Page 17 of Cruel Lies

You're never laying a finger on me again.

"Now, I'm serious—go change. And tell the kids to come down. It's time for family dinner."

Thankfully, he doesn't try anything else. He shuffles upstairs to put on shorts and a t-shirt and comes back down with Hayden and Isabella in tow. We eat at the dining table and the kids keep things mostly neutral, babbling on about their days and their friends and the many things that occupy their minds and imaginations.

I try not to flinch every time Hayden talks about Ms. Sampson, and for the most part, I do a good job.

I try not to stare loathsome daggers at Todd, too, and I mostly keep that under wraps as well.

But I can't help needling just a teensy little bit.

"Oh, by the way," I say, casual as anything. "I saw Paula today. At car line."

I'm looking at the water pitcher in my hand, not directly at him. But my peripheral vision is locked onto every tiny change in his facial expression.

His fork, raised halfway to his mouth and dripping with sauce, pauses in midair. Then he shakes his head and finishes the bite.

"Oh yeah?" he says. "How's she doing?"

"Great," I say brightly. "She looked amazing, as always. Said the most embarrassing things about my weight, honestly. You know how she gets." I take a sip. "We should have her over for dinner sometime. It's been forever."

He coughs on the food in his throat and has to whack his chest a few times before it clears. "Y-yeah," he splutters. "Sure. Maybe. Although, I dunno… I'm sure she's busy."

I smile widely. "Yes, you're probably right. She's got her hands full, that's for sure." I grab the serving dish and hold it out to him. "More marsala, darling?"

He tries again that night.

The kids are down. Hayden is happy to read himself to sleep, but Isabella requires a full and ferocious negotiation of stuffed-animal placement before she relents. I handle it all myself so Todd can catch the end of the Mets game on TV.

Now that that's over, though, the house is quiet, the Mets have predictably lost, and we're in bed. I'm under the covers in my least appealing pajamas, doing my level best to broadcastunavailable.

Doesn't matter. He slides in next to me, all warm and toothpaste minty,and his hand finds my hip under the covers. Those thick fingers start a slow, proprietary creep that makes me shiver.

"I thought we agreed to wait," I remind him lightly.

"I know, I know," he murmurs. "I just… You in that dress tonight, Cal… I missed you."

Did you? It doesn't seem like you were lacking for company in bed,I sneer in my head.

I squirm away, just out of reach, and press the back of my hand to my forehead in the universal symbol of a woman about to disappoint a man. "I'm sorry. I've got this awful headache. It's been building since this afternoon—I think it's a migraine, honestly, I've got the auras and everything."

His hand freezes on the sheets between us. "You sure?"

"I wish I wasn't, but yeah." I sit up, wincing convincingly. "You know how I get with these. I'm gonna be up half the night, tossing and turning, getting up for water, taking my pills. I'll keep you up." I lean over and kiss his cheek, simultaneously resisting the urge to vomit on his lap. "Let me go sleep in the guest room tonight. For your benefit. You need your rest."

What a considerate wife. How self-sacrificing. Even with a migraine, my first thought ishiscomfort.

It works exactly like the rest of it has worked tonight, which is to say, perfectly, because Todd Bradshaw has spent ten years being told he comes first and no longer has enough brain cells to question the premise.

"You're the best," he says, already rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. "Feel better, babe."

"I'll try," I whisper.

I pad down the hall to the guest room and close the door softly behind me.

And then I do not sleep.

Instead, I sit cross-legged on the guest bed in the dark and open my laptop. The blue glow of the screen lights up my face, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks, maybe months; hell, maybe even years—I feel something that isn't rage or grief or quiet, muzzled despair.