilter.

“I said we should do finger paints, but Sof said that would be too messy.” Knight sits down beside me. Viktor and Sofia sit across from us so that we can look at our partner while we paint. Partner. I wouldn’t mind having a partner. What I do mind is being emotionally manipulated by a man who’s taken me for granted more than once.

Viktor laughs. “Fingerpaints would cater to my skill level, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t go well with finger foods.”

“Paint’s safe to eat these days, right?” Knight looks to me for confirmation.

I scoff. “The fact that you’re open to eating paint says a lot about your standards.”

My twin sulks. “Fine, we could eat first and then paint afterward. I’m just saying, finger painting is fun.”

“Watercolors are fun, too!” Sofia insists. “Besides, I know we all have experience with them.”

Viktor grins. “You’re talking about Mrs. Knissen’s class.”

“Our middle school art teacher?” I wrinkle my nose at the memory. “That was forever ago.”

“I really liked her class.” Sofia brings out four wine glasses and a corkscrew. The charcuterie platter is already available. I know Sofia picked it out, because she got the good stuff: capicola, prosciutto, those tasty little pickles, and real cheese, the kind you have to slice. I know my brother. He would have gone for bagged pepperoni slices and meat cubes. Cretin.

“The class was fine,” I say. “But I don’t miss middle school.”

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