Fake Empire: Chapter 9

It’s hard to say which is more oppressive: the July heat or the five women staring at me with the intensity of a firing squad. “Are you and Crew trying for kids?”

I bite back the sarcastic retorts that come to mind in response to Eileen Waldorf’s probing question.

I’m still a virgin.

My husband is too busy with his mistresses.

Maybe in a decade or two.

Any of those comments would spread across the patio of my parents’ Hamptons house like wildfire. I may have clawed my way to relevance and respect in parts of the business world, but it’s come at the detriment of my standing among most of the women in New York society. My attempts to break out of the mold of marriage and kids haven’t made me any friends.

Eileen is only a year older than me. Before she married Daniel Waldorf last summer, she worked at a public relations agency. She had their first child a few months ago. It’s not uncommon for women to work—until they get married. I’m supposed to be joining the boards of charities and picking out nursery colors now that I’m Mrs. Kensington.

Instead of answering Eileen’s question with a sharp retort, I laugh and toss my hair. Just because I hate the game doesn’t mean I can’t play it. “No, not yet. We’re enjoying this time together, just the two of us.”

Seeing as we got married a month ago. I keep that last part to myself. I know what’s expected—and what passes as appropriate conversation—at these sorts of events. It’s why I avoid as many of them as I can. But there was no avoiding the Fourth of July party. I’ve attended every year for as long as I can remember.

Eileen nods and smiles, accepting my bullshit answer without batting an eye. I have a feeling I’ll be repeating it a lot. Enjoying is a stretch, but it’s not a lie I’d like to wait to have kids. It’s not that I don’t want them—I do. But kids will erase distance between me and Crew. Things between us are uncomfortable and awkward and I don’t know how to change that. It should be what I want. It’s exactly what I did want.

I didn’t realize he was making an effort until he stopped.

“Excuse me, ladies.” His voice makes me stiffen. It gives me goosebumps, despite the fact temperatures today are hovering in the eighties. “Would you mind terribly if I steal my blushing bride away for a moment?” Crew wraps an arm around my waist, acting the part of the doting husband so convincingly even I believe it for a second. I’m sure he can feel how tense I am.

The ladies who were previously interrogating me all coo variations of how sweet and newlywed bliss. A couple of them are close to my mother’s age. And yet they’re all eyeing Crew with the same appreciative gaze he seems to coax out of every woman who sees him. I add his annoying attractiveness to the long list of things I’m currently bothered by.

As soon as we’re out of sight from the nosy women, his arm drops. I don’t thank him for pulling me away—don’t say anything to him. It’s strange and uncomfortable having him here. Having to act like a happy couple when we’re the furthest thing from one.

We’ve barely exchanged twenty words since the car ride home from the Rutherford gala. I’m pissed—at him, at myself. He’s acting like the cold, aloof asshole I expected to find myself married to.

And it bothers me.

I miss the glimpses I got of the guy I don’t think many people see. I hate how he’s acting like I promised fidelity—like me and other men is more than just a blow to his male pride. I want to tell him it’s a ridiculous double standard, that no one here would be surprised to hear he’s cheated on me but would be scandalized if I repeated what I told him in the limo.

What I lied to him about in the limo.

And that’s the main reason I haven’t made any attempt to repair the damage that ride home inflicted: the indifferent expression Crew wore. I thought my lies would at least dent his ego. I lied, and I don’t want to lie again. I was hurt and mad, so I made up a “Hannah” of my own. I was hoping for distance. Just not this heavy, oppressive sort where it feels like we both might care we’re barely speaking.

“Did you need something?” I take a sip from my glass, trying to ignore the spot on my back that still tingles where he touched me just a minute ago.

He studies my movements. “You’re drinking?”

I raise both eyebrows, then deliberately look at the glass I’m holding. “You expect me to get through this sober?”

“Not at all. The more wasted you get, the fewer people will ask me if you’re pregnant. We both know what the chances of that are. With my kid, at least.”

I seethe as Andrew Spencer rounds the corner and nears where we’re standing, erasing any opportunity to retort. “Was that all, darling?”

“For now, sweetheart.” Crew has spotted Andrew as well. His tone has turned cordial. “I’m sure I’ll find another excuse to steal you away later.”

“Can’t wait,” I chirp.

“Crew! I thought that was you!” Andrew stops directly in front of us, blocking my immediate escape route. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Crew replies smoothly. “You? How’s Olivia?”

“Good, good.” Andrew’s voice and expression are jovial as he looks at me. “Scarlett. Wonderful to see you.”

I smile, but he’s already turned back to Crew. I finish off my champagne while they talk.

“Haven’t seen you since the wedding,” Andrew says, frowning. “How is everything at the company?”

“The usual.”

“Must be more hectic than usual. You haven’t been out in a month. Everyone has been asking about you.”

Crew’s eyes flick to me and away, so fast I almost miss it. I find fresh interest in the conversation.

“Yes. I’ve been busy.”

I didn’t realize Crew and Andrew were this friendly. Honestly, I’ve never paid close attention to anyone he socializes with at the events we’ve overlapped attending over the years. I talk to everyone out of obligation, even those close to me in age. The girls I attended boarding school with always gossip and the guys will slip in a suggestive comment or two between bragging about their investments.

“Busy. Right.” Andrew’s gaze is back on me. He’s smirking, leaving no question as to how he took Crew’s response.

“I should have known seeing Crew is why you wanted to come.” Olivia Spencer saunters over to where the three of us are standing.

I had every intention of making a hasty excuse and leaving Crew and Andrew to talk about whatever they want. But something—possibly the way Olivia is looking at Crew—keeps me in place.

At least Olivia is being somewhat subtle in her appraisal, unlike Hannah Garner. But I can still see the interest in the way her eyes widen and her lips turn up coyly. Before we got married, I made a deliberate effort not to pay attention to gossip about Crew when other women were involved. I’m starting to recognize that might have been a mistake. These women think they know everything about me, while I have no idea what history they share with Crew.

“You’ve been complaining Crew hasn’t been coming out,” Olivia adds, when none of us say anything. I don’t miss the look she gives me as she does. It’s obvious she blames me for the fact Crew hasn’t been frequenting New York nightclubs, and I’m tempted to tell her I’ve actually done everything I could to ensure he spends as little time around me as possible.

The petty part of me clinging on to the notion Crew Kensington is a means to an end, not someone who will mean something, is tempted to walk away. Instead, I decide to drop the act. Especially since Crew will think it’s an act.

I step closer to Crew. He’s wearing a white button down with the sleeves rolled up. His bare arm is pressed against mine now, sending small shockwaves across the surface of my skin. The electrifying sensation is almost enough to make me forget the purpose of this.

I take the glass from Crew’s hand and take a sip, almost draining the remnants of the smoky alcohol. Bourbon. My painted lips leave some red residue behind, and I place it back in his hand. Not the most subtle of gestures, and neither is the choice to use my left hand. Diamonds glint in the sunshine.

“I’m surprised you’re still hitting the nightclubs, Olivia. Don’t you think we should leave that to the teenagers?”

I feel Crew’s eyes on me.

“Oh, I do. Aside from the occasional girls’ night out. I’m sure you can appreciate that, Scarlett. You’re so…independent.” Olivia’s voice holds just as much sugar as mine as she edges back a half-step from Crew.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, it’s lovely to see you. This has become the only event I know I’ll see you at.”

“Work has been busy.”

Olivia’s lips purse at the mention of Haute. “You’ve worked miracles with that little magazine. I’d hardly even heard of it, and suddenly I see people mentioning it everywhere.”

“I prefer to think of it as wise investing and effective marketing than miraculous,” I reply. “And didn’t your father place a bid on my ‘little’ magazine?”

I know he did. I outbid Joseph Adams by ten million and have already made it back tenfold.

“I believe he considered it,” Olivia replies. “He decided print is a dying market.”

“Pity. Our earning statements tell a different story,” I respond, savoring the way her lips tighten.

“Just what you need. More money,” Olivia retorts, a bit of her sweetness dissolving.

“My thoughts exactly,” I reply.

Awkward silence falls. “I’ll let you two catch up,” I add. But before I walk away, I turn my head and whisper into Crew’s ear. “I’m not getting wasted tonight. We’re sharing a bed, after all.”

I don’t wait for his reaction to the implication. I smile at the Spencers and then head toward the pool.

When we reach the sand, I kick my heels off. The feel of the rough grains between my toes lightens the anxieties I’ve carried around all night. Rachel and Penelope, two women I went to boarding school with, are laughing and stumbling as we approach the roaring bonfire built on the beach. A bottle of Dom Perignon dangles between Rachel’s fingers as she talks a million miles an hour, occasionally almost falling flat on her face.

The bonfire is an annual Fourth of July tradition I’ve never participated in, which is something Penelope has pointed out three times in the ten minutes it’s taken to walk the boardwalk from my parents’ place to here in the dark. It’s exactly what I pictured it to be. Forced small talk with my social peers is one thing. Drunken debauchery is another. I’ve seen too many fake smiles followed by back-handed compliments.

As an Ellsworth, I’ve always been held to a higher standard. I know it. So does everyone else. People on pedestals appear perfect. Until they fall.

I’m no longer an Ellsworth, though. I’m a Kensington. Untouchable. Not only is Crew rich and connected, people like him.

We reach the group loosely gathered around the flickering flames. I glance over familiar faces, taking a quick inventory of everyone here—basically everyone who was at my parents’ party under the age of thirty. I catch Crew’s gaze across the fire. He’s standing with a group of guys, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. There’s no tie or suit in sight. Just a pair of navy swim trunks and a white button down that’s mostly unbuttoned. His hair is mussed. By the wind…or by something else. Would he do that? At my parents’ party with me present? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since our interaction with the Spencers. If he wanted to, he easily could have slipped away for a while.

Rachel pops the champagne with a squeal, drawing my attention back to her and Penelope. Sprays of white foam hit the sand as she directs the stream of golden liquid into the crystal glasses Penelope carried down. I take the offered one with a thanks. Bubbles tickle my throat as I down half of it in one sip.

Down here, in the dark, I feel different. I don’t feel on display. The compulsion to appear perfect and know exactly what to say is gone. Familiar warmth trickles through my veins as I drain my glass, lightening and loosening my movements.

I’m comfortable enough to chime in on Rachel and Penelope’s commentary. Soon, they’re taking bets on who is most likely to go skinny-dipping. I laugh as they recount previous years’ anecdotes while deciding who’s likely to go for a repeat.

“What about Crew?” I ask, when he’s the only guy they haven’t mentioned.

Rachel and Penelope exchange a look. “Crew never comes to the Hamptons in the summer,” Rachel tells me.

“Oh.”

“People had bets on today, you know.” She laughs at my surprised expression. “Don’t worry, I bet he’d be here. Only idiots didn’t. They’re the same people who call you a stuck-up bitch—they should know better.”

Penelope hisses, “Rachel!”

I don’t react. I know that’s how people see me. It’s different to hear it spoken in such blunt terms though.

Rachel shrugs. “What? It’s hard not to hate someone who gets everything she wants.”

My walls go up. “I’m going to find a restroom.”

The nearest house is the Kingsleys’—technically we’re on their stretch of private beach—but I don’t actually have any intention of going to the bathroom. I’ll stay long enough to make it clear no one chased me off, and then head back to my parents’.

My plan all along was to go to bed early tonight. For the first time, I’ll be sharing a bed with my husband. Ideally, I’ll be fast asleep by the time he heads to bed.

I pause by the fire. Now that the sun is gone, the heat from the flames counters the cool sea breeze.

“Got chilly, huh?”

I don’t turn right away. A second seems necessary. When I glance back, he’s closer than I expected. “You sure you never wanted to become a meteorologist? You seem to have a strange fascination with the weather.”

“I’m sure.”

“No one else finds your fascination strange?”

Crew sort of laughs, but it quickly turns into a sigh. “I don’t know what else to say to you, Scarlett.”

I look away, like I always do when we gravitate toward anything meaningful. “You don’t need to check in on me. Go have fun.”

He’s so close I can feel his sigh. His chest expands and his breath weaves through my hair as he exhales. I wait for his retreat—for his body to move away. Instead, he puts his hands on my waist and spins me around. So fast I have no time to react or protest.

We’re even closer now. Mere inches separate our faces as his hands loosen their grip on my hips. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do, Scarlett. If I don’t want to check on you, I won’t. If I don’t want to spend time with you, I won’t.”

“Okay.” I say the word softly. Too loud, and it might shatter this moment the way words have done before.

“Okay.” His echo is just as quiet.

The first firework startles me. It explodes in a spectacular display of sound and color, illuminating the shore and the sea and all the surrounds previously hidden by the night. The burning wood and the moonlight were weak in comparison. Distant strains of music from the house and the rhythmic battering of waves on the sand seem muffled.

Another explosion lights up the sky, sending pink arcs flying that fizzle and drift back down. Followed by another and another and another. Laughter and shouts are audible nearby, but I pay them no attention. I’m consumed by the sight of the dazzling display that keeps replacing the lingering smoke. I turn so I’m facing the fireworks, but I don’t pull away from his hold. I lean into it—literally—resting my back against his front. Crew’s arms remain looped loosely around my waist. Warm and secure and strong.

This moment feels magical, and I know it’s not the fireworks I’m watching or the champagne flowing through my bloodstream.

I resigned myself to marrying Crew. He was the best of decent options.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Our relationship is supposed to be based on mutual understandings and airtight legal documents. Not on trust and lust and all the other things squeezing my chest right now. Exciting, terrifying feelings. I can’t leave him, can never walk away. When he gets sick of being the doting husband and domestic life, I’ll be the one stuck waiting at home.

That will only hurt if I let it.

I tell myself I won’t, even as I relax my body against his and ignore the envious looks aimed my way. Crew may have married me for my money and my name, but he did choose to marry me. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to, like he just said.

“Who do you think came up with this?”

I tilt my head back so I can see his profile. “Came up with what?”

“The fireworks for the Fourth. What about a bloody war says let’s light up the sky?”

“They’re celebratory,” I reply. “My mom wanted fireworks for our reception.”

“Really?” His hand glides around the curve of my hip. It’s an innocent movement, a shift in position. Yet it sets my skin on fire. It’s been months since I had sex. I blame that for the awareness pooling in my stomach.

We’re sharing a room tonight. A bed. Up until now, I didn’t think there was a chance anything might happen. My comment earlier was a tease, a reminder that we haven’t before. Now, I’m consumed by the possibility that something could happen. That I might want it to.

“Really,” I confirm.

“Why didn’t we have fireworks at our reception then?”

“I told her no.”

“You weren’t celebrating.” It’s not a question, but a statement.

“They’re bad for the environment.”

He chuckles against my hair, and I feel the vibrations everywhere. “So is flying private.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

He’s still laughing. There’s a strange gooey sensation in my chest, like something is melting inside of me.

Rapid bursts of color pepper the heavens, signaling the start of the finale. We’re both silent through the end of it, staying still as the final flashes fade.

When the display ends, the magic disappears with it. I feel awkward, standing here with him holding me, not comfortable the way I was moments ago. I clear my throat. “I should head back up.”

Crew doesn’t move or react for a few seconds. When his hands do drop, I experience disappointment, not relief. “I’ll walk you back up.”

He’s expecting a you don’t have to do that. I bite it back and turn so I’m facing him. “Okay.”

There’s no triumph on his face, only excitement. “Let me grab my shoes from the gazebo.”

“You changed,” I state. Like an idiot who blurts out the obvious.

“Yeah. Some of the guys wanted to swim earlier.”

“Just the guys?” The clarification is out before I can stop it.

“Just the guys,” he confirms.

I manage a small, jerky nod. This time, there’s relief.

“Be right back.”

I watch him spin and walk away, admiring how his shoulders shift as he strides. The way his swim trunks hug his thighs and butt.

It’s one night. People have one-night stands all the time. I’ve had one-night stands. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I have another trip to Paris next week. That will force some distance between us. I can do this. I can not care.

Commotion distracts me from the internal pep talk. I squint in the direction of the Kingsleys’ gazebo, trying to make out the two figures standing near it. One of them throws a punch and the shape on the receiving end goes down like a parachuting stone.

I react without thinking, running in that direction along with everyone else in the vicinity. The upper class prefers back-stabbing to brawls. If you have a problem with someone, you say it to their face in a sweet tone. You don’t rearrange it.

And the last thing I’m expecting when I reach the huddle that’s formed around the fight is for Crew to be the one standing, sporting red knuckles and a murderous expression. I rush forward, my path unencumbered as soon as everyone realizes who I am. People are scrambling to get out of my way.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I shout once I reach him, looking between Crew’s furious face and Camden Crane, who’s sitting in the sand sporting a split lip.

Blood dribbles from Camden’s mouth as he begins laughing. “I would have said it to your face, Kensington. She must have a—”

Crew lunges forward and hits him again. Camden will have a black eye tomorrow to match his swollen mouth. I make the stupid decision not to walk away and ignore whatever is happening. Anyone else, I would. Instead, I shove Crew’s chest, feeling the adrenaline and animosity radiating off him. He’s breathing heavily.

“Crew. What is going on? What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer either question. Just keeps glaring at the guy on the ground. I look around at the assembled onlookers, trying to read the situation. Obviously Camden said something that pissed Crew off. Badly enough to convince Crew to disfigure his face.

Penelope and Rachel both have hands over their mouths, looking shocked. But it’s the men that I linger on. They all look cowed—nervous. Even Andrew Spencer, who I thought considered Crew a friend. None of them will make eye contact with me.

Camden laughs again. He wipes his bottom lip, smearing blood across his chin. “Didn’t think you were the type to get your hands dirty.”

“I thought you were the type who knew when to shut your mouth,” Crew snaps.

“I just had the balls to say what everyone else here was thinking.”

“That true?” Crew’s gaze lifts, roving across the assembled onlookers. Heads shake everywhere. A cruel smile twists Crew’s lips as he looks back down at Camden. “Try me again, Crane. Please. I’d love to make you completely irrelevant, not just mostly—the way you are now.”

Once that parting shot has made its mark, Crew turns and strides in the direction of the path that leads back to my parents’. After a minute of hesitation, I follow.

My mind is spinning in circles. Based on the whispers and side glances, I had some unintentional involvement in what just took place. I can’t recall the last time I spoke to Camden Crane. I have no idea what he could have said to set Crew off. I had no idea Crew could get set off by something about me. He was protecting me—defending me. And I have no idea at all how to process that.

The walk back is dim. My eyes adjusted to the brilliant fireworks and the glow of the bonfire. The weak moonlight is barely enough to pick my way along the boardwalk that weaves between stalks of beach grass. Salty air blows strands of hair across my face. I breathe deeply, trying to center myself.

I thought things between me and Crew would settle naturally. That we would find some routine that allowed us to reap the benefits of this arrangement without compromising our individual goals. But more and more, it’s feeling like things between us are being permanently decided. The disconnect between us feels like it’s hardening and callousing. The decisions we’re both making feel like they’ll matter—like they’ll define what the rest of our relationship looks like for however long it lasts.

When I reach the edge of the patio, I hesitate. I should slip inside and rejoin the party. Play the perfect hostess and give Crew a chance to cool off. I walk inside, but instead of following the sound of talking and laughter, I slip up the back stairwell that leads to the second floor.

The door to my usual bedroom is ajar, even though I’m certain I closed it before heading downstairs earlier. I push it open to reveal the room is empty and dark. But the bathroom light is on. I close the door behind me and drop my heels in a heap, announcing my arrival.

Silently, I pad across the jute rug over to the doorway that leads to the en suite. Crew is standing at the sink, washing his hands. The water runs pink.

I lean against the doorway, debating what to say. I settle on, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” His tone is as short as his response.

I stay in place as he shuts off the tap and dries his hands, avoiding the cut on one knuckle. “You should put some hydrogen peroxide on that.”

He doesn’t reply. I shove away from the doorframe, walking over to him. Tension is still radiating off him as I brush against his arm so I can lean over and pull the brown bottle out of the cabinet. I grab a few cotton balls as well.

“Sit.” I nod toward the edge of the tub as I soak the cotton with liquid. The harsh chemical smell burns my nose.

Crew hesitates before he complies. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he perches on the marble. The bathroom is big—as large as the one in my penthouse—but it feels tiny with his presence. I study the golden hairs on his tan arms. The way his shirt pulls taut across his shoulders. The blue eyes that see more than I mean to show.

Satisfied the cotton is soaked, I cross the tile and crouch down so I can dab the ball on the split between his knuckles. For a few seconds, the only sound is our breathing.

Crew speaks first. “You know, I’ve imagined you in this position before. Never doing this, though.”

I meet his gaze for a minute. A few retorts are on the tip of my tongue. Some dirtier than he probably thinks I’m capable of. But I don’t want our first time to be like this. So I ask a question I’m pretty sure will douse any more innuendo. “Why don’t you like the Hamptons?”

“I like them fine.” His response is nonchalant. There’s emotion underneath it though, underscored in the way his jaw tightens and his eyes darken. This close, I can’t not register the subtle changes.

“Then why don’t you come here in the summer?”

“Who told you that?”

I keep dabbing. “Rachel Archibald. It’s a good thing we had a short engagement. If the number of you’re not good enough for him comments I heard today are the amount after the wedding, who knows what it would have been like before.”

“Who said you’re not good enough for me?” Rather than gloating, his expression is more of a glower.

“I know what people think of me. I get everything I want without working for it, apparently.”

“You work hundred-hour weeks, Scarlett. Fuck anyone who says that.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking: you probably already did. I’m sick of the jibes.

He uses his uninjured hand to tilt my chin up. “I mean it. You’re Scarlett Ellsworth. You don’t care what anyone thinks.”

“I’m good at acting like I don’t.” More honest than I meant to be.

“You don’t have to act around me.”

I don’t answer at first. I lift his right hand so I can inspect the cut on his hand more closely. His knuckles are pink and swollen, but at least he’s no longer bleeding. “Kensington.”

“Huh?”

I drop his hand and throw the cotton balls into the trash can before I stand up. “You called me Scarlett Ellsworth. It’s Scarlett Kensington.” His smile makes me wish I’d stayed sitting. “I’m going to head back downstairs.”

He nods; I flee. I put my heels back on and step out into the hallway. I need space. Time. Distance.

Crew is confusing. Everything about him is confusing. What he says. What he does. What he doesn’t say. What he doesn’t do. And the way I feel around him is the most confusing of all.

Going into this marriage, I had one goal: to make Crew see me as an equal. I’ve retained all the power I had when I agreed to marry him. I didn’t consider any of the other ways I might want Crew to see me. I’m worried—terrified—what the repercussions of admitting I want things between us to be real might be. But continuing along the way we have isn’t tenable.

Rather than walk downstairs, I head into one of the other guest rooms down the hall. I feel like being alone. There’s a loveseat in the corner I curl up on. I lose track of time as I lie there and replay today in my head.

Once the sounds downstairs grow quieter and quieter, I stand and walk back down to my room. The bedroom is dark and the bathroom light is on, just like before. But there’s a big lump in the left side of the bed.

I tiptoe into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.

When I step back into the bedroom, Crew’s asleep. Or he’s doing a convincing job of pretending he is. He’s not wearing a shirt either. Until this evening, I’d rarely seen my husband in anything but a suit. I lean against the doorframe and look at him. His skin is golden. I’m not sure when he has the chance to absorb any Vitamin D. He seems to work almost as much as I do. His tan stands out against the white sheets loosely draped over the abdomen that’s impressively defined even while relaxed. He must work out. When, I have no clue. That realization bothers me. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks living with him, and I learned more when I was spying on security footage from across the Atlantic.

Getting to know Crew terrifies me. The little I already know intrigues me. The reasons for this marriage were supposed to be the real part. The money, the opportunities, the empire our combined resources would form. Me and him were supposed to be fake.

Instead, the empire feels fake.

Leaning against Crew earlier felt very real.

What happened to her? That girl who didn’t care? There was a very recent time when I didn’t second-guess anything. When I wasn’t tempted to leave work early. When I didn’t get distracted. When blue eyes didn’t haunt my thoughts.

A tiny corner of my heart whispers the answer. She married Crew Kensington.

I turn off the bathroom light and tiptoe across the floor until I reach my suitcase. It takes me a few minutes to sort through my belongings in the dark, but I finally find a silky nightgown.

Slipping under warm sheets feels foreign. The bed is usually cold when I climb into it. I huddle as close to the edge of the mattress as I can without falling off it. Even though I can’t see or feel him, I can sense him. Smell his shampoo. Hear his breathing.

Once I’ve accepted I won’t be falling asleep anytime soon, I slip out of bed and pad toward the door. The hallway is empty and quiet. I head downstairs and cross the cold tile of the entryway that leads into the living room. French doors line the far wall overlooking the pool. I pause by the bookcase to grab the well-worn copy of Gone With The Wind and then type the security code into the keypad by the fridge. It flashes green, indicating the alarm has been disabled.

There’s no sign of the party that took place earlier. Every surface gleams, spotless. I grab a wineglass, an unopened bottle, and an opener, then head outside. The moon casts a luminous glow that coats everything.

I settle on one of the chairs that line the edge of the pool. The cork pops on the first try. I pour myself a generous glass and then settle back against the cushions, taking the occasional sip as I stare out at the stretch of private beach that buttresses the backyard from the ocean.

Then I pick up the book and start to read.