Page 115 of Every Silent Lie
“What time do you want me?”
“All the time,” I say, making him smile down at the table.
“I feel the same, in case that needs clarifying.” He pushes my teacup and saucer over and rests back. “I was thinking about tomorrow.”
My cup pauses at my lips. Tomorrow. I don’t know how it’s been three years. I’m both horrified that the time has flown past but also dragged agonisingly slowly, and thankful that this darling man has remembered the date I mentioned to him only once. “And what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking we should do something.”
“After work?”
“No. Take the day off. You don’t need to work to keep busy if I’m keeping you busy.”
Take the day off. I’d never entertain such a crazy suggestion, not on any normal day. But on December nineteenth? “What will we do?”
“Be together,” he says simply.
Be together so that I’m not alone. That lifts the heaviness of my heart a tiny bit. “I signed the acknowledgment letter with the divorce papers,” I declare out of nowhere.
Dec’s eyes fly up, his cup lowering, and he nods, thoughtful for a few moments. “I’ve asked my lawyer to widen the search for my wife.”
I inhale my surprise. “Why did you marry her?” I ask, finally plucking up the courage.
He looks away, scowling at thin air. “Momentary lapse in judgment.”
“And she just left?” Dec didn’t leave her, she left him?
“Yes.”
He’s bitter, and that doesn’t sit well, which is ironic coming from me, I know. But, again, she left him. “What will happen if she comes back?”
“Then I get my divorce quicker.”
“So you want that. A divorce?”
He frowns. “Yes, I want a divorce.” Irritation slips into his tone. “She’s dead to me.”
Dead. Like his father is to him. And yet I know as well as the next person that there’s a fine line between love and hate. He doesn’t truly hate his father. And I suspect he doesn’t truly hate his wife.
I wonder again, with annoying curiosity, what happened between them and why he’s so bitter. Maybe it was simply because she left him. But, again, why would she? He’s handsome, successful.
Cold.
Could that have been why? Mr. Serious was too serious? And yet I’ve seen Dec’s many sides. He’s serious, yes, but he’s also light, sensitive, funny, warm, and a whole load of other things. “What’s her name?”
“Chelsea.”
Just a one-word answer, which is fine because it was a closed question, but something tells me I wouldn’t get more out of him if I tried. I hate the fierce curiosity in me. I also hate the idea that someone could come along—his wife—and burst my bubble. Like I said, there’s a very fine line between love and hate, and I’m worried I’m looking at it.
“I need to talk to you about something,” Dec pushes his tea away, his persona not as light and easy as it was before we touched on his wife.
A man walks in, bringing a gust of cold air with him, and I shiver in my chair. Or could that be Dec’s declaration that he wants to talk about something? Because everyone knows when someone says that, the chances are you’re not going to like the topic. “What?” I ask, obviously cautious.
“Your face.”
“My face is fine,” I try not to sound tired, and I know I’ve failed when Dec flashes me a look somewhere between warning and disbelief.
“You didn’t do it at work, Camryn.”
