Page 18 of Circle of Strangers
“I don’t,” he says, quickly. “Just assuming. If she’s bothered by his infidelity, I’d think she’s the faithful one in the marriage.”
“We shouldn’t be making any assumptions about these people. We don’t even know them.”
I roll onto my side, letting the silence stretch between us like a thread I’m hesitant to pull too hard on.
He brings my hand to his lips, depositing a kiss. “You’re absolutely right. I was just trying to gossip but apparently I’m not very good at it.”
“A for effort,” I tease. “What do you think makes someone cheat anyway?”
I know the answer and it’s as simple as it is complex, but I want to hearhisanswer.
Will gives a small shrug. “Could be anything. People get bored. They get lonely. They miss the feeling of being alive again. Or maybe some people just like to have secrets?”
His words hang in the air, heavy and loaded. I press my lips together, fighting the urge to ask what exactly he means by that. Instead, I let the silence do the heavy lifting, hoping he’ll fill the space with something—anything—that might explain the strange unease curling in my chest.
But he doesn’t.
He simply smiles, leans down, and presses a soft kiss to my temple.
“For the record, in case it needs to be stated,youhave nothing to worry about,” he whispers, as if that should be enough to make the doubts disappear. “You’re it for me. It’s you and me until my dying breath.”
12
I pull into the driveway the next evening, my mind still half occupied with Georgiana’s latest ballet class, the sea of high buns and pink leotards. The way she waved from the other side of the glass when she spotted me watching her from the waiting room, her face beaming with excitement. It’s the small things like that—her innocence, her joy—that make everything I do worth it.
Lucinda would never—couldnever—be the kind of mother I am.
As I step out of my car and Georgiana dashes inside, I’m met with a trail of laughter coming from our backyard—low and easy, the kind that rolls between people who feel comfortable with each other. I pause, stepping quietly through the side gate and toward the edge of the patio, stopping behind an overgrown shrub to observe the scene in front of me.
Will is sitting at the outdoor table, a tumbler of whiskey in hand, his head tipped back in laughter. Across from him, Oscar looks remarkably different from the brooding man I met the other night—he’s relaxed, animated even, his hand resting casually on Mara’s knee. The two of them are practically sitting shoulder to shoulder, connected like Siamese twins.
And Mara is radiant, chuckling at something Oscar said, her gaze soft as she watches her husband with what seems like genuine affection. Oscar rubs slow, lazy circles on her knee, leaning in toward her as if they’re suddenly a couple of newlyweds.
The whole scene feels ... off. Like watching a play where the actors are reading someone else’s lines. The Oscar from the other night was cold, distant—completely checked out. This Oscar looks attentive. In love, even. Not the kind of man who’d be blowing up the inboxes of random women on dating apps.
I stand there for a moment, watching them. Mara cocks her head, her golden hair catching the fading sunlight, and says something that visibly amuses my husband. The mere act sends a flicker of irritation through me, but I push it down.
Before I can make sense of what I’m seeing, Will notices me, his eyes lighting as he waves me over. “Camille, there you are. I saved you a seat.”
I plaster on a smile, making my way over. Will stands and pulls out the chair next to him, as if this little gathering is the most natural thing in the world.
“Come sit,” he says.
Next, he’s pouring me a generous amount of pinot noir, the deep-hued liquid swirling in the glass. He hands it off with a sincere smile, his fingers gently grazing mine. Everything feels normal yet at the same time, it doesn’t.
“Made sure you didn’t have to cook tonight.” He gestures toward the pizza boxes sitting on the counter through the sliding glass door. “Figured you deserved a night off.”
Will’s always been a stellar partner, but tonight he’s going above and beyond. The only question: Why?
“Thanks,” I say with a tight smile. “Where’s Jackson?”
“He’s inside. I just checked on him a few minutes ago,” he tells me. “Little man’s out cold.”
Mara gives me a small wave, her smile just shy of too friendly. “Hope you don’t mind us crashing your evening. Your husband is a very lovely host.”
“Not at all,” I lie between generous sips of wine. My eyes traverse between the three of them, trying to read the undercurrents of this strange little gathering.
Oscar leans against his seat back, his arm draped possessively over Mara’s chair as he gazes at her with what I can only describe as endearing affection—completely at odds with his online persona and the image Mara painted.
