Page 30 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

If not him, then who? And why not?

So she did. Maureen told Soren everything, every last detail.

Soren listened without interrupting. Only when she was done did he say, “He was wrong to hurt you, Maureen. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want pity, you just said to tell—”

Soren silenced her with a kiss. “It’s not pity. Just acknowledgment that what happened to you was unfair. And wrong. I suspect I’m still right about him.”

“Even after all that, you think he’s into men?”

Soren shrugged. He ran his hands across her ankles, tracing shapes with his fingertips. “The only way he can get off is through extreme measures. There’s nothing wrong with sadomasochism, but if he has no interest in sex without that control and degradation, then it’s possible this is due to him being in denial about what, and who, really gets him off.” Soren gave her ankle a quick squeeze. “Whatever he’s got brewing inside him, Maureen, it’s not about you. And it’s not something you can fix by being more beautiful, or more desirable.” He touched his hand to his lips, and then her ankle once more. “Even if that were possible.”

Maureen had never considered her husband in quite this way. A part of her understood that it wasn’t about her, but she’d still convinced herself that if she was more beautiful, or more desirable, she might be able to change him. “How do you know all this?”

“I spend most of my life watching the world around me,” Soren replied. Outside a cloud passed overhead and the room was momentarily bathed in muted light. His brilliant golden hair was now simply blond; his cerulean eyes merely blue. “But that’s a writer for you. Nothing we write is original, just our version of things.”

“So you think I’m a fool for trying to make him love me.”

“No, Maureen. I don’t think you’re a fool at all.” Soren smiled, a gesture that animated his whole face. “Him, maybe. But if he wasn’t a fool, your feet wouldn’t be in my lap, would they?”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

His expression darkened. “There haven’t been that many.”

“I showed you mine,” Maureen said with a flippant nod. “Your turn.”

“My family drives them away. They’re either too poor, or too average, or too less than whatever my mother and aunt feel is best for me. Or, really, best for the family, seeing as we care more about our reputation than our emotional well-being.” Soren’s hands went still. “They know about you, if you’re wondering.”

“So soon? But how?”

“They don’t miss anything,” Soren replied. “Just as your family knows about us.”

Maureen’s eyes widened. “We only just met.” A thousand scenarios of her deepest secrets revealed danced through the space of a single thought. “There’s no way my family knows. I’ve been completely discreet.”

Soren shrugged. “Does it matter? They’ll leave us alone. Mine will because they know you have just as much to lose if the truth comes out, and if they keep me at least somewhat satisfied, then I’m not a liability. Yours will because they already meddled in your life once.”

Way more than once. “Somewhat satisfied?”

Soren watched her with a whimsical look. “I just met you and I already know you’ll satisfy one part of me. But everyone has something that has to be just for them.”

“Like your poetry.”

“Yes,” he said. He looked as if there was more, but he left it at that.

“But…” Maureen considered her words very carefully, as they came to her. “You write your poetry now. Don’t you?”

“I have to hide it away from the world. Same as you have to hide who you are.”

Maureen balked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re a Deschanel.”

“And?” Maureen’s heart rate surged.

Soren’s only response was a wry smile.

“Look—”

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