Page 5 of Shame

Get out, I say in my head. It doesn’t translate to words out loud, though.

“I can’t sleep,” I whisper, and he pulls me into his chest.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The tears come again, and he holds me tight as I soak the front of his t-shirt. Eventually I fall asleep again, exhausted, and when I wake up for the second time, it’s mid-morning.

Luke is passed out beneath me on the couch.

We’re both damp with sweat and my heart is pounding.

I roll onto my back and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. God. When was the last time Luke slept in this late? He’ll be pissed.

And then right on the heels of that thought is another, more bitter one. Why do I care? His schedule is not my problem. His work is not my problem.

Fuck.

I kick at the blanket he pulled over us.

“What’s wrong?” he mumbles.

I don’t say anything. I just keep wrestling with the throw until I’m free, then I lurch to my feet. I stumble to the kitchen and go through the motions of making coffee.

Luke follows. A big shadow of a man. He doesn’t any anything at first. The silence looms, ugly and familiar. He never says much.

We don’t talk anymore.

And when he does open his mouth, it’s the inevitable retreat. His evergreen excuse to get away from me. “I have to go to work for a few hours.”

Work. I slam the cupboard door shut. “Where you fucked her.”

“I never— Never at the office. It wasn’t like that. It was stupid and private.”

Things like that are never as private as people think. “Who knows about the affair?”

“Nobody.”

“Sam wouldn’t cover it up. He’d have told me. Does your assistant know?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” There’s an unstable edge to my voice and I hate it. I’m not out of control here, he is. I’m just asking questions I have every right to know the answer to. “Why do you have to go to work, anyway? Are you going to destroy more evidence?”

“I’m going to take some time off. It’ll be easier to explain that in person. I need to pick up a few things. Bring a laptop home.”

I spin around. “You’re the fucking boss, Luke. Have them courier you your shit.” But then another thought forms in my head. If he leaves for a bit, I can search his closet. I sigh and square my shoulders. Easier to be the bigger person when you’re secretly a petty, vindictive bitch. “Okay. No, I get it. Go to work.”

“I won’t be long.”

“I might change the locks while you’re gone.”

His nostrils flare. “Don’t do that. I’m going to get some stuff so I can work from home for a few weeks. We’re going to get through this.”

The only thing I’m going to get through is a divorce, and I’m going to do it like a fucking winner. In the cold light of day, I’ve moved into an icy calm. Yelling at him didn’t work. Now I need to get strategic.

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