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Maybe I wasn’t supposed to hear that, but I do. The cold anger that unfurls inside me at the depth of hurt in Lana’s voice as she attempts to drink away whatever unkind words have been spoken to her this evening baffles me.
“Someone said something to you,” I say flatly, my eyes narrowed into slits.
She has poured her glass to the brim. Suddenly, I don’t want her finishing that drink. I don’t want her to have more reasons to resent herself in the morning.
A part of me wants to see her unravel, so I can put her back together again. To see the taut tension she carries inside her stunning body disappear.
Maybe it will give me a glimpse into the real Lana.
I stride over, then take the glass away from her before she can reach for it. “No.”
She gives me an insulted look, and I press my lips together. “Whatever has you bothered won’t be fixed by drinking.”
“How would you know?” Her expression is obstinate, which only she can make charming.
“Because I’ve done it consistently over the past two years,” I say softly, powerfully aware of what I’m letting slip.
Her eyes widen, then she glances down as if realizing why. “Your wife.”
“Yes.” I make a noncommittal sound, partly as if to agree with her assessment and partly in awe at the fact the dull ache that usually accompanies thoughts of Nyla isn’t there.
“Do you miss her?” she asks, the question so natural I answer without thinking.
“No.”
That seems to startle her, and she raises a brow. “Why not?”
I move away from her, not wanting to taint her with the memory of the woman who willingly chose to tear me apart. After I settle on the couch, I rest my elbows on my thighs as I stare at the carpet. “She was leaving me. She was pregnant with my child, and she was leaving me to be with her lover. I was in Canada for a meeting when I heard the news.”
There it was.
That dull throb.
The couch sinks next to me under Lana’s weight. I continue, having never told anybody the entire story and suddenly overcome by this urge to spill, let somebody else know I’m not the villain in this story.
“I didn’t even know she was leaving me,” I say numbly. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant. I just heard news of the crash, came flying back, then all the secrets, all the lies, came spilling out, one by one.”
My short laugh is bitter. “It was all right there, in my face. I just chose not to see the signs.”
Lana takes a heavy breath before she releases it with a sigh. “Well, that sucks.”
Chuckling, I cast her a sideways look. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”
“It sure beats my sad story,” she mutters.
I cock my head to study her. “I didn’t know you had one,” I say slowly.
“Of course I do.” She waves her hand. I can tell she’s buzzed, if only slightly. “Everyone has a sad story.” Then she leans forward, conspiratorially lowering her voice. “And if you don’t, you should always make one up. Makes you more human. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”
Amused at that, I ask, “Is yours an actual sad story?”
“It’s not sad,” she rectifies after some thought. “Just annoying.”
I wait for her to tell me, and she doesn’t disappoint. “I’m the youngest and the only girl in my family. It has the consequence of being the only one who can reproduce. They all think I should be settled down with some nice man, keeping house, and making babies by the dozen.”
I choke at that, unable to imagine this fierce woman playing the role of an obedient housewife.
“That sounds awful,” I deadpan.
