Page 40 of Married to Number 22
But I’ve been going on instinct from the moment I got in my car and drove over here.
I’m just…going to let go, ride this ride, and hopefully I’ll get to the truth of the matter.
And hopefully it’ll be sooner rather than later.
Hopefully, she won’t kick my ass out to the curb and disappear from my life again.
“Tell me Luns,” I press.
She closes her eyes, turns her head away, her body going taut beneath mine.
Damn stubborn woman.
I exhale silently then pull out, scooping her up, and climbing the stairs, doing my best to remember where her room was.
Each of the doors along the hall are open and I can see that each contains a stack of boxes.
All except for the last.
That door is closed.
I turn the handle, push inside, and freeze at the spartan furnishings.
A single bed, a nightstand, a narrow, beat-up dresser.
Luna’s family has money, alotof money. The family business was doing well when we were kids and I’ve heard no shortage of news stories about it expanding over the last few years. Hell, I think it even went public during the first quarter ofthisyear.
So, while I can understand her keeping this place—she always talked about how much she preferred staying here, that it was more home than the house she shared with her brother, her father—I don’t understand why it looks like this, don’t understand why this is the only room on this floor with anything aside from boxes inside it.
Why this is the only room that shows any sign of being lived in.
But living like this—in a packed-up house, her life reduced to a sparse bedroom…
It doesn’t make sense.
And it drives home exactly how little I know of the Luna of today, of the Luna who knocked on my door, the Luna who allowed herself to be swept along with the craziness that is my family, soaked up the day, and then…ran.
I settle her on the mattress, go to one of the two closed doors in the space and get lucky on my first guess, finding the bathroom.
I take care of the condom, put myself to rights, and wash my hands.
Then I slip back out into the bedroom.
Since Luna is still sitting there, seemingly lost in her thoughts, I head back out to the hall, snagging her clothes from the various places I tossed them—the banister, near the front door, halfway down the stairs—then bring them back up to her.
She tugs them on, her movements jerky and robotic.
But she’s avoiding my eyes.
Which tells me enough.
I’m not going to like what she’s holding back.
She pulls on one sock, the other, then pops to her feet. “You should go.”
I sink down onto the bed, lace my fingers through hers, then tug her back down beside me. “Luns,” I warn.
She pulls against but I hold her fast, and I wait…
