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I am blessed to feel this kind of love. Many live their entire life without feeling that; I know this. We married too young ... we both know that. Now, however, we realize what we once had. There is nothing I won’t do for Tristan Carrington. My happiness revolves around his. I have accepted this.
He is mine, and I am his.
I just need to get rid of his wife.
Tears fill his eyes. He sinks onto the bed and drops his head into his hands. “She’s getting worse.”
I sit next to him, the bed squeaking loudly under our weight. “Tristan, honey, I don’t know how she could get any worse. She doesn’t even leave his room.”
“I know, but ... but I’m afraid she’s going to do something.”
“What? Like kill herself?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I think the move into the new house has been really hard on her.”
Moving into a $3 million mansion that her husband’s money paid for has been hard on Nina? Give me a break.
“She’s been abnormally depressed the last three weeks. Usually, she’ll talk to me when I bring her food, or whatever, but now she won’t even look at me. And I’ve caught her crying. I hadn’t realized it, but she rarely cries anymore. Until now. She’s even stopped bathing ...”
God, I hate her.
I.Hate.Her.
“She is ruining your life, Tristan. There has to be a point where someone moves on from trauma. She isn’t—shewon’t. I understand why you stuck with her for the first few years after his disappearance ... but, Tristan,” I put my hand on his knee, “it’s enough. You have to move on—fromhernow. You have to think ofyou. Shouldn’t your wife try to be normal foryou? Why isn’t she making an effort? Aren’t you enough of a reason for her to pull her shit together? Think about that.”
Tristan exhales a long, shuddering sigh. “I know, I know.”
“Baby.” I grab his chin and turn his face to meet mine. “It’s time.”
And before he can respond, I kiss him. A long, slow, passionate kiss. One that we have shared many, many times before.
* * *
I stand in the doorway and watch Tristan’s Audi back out of the motel parking lot.
About thirty minutes outside of Rock Hill, the Arrowhead Inn caters to truckers and motorcyclists passing through, and rents rooms by the hour. It is our meeting place. The twelve-room brick building is falling apart, filthy, and smells like curry, but it’s ours. The manager—a half-blind seventy-year-old hippie—doesn’t even bat an eye when we show up. Honestly, I don’t even think he knows who Tristan is.
I cry the moment I drive my car out of the parking lot—as I do every time after leaving Tristan.
I should be going home to him. We should be together.
By the time I arrive at my modest three-bedroom, two-bathroom, cookie-cutter home in my cookie-cutter neighborhood, the tears have been replaced by anger.
I storm inside, grab a bottle of wine, and retrieve the burner phone I purchased three weeks ago. I settle in on the couch and dial her number.
“Hello? Hello?”
A smile tugs at my lips. I inhale, lean back on the couch, and kick my feet up onto the coffee table.
“Hello? Hello?” Nina repeats, her voice pitched with panic.
My smile widens.
“Please, is anyone there? Hello?” She begs like a child. “Please speak to me. Hello?”
