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“Can you sing?”
“Not really.”
“Next time try that.”
I almost got a laugh out of her. She refrained; she held back—why, I don’t know. But her shoulders relaxed. The tension in her jaw subsided. “Easy for you to say.”
“Nothing is easy for me to say.”
Her mouth twisted like she wanted to offer something in response, but couldn’t. “Come here,” I said. And she did.
Chapter Twelve
Laurel Dunaway
Journal Entry
James went low again last night. Thankfully, he seemed fine this morning. He was up and out the door, headed for the office before dawn.
If only I could summon the energy to follow suit. If only I didn’t have to. If only I could stay here in this bed and bask in the memory of what happened at the Belmond. I’ve been thinking about that a lot—about the difference between wanting and giving in. Turns out, there’s not much. I know because that is exactly what I did. I gave in.
The best part?
I don’t even feel bad about it. Not that it would be of any use. It was a one-off. It won’t happen again.
But, my God, was it exactly what I needed.
Although, I shouldn’t write about that now.
Maybe not ever. It’s dangerous. If someone were to find this journal…well, it could ruin everything. That’s the thing about secrets. They’re nearly impossible to contain. Especially over the long haul.
Even so…knowing the risk… something tells me that I have to get it out—that if I don’t, the weight of it will eat me alive.
The truth is, I don’t know how I ended up in that hotel room, except that I’ve never wanted to be anywhere more in my life.
It was almost as if some strange energy propelled me forward into the unknown, instead of my own two feet. Into the abyss. And the crazy part? It wasn’t even hard to make it happen. To let it happen. That’s what’s scary about the whole thing.
You never know how far you can go. Until you do.
My phone chimed, bringing me back to the present. A text from James. Can you check to see if the cat food I left on the porch this morning has been touched?
Eventually, I made my way downstairs. I checked the porch. The bowl of food he left was untouched. I text back. Bowl is empty. For good measure, I added the praying hands emoji. And then a smiley face for good measure.
He replied immediately. Whew. Good to know. Thanks. Keep an eye out, would you? Maybe drive around the neighborhood?
I’m on it, I wrote back.
God, I hate that cat.
God, I hope it comes back. Which is a real shame, because I resent how much James loves it. I know it’s not a personal attack on how he feels toward me. But that cat—well, the cat can do no wrong.
Me, on the other hand…
I didn’t drive around like I said I would. I did, however, leave the food out until late in the afternoon. Although, when I checked again, there was still no sign of the cat. I trashed the food, burying the evidence. Maybe it was a mistake. I just can’t deal with the consequence of telling the truth right now.
This is the thing about lies: you start with one and it cascades from there. Believe me, I know. I never intended to sleep with Max Hastings. But after days of going back and forth over my father’s medication and his “plan of care,” what happened between us felt like the next logical step. It sounds absurd, I know.
Sort of like…let’s just get this thing done. Let’s wash it and each other out of our system and get on with it. This way we could be free to focus on more pressing matters—like helping my dad die peacefully, for one.
