Page 97 of Cheater

I hear my phone, so I go find it on the console table by the door.

Grace.

I answer with, “What did I say?”

“Who is she? What’s the story? I’m shocked, Derek. Shocked. A girlfriend? That big smile on your face? The frown on hers? What’s all that about? What’s going on? You have to give me something. I saw her the other day and she didn’t look like an escort or a porn star, but girlfriend?”

“Leave it alone, Grace.”

“Not a chance.”

“It’s love,” I say, simply. Because I think that’s what this is. There’s no other apparent explanation.

She laughs.

And now I’m irritated.

“No. For real,” she prompts.

“For real,” I state. “I can’t do this right now. I’m busy.”

“She doesn’t look in love. That’s the second time I’ve seen her and both times she has looked distraught.”

“I can’t talk. I’ll call you later.”

“In a fight? First girlfriend. Second fight?” she pushes.

“Bye Grace.” I end the call, pour myself a bourbon, and wander back to the bedroom.

Chloe is still under the covers.

I figured there’d be a fight. Maybe some yelling. Maybe some threats coming at me. Some slaps or claws. I was looking forward to wrestling her into submission and showing her how good it’s gonna be.

But she’s under the blankets like a lump.

“The bath’s gonna get cold,” I tell her.

I undress and get into bed beside her. I’ve already let the water out of the tub after it sat for over an hour and made some calls to arrange a surprise for her. I prop my cheek on my hand while on my side facing the lump under my covers.

She’s still. Too still. Like she’s holding her body taut while also holding her breath.

I quickly yank the blanket, exposing her.

She looks completely wrecked. Beyond distraught.

And something strange happens. It lands like ice shards sinking into my chest.

I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve finally got her where I want her. And she looks like her world has fallen apart. It has. But it wasn’t the right world for her. She was in a world built on picking the wrong man. She’ll see that.

I push away the urge to turn the lamp off, so I don’t have to see it. Don’t have to see the messy hair, the bloodshot puffy eyes, the downturned pretty mouth.

Instead I roll over and gather her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin so I can comfort her.

She struggles.

“No,” she cries out brokenly.

I hush her, pressing my mouth to her forehead.

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