Her coffee arrives. Without looking up, she pulls the lids from the creamers and dumps them into her cup.
She lifts the mug to her lips, but halfway there her hand freezes. Coffee spills onto the table as she slams the mug down. Abruptly, she stands up.
“Where did you get that?”
She is backing away from the table, shaking her head. “Why is my name on there?”
I run my tongue across my teeth. “I was hoping you could tell me that?”
She bolts for the door. I stand up, tossing a twenty on the table and go after her.
I follow her into the parking lot and corner her by the newspaper stand. “You are not getting out of explaining why your name is on this deed along with my husband’s!”
Her face is washed of color. She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Leah. He never — I don’t know.”
She covers her face with her palms, and I hear her sob. That only makes me angrier. I take a threatening step toward her.
“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”
She pulls her hands away and glares at me.
“No. Of course not! I love my husband.” She is clearly insulted that I would even accuse her of such a thing.
“I love mine!” My voice cracks. “ — So, why does he love you?”
She looks at me with true loathing.
“He doesn’t,” she says simply. “He chose you.” It pains her to give me those words. I can see the emotion spilling from her skin.
I hold up the deed and shake it. “He bought you a house. Why did he buy you a fucking house?”
She snatches the deed from my fingers and points to a date. “Did you miss this little detail? Long before you, Leah.” She shoves it back at my chest. “But, you know that. So, why did you really trick me into coming here?”
I swallow — a nervous reaction. She sees it and smiles cruelly.
“I should have let them throw you in prison, you know that.”
She turns away, walking toward her car door. Her statement infuriates me. I follow her, digging my fingernails into my palms, I breathe through my nose.
“So you could have him?” I blurt. My blood pounds in my ears. I ask myself that question all the time. I say it again. “You should have lost the case so you could have him?”
She freezes, looks at me over her shoulder.
“Yeah.”
I didn’t expect the truth. It frightens me. I open my mouth — force the words out. “I thought you loved your husband.”
She blows air through her nose. The action reminds me of an agitated horse. Her eyes rove from my shoes and land in disgust on my face.
“I love yours too.”
Chapter Twenty-Four Past
Before Caleb and I were married, I rarely allowed my parents to be around him out of fear that their opinions would rub off on him, and he’d start looking at me like they did. Most of my other boyfriends hadn’t caught on to their veiled insults and cold parenting. Caleb was smart, he’d see right through them, right through me — and start asking questions. I didn’t want the questions or the eventual resignation it would bring: Leah is a disappointment. She’s not the real deal, just the secondhand daughter.
I didn’t like anyone knowing my shit. So, for the two years of our courtship, I herded him in and out of social events with my family with meticulous precision. It was exhausting for the most part — making sure no one said too much, the conversations didn’t dip too deep. After the wedding, that changed. Maybe, I felt more comfortable since I had the commitment, or maybe it was the fact that I had finally told him the truth about where I came from.
We were formally invited to attend dinner at their house a week after we got back from our honeymoon. Caleb was still bristling over the fact that my father wouldn’t walk me down the aisle.
“I don’t want to go, Leah. What he did was disrespectful to you. He’s lucky I didn’t call him out at the wedding. I won’t let him treat you like that.”
I loved that. I felt more valuable in those five seconds than I had in years.
“Please,” I reached up on my tiptoes and kissed his chin. “Let’s just keep the peace. I love my sister. I don’t want to cause a rift.”
He grabbed my upper arms and squeezed gently, narrowing his eyes. “If he says one word, Leah, one word that I don’t like…”
“You’re going to punch him in the face,” I said firmly.
He grinned crookedly and kissed me roughly on the mouth — just the way I liked it.
“I’m going to punch him in the face if he serves duck. I hate duck.”
I giggled against his lips. “What about if he tells the scuba diving joke?”
“That too — he’s getting hit for the joke…”
We were moving toward the bedroom, our feet shuffling together, our lips never far apart.
I laced my fingers in his hair, the edges of my thoughts fraying until they fell apart, and all I could think of was his touch and his husky voice in my ear.