Page 59 of The Wife Upstairs
Now Emily is glancing over at me, and I can see little groups start to form, practically watch as the gossip moves through the gathering, all thoughts of fundraising replaced with this, the biggest story to hit this neighborhood since Bea and Blanche died, I’d guess.
When I turn toward Eddie, he’s staring at me. And even across the courtyard I can see it in his eyes.
He’s relieved.
The house is dark and quiet as we walk in, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts.
When I tell Eddie I’m going to take a shower, I wait for some of this old spark to come back, for a sly grin and an offer to join me.
Instead, I get a distracted nod as he keeps scrolling through his phone. He’d barely spoken on the car ride home, just confirming that yes, he’d heard the same thing, that they’d arrested Tripp; yes, it had something to do with the night Bea and Blanche died; no, he didn’t know what the actual charges were.
In the master bathroom, I step out of my dress, letting it pool there on the marble floor, not bothering to hang it up. I probably won’t wear it again anyway.
The water is scalding hot, which feels good after the weird chill I experienced on the way home, and I when I step back out of the shower, the room is filled with steam.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I walk to the mirror, wiping the steam off with one hand.
My face stares back, plain and starkly pale, my hair wet and shoved back from my face.
You’re fine,I tell myself.You’re safe. It was Tripp the whole time because of course it was.
But that doesn’t really make me feel better, and I’m frowning at my reflection when Eddie steps into the bathroom.
He shucks his clothes easily, and I can’t help but watch him in the mirror. He’s so beautiful, so perfectly male, but I feel no surge of desire when I look at him, and he’s not meeting my eyes.
I take my robe from the hook near the door, wrapping it around me as he showers, and then I sit on the little tufted bench in front of the vanity, combing out my hair for much longer than I need to.
I’m waiting.
Finally, the water shuts off and Eddie steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist as I fumble in a drawer for the expensive moisturizer I bought the other day.
“The other night. When we argued. Were you scared of me?”
I sit very still there at the bathroom counter, watching him in the mirror. He’s got a towel around his waist, water still drying on his skin, his hair slicked back from his face, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that I don’t like.
“Did you think it was me? That I killed them?”
I blink, trying to recalibrate, trying to get this back on track. “The last few weeks have just been a lot,” I finally say, adding a little tremor to my voice for effect. “Everything was finally so perfect, and we were so happy, and then…”
“And then you thought I murdered my wife and her best friend,” he says, relentless, and my head snaps up.
This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He’s supposed to feel sorry for snapping at me, for even suggesting I thought such a thing.
But he’s still watching me, arms folded over his chest, and since the lowered lashes and tremulous voice aren’t working, I turn and meet his eyes.
“Yes,” I say, and honestly, it feels kind of good to tell the truth. “I did. Or I thought you may have done it.”
He blows out a long breath, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling before saying, “Well. At least you’re honest.”
I step forward, curling my hands around his wrists and pulling his arms down. “But I was wrong,” I insist. “Obviously. And I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m so sorry.”
And the thing is, I am sorry. I’m sorry I ever thought he might have been involved with Bea’s and Blanche’s death, and not just because I almost fucked up everything.
I’m the one lying to him, I’m the one who’s stolen from him, from everyone I’ve grown close to. I’m the one who has pretended to be something she’s not.
I’m the one who has actually done something terrible.
I press my forehead to his damp chest, breathing in the scent of his soap. “I’m sorry,” I say again, and after a long beat, I feel his hand rest gently on the back of my head. “And you were right, the other night. I should’ve trusted you about John, I should’ve come to you—”
