Page 128 of The Bad Husband

He powers off his phone, and the screen goes dark.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” he says, not answering my question.

Minutes later, we’re in his car, heading west.

I have no idea where we’re going. He hasn’t said a word since we left his club.

The night is peaceful, and in a different life this would probably be the best time of our lives.

In reality, I’ll be attending classes two months from now. A year from now, I’ll be out of college, and Henrietta’s life, and I’ll have my money.

I never seriously considered what to do with it.

My plan has always been to live a normal life. Get a job, find a place to live, and have a serious boyfriend.

I had him pictured in my mind down to the smallest details, and let me tell you, he didn’t look like Damon.

Now that I study him, his fist tense on the steering wheel, his stare pinned on the road ahead of us, I realize why I always loved timid men. They come with less danger, drama, uncertainty, and pain.

And you, as their girlfriend, can only benefit from it.

My eyes stay fixed on his profile while I wonder if it’s not too late to go back to my favorite type of man.

My father was like that, and see where it’s gotten him.

He fell for someone like Henrietta after spending a lifetime with my mother, a woman just like him.

There are no guarantees in life, and that should put me at ease.

No one knows what the future holds.

“Where are we going?” I ask eventually.

“We’re paying someone a visit,” he says mysteriously, and I muse whether it’s the type of visit from which we’ll leave with a suitcase filled with cash or body parts.

He doesn’t offer more information, so I glance away and stare into the night, sunk in thought.

Before long, we enter a rural area with scattered modest homes. A few lit windows pop up here and there.

Ten-year-old trucks sit in the driveways.

Tree swings hang from the branches of old trees. And dogs bark from time to time.

It’s the last place I thought we’d be visiting tonight.

It seems like he picks a house at random when he steers his car right. We enter a long gravel driveway and approach a small house with a porch.

A white old truck is parked to the side.

The kitchen window is lit. The rest of the house is cloaked in darkness.

That changes, though, when we pull up in front of the house. Light floods the porch and the door opens.

A tall, gray-haired man steps out. He wears jeans and a plaid shirt. His boots hit the wooden floor hard, as if he hides a bony, muscular frame under his clothes.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“My great-great-uncle,” he says, not looking at me.