Page 20 of The Bad Husband

I only wear mascara.

“Did you meet my husband?” she drones on, making a girlish gesture at her husband.

She looks amused and spoiled.

I shift my eyes to him.

His stare travels inside me at light speed as if he’s able to pick on everything that has happened to me since I last saw him.

Every thought I’ve had.

Every fear I have experienced.

Every disconcerting issue I have had with my being here.

Every question that has popped into my head.

Every dream I have held onto.

He seems to know everything with the precision of a watchmaker, affecting me in ways no other man has affected me before.

While my interaction with her barely scratches the surface of my awareness, I feel his curiosity and possessive thoughts deep inside me.

I almost choke on my breath as I make an effort to respond.

“We met last night. Not formally, of course,” I add. “We were in the house at the same time. Never got the chance to talk, though,” I lie with the kind of expertise that straight out scares me.

“Sure,” she says in the same casual tone.

It may be that she’s dismissive. It may be that she doesn’t believe an iota of what I’m saying.

Either way, I can’t tell.

Next, she makes the introductions.

“Mr. West. I’m glad to finally meet you,” I say, closing the gap between us.

He doesn’t rise from his seat, nor does he say a word.

Our hands connect, and he gives me what I deem to be a secret squeeze that seals our new agreement––to never look like we know a lot about each other in the presence of other people, but especially her.

His eyes stay locked with mine while he still holds my hand, a moment too long, perhaps, enough to ignite a little fire under my skin, while Henrietta opens the refrigerator and scoops out a bottle of water.

“I’d like one too, if you don’t mind,” I say, using this opportunity to break away from him, turn my back to him, and find my bearings while walking to his wife.

I can barely breathe.

She studies me with an intrigued look on her face.

“You should’ve had something to eat. You look pale this morning.”

Who can tell whether she’s facetious or not? I can’t. All I know is that I feel how she says I look.

I feel like I’m about to faint.

Her eyes travel down again.

“Where are you going?”