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My brain is screaming for solutions. I didn’t expect this wrinkle. “He didn’t tell me he was coming home early.”
“That’s very odd for a man not to tell his wife he was arriving home early from a business trip,” he says levelly. “Do you want to tell me the truth?”
Using a napkin, I wipe banana from Wade’s hands. “He was on a business trip,” I insist, playing innocent.
“Maybe you two should get your stories straight.”
“There is no story. He went on a business trip, came home early, and I decided to stay a few days longer. Is that a problem?”
“I don’t believe you. I think you’re having problems, and you don’t want to admit it.”
Lana steps in, sending my brother a look. “Zane, don’t accuse her of something you’re not fully aware of.”
“I’m protecting her,” he retorts. “Paige, tell me the truth. Is your marriage in trouble?”
I sigh and wash my hands, drying them before I turn and tell them a semi-truth. “Foster and I decided I would take a few days away. He’s embroiled in some issues with a land purchase.”
“The land in New Jersey?”
I look at my brother in shock, my mouth gaping. “How, how did you know?”
“Word gets around. It looks like Foster is in for a legal fight.”
“He’s distraught, and I thought it best to let him sort out his issues while I was away.”
Zane frowns. “That’s not how you handle a marriage.”
“But, it’s giving him the time he needs.”
“Then, when are you going home?”
“Are you kicking me out?” I ask with a scoff.
“Not at all. We love having you here, but I would prefer to know your marriage is okay, even if it is to that jerk.”
“Zane!” Lana shouts.
Zane chuckles defensively. “I’m sorry, babe. I never liked the guy much, but I’m dealing with him because Paige loves him.”
“Maybe I should go home.” Without another word, I slink toward Zane’s office to retrieve my things.
“I didn’t say you have to leave now,” Zane says at my back.
Stopping, I speak over my shoulder, “I should go. I need to see how things are going. I only wanted to give Foster space to think without worrying about me.”
I get to the penthouse by mid-morning. It’s quiet, and when I call out for Foster, I receive no answer. Making use of my free time, I boot up my laptop and start searching for apartments to rent. I decide to give Foster until just after our one-year anniversary, which is in two weeks before I move out.
I lug my suitcase to the laundry—a small room next to the pantry. We rarely used the washer and dryer set because the maid takes our clothing to be cleaned downstairs. I’m going to miss the services the building provides. As I am loading the washer, the sound of footsteps on the floor startles me. Peeking out from behind the door, I notice Foster entering the kitchen. He looks disheveled.
I alert him to my presence by making loud noises as I shove clothing into the washer, but Foster never bothers to look. When I am finished, I go to find him. He is in his office, running his hands through his hair, looking scared.
“Foster?”
He doesn’t look at me as he scrubs over his at least two-day-old scruff. “It’s falling apart.”
I step into the room, pausing before his desk. “What’s falling apart?”
“Everything,” he whispers.
