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My husband would know what to say. I’m not as good a liar as he is. That’s why I’m in this mess.
I text my husband. ‘Have you eaten?’
Of course, he’s eaten.
He texts back almost immediately. This confirms my suspicion. Whatever he feels for her, it’s more than just sex. Otherwise, he’d be in and out. My husband’s profession has trained him for this. Every minute spent is a dollar wasted somewhere else.
I read his response: Swamped here with charts. I’ll pick something up.
Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Herpes. A bastard child. I turn the gun over in my hands. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. I reach over into the passenger seat and use my scarf to wipe my prints. I have no idea if this even works. I’ve seen it in the movies.
What are you going to do, Josie? Make your move. If this were a game of chess, and isn’t all of life, then I’d have to be patient. Chess matches are usually won via a mixture of patience and the ability to predict your opponent’s next move.
I need to know my husband’s next move. That’s why I came. But now that I’m here, I’m not sure I want to know. I picture the two of them together. I think of her in our home. A protective instinct ignites inside me.
My mind flashes to the lilies in the coffee shop. I could be sick. You’re a fool. Everyone knew. Everyone but you. Something in me shifts. I’ve covered up bruises for years. Bruises are easy to conceal. Another woman, this kind of betrayal, is different. It can’t be hidden with a little makeup. I will not be made a fool of. I have a decision to make.
Just then something shifts in my periphery. My husband comes bounding down the stairs. He isn’t supposed to look happy. But he does. He’s supposed to look paranoid, guilty, if nothing else. He’s light on his feet. I wonder if he’s making up his lie with each step toward our side of town. Or if he has it down already. I wonder what he’ll say when he sees my face. I wonder if he’ll pick a fight. Ask me to step on the scale. I wonder what offense he’ll come up with this time in order to shift the focus from his own transgressions. I wonder how many times he’s asked me for a blow job when he’s already been inside her. I pick up the gun, wrap it in my scarf and stuff it in my purse. It’s not like I can just dump it. That would be irresponsible. Plus, it’s nice to have a secret of my own.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Izzy
“Relax,” Tyler tells me. He plops down on my couch and lets his head rest against the wall. Eventually, his eyes fall to half-mast. “You’re too wound up.”
I walk the length of my small apartment and back again. “How could this happen?”
“Like I told you—” His eyes are all the way closed.
“Just tell me again you’re sure she didn't see your face.”
He sits up and pulls his pipe from his jacket pocket. I watch as he lights it up. He takes a hit and then meets my gaze directly. “You need to chill.”
I scroll through Instalook. She hasn’t posted today. I feel sick.
“Relax,” he tells me again. He takes another hit. I stare at my phone, rereading Grant’s texts. Sometimes I just like to see his name on the screen. I want to text him now but I’m afraid. It would be an admission of my failure, and I’m not ready to concede. An image of his face in my bed flickers in my mind.
Tyler brushes his palms across his thighs like he’s just getting warmed up. He places his pipe on the coffee table and relaxes into my couch. I want to punch him. “She didn't see my face.”
I should have known better than to ask him. I really should have. “Jesus. Tyler,” I exhale loudly. “I told you there was a lot riding on this.”
He motions toward the pipe and then kicks his feet up. I won’t smoke dope at a time like this. Something horrible has happened, and I feel justifiably terrible.
“But I don't know, Iz.” His mouth stretches into a thin line. “That bitch…the way she took the gun…I'd be careful if I were you. She seems a bit off her rocker.”
I perch on the edge of the couch. “I still don't understand how she got the gun.”
“You told me not to kill her.” He throws his hands in the air. His tone is not apologetic. “You said you just wanted me to scare her.” He gestures widely. “What was I supposed to do? Tackle her for it?”
“I don't know,” I admit. “This is a nightmare.”
He cocks his head. “Where's my money? I'm going to eat now that I'm going to have to buy Big Sean a new piece.”
“Big Sean? Seriously? What kind of name is that?” Suddenly, I get the urge to get high. I need something to take the edge off.
He shrugs. “He's a big guy—one that I'm going to have to buy a new gun— otherwise it'll be me who ends up swimming with the fishes.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe I should’ve just gotten Big Sean to do the job.”
