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And just like that, Lance Oakley was gone.
THE drizzle was strangely comforting on my walk home. It reminded me of the dreary days I’d learned to get used to when the climate was still new to me. In the beginning, when I first moved to London, I missed the California sunshine. But as I blossomed in my new environment, immersing myself with school and the heavy cultural influences around me, I grew to love the London rain. So, as the drizzly drops scattered over my purple hat and scarf, I wasn’t bothered a bit. The rain had always felt cleansing to me.
I walked faster, hurrying to make it home before Ethan discovered my absence, and the questions he would have about where I’d been. I knew I absolutely wasn’t ready to discuss Lance with him yet. I owned the truth about what had happened to me seven years ago at that party, and re-hashing it again in conversation was not something I was quite ready to share, even with Ethan. He would have to understand that I needed to do this my way, and trust in me to make the best decision for myself. And, in many ways, for us. Ethan should understand the process now as he was finally into therapy himself. Being forced to re-live traumatic events did not always help the victim. Sometimes it hurt badly.
I pushed through the heavy glass doors of our building and waved to Claude as I headed for the elevator. I pressed the button and waited, feeling a little sweaty now that I was out of the rain. I dragged off my hat and figured I now sported mega hat-hair, and hoped I wouldn’t have to ride up with anyone, to spare him or her the sight of me.
The doors opened and out came a tall blonde I’d seen before. Sarah Hastings was dabbing at the corner of her eye with a floral handkerchief, as if she were drying tears.
She stopped abruptly, realizing I’d spotted her, and it was too late to pretend I hadn’t. “Oh, Brynne, hello, it’s me, Sarah. Do you remember me from Neil’s wedding?”
“Yes, of course, I remember you. How are you?” What I really wanted to ask her was a bit different: Why are you coming out of my building, and were you just up with Ethan?
I had my reasons to be wary of Sarah, though. The texts from Ethan on her phone were one annoying thing, but when she called him later that evening, my wifely intuition perked up. And now she was here at our home meeting with him? I got the feeling she was using him, or possibly something more, and I did not like it one little bit. I also knew how hard it was for Ethan to interact with her. Ethan’s worst trauma had been the loss of Mike while they were prisoners. He’d been forced to watch the murder and was tortured emotionally throughout. It was horrible for him to have to re-live the events through Sarah each time she called, or wanted to reminisce, or whatever the hell she was trying to do with my husband.
She swept her eyes over me, took in my swelling pregnant self, and much to my irritation, the messy hair and damp skin. I knew I looked ghastly. “Oh, I’m just leaving now, but I’m fine, thank you.” She blinked and looked down at the ground. Her eyes were red and it was apparent to me she’d been crying.
“Are you sure? You look upset.”
“Actually, I’ve just left your husband—there was—something I needed…to give him.”
“May I ask what that was?” I asked, boldly.
“Um…I think you have to ask Ethan, Brynne, I’m not at liberty to say.” She shook her head and looked pained to be standing and talking to me. Sarah Hastings resented me, and if I had to peg her further, I’d say she felt guilty about it, too. Maybe she begrudged the life Ethan and I were living together…while she had only memories of Mike.
Exactly what I was afraid of. The feelings coursing through me were unwelcome and unpleasant. I felt jealous and useless at the same time. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just nodded and stepped into the elev
ator. Sarah had already turned away when the doors closed.
When I let myself into the flat I anticipated Ethan to be right there tapping his foot, but he wasn’t. Things were quiet. It wasn’t Annabelle’s day so I wasn’t expecting her to be around, but Ethan knew I planned on cooking tonight so we could have a quiet evening together before he left for his trip.
I checked our bedroom, thinking he might be in there packing, but he wasn’t. I headed back through the great room toward the other side of the flat, when I smelled the cloves. The door to his office was closed, but I peeked in without knocking. The room was dark except for two forms of illumination: the aquarium and the burning tip of his Djarum Black.
“You’re in here.” My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and caught a glimpse of his face through the shadows. He looked grim as he sat there smoking in his study. Not happy to see me. No real acknowledgment. “Is everything all right?” I asked, stepping forward.
“You’re back,” he said idly. He just sat there staring at me, the bright lights of the tank framing him from behind, Simba and Dory swimming peacefully among the pieces of bright coral, as he ignored my question.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I wondered if he would tell me about Sarah’s visit. It was pretty clear that he was upset over it. He tended to go on a smoking fit after a bad dream or a flashback. Meeting or talking to Sarah seemed to bring about the same sorts of coping behaviors in him, but he smoked outside now exclusively, so doing it inside his office was my first clue that something wasn’t right. I wanted him to tell me about their conversations, but so far he hadn’t shared. I didn’t push him, as I’d promised, but it hurt me that Ethan could apparently speak to Sarah about things that he couldn’t with me. She could help him but I couldn’t? I wasn’t happy with how his reaching out to Sarah made me feel, but felt I couldn’t complain or bother him with it because it would just make things harder for him. I never wanted to be the one responsible for bringing Ethan more hurt and stress than he already had to deal with.
“How was your walk?” he asked, stubbing out his cigarette and standing. “I don’t want you in here breathing this shit.”
“Then why are you smoking in the house?” His manner was so cold, I felt a shiver of nervousness catch me.
“My bad.” He stalked toward me and steered me out with a firm hand to my back. There would be no resisting and no arguing, I could see that plain as day in the rigidity of his stance as he moved beside me.
We came into the kitchen where he left me to sit at the bar. He often sat there while I cooked dinner, either working on a laptop or asking about my day. But he didn’t look like he wanted to chat when he set his phone on the granite countertop with a clap. He looked up at me and folded his hands. His eyes told me he was fuming, swirling dark blue and searing.
I swallowed and tried again. “Ethan, did something happen to upset you?”
He raised an eyebrow at me, but didn’t answer the question. I realized he hadn’t answered a single question I’d asked him since I’d come home.
“Where did you go for your walk, baby?” He’s answering everything with questions of his own.
“I walked to Hot Java,” I said slowly, but getting the feeling he already knew. “Do you have something to say to me, Ethan?”
“No, my darling, I don’t, but I very much think you do.” He picked up his phone and held the screen up for me to see.
Lance Oakley embracing me on the street.
