Page 43 of Circle of Strangers
“Great. I was hoping Will was around?” I stay on task.
“He’s in with a student right now. You’re welcome to have a seat and wait.” She points to a couple of waiting room chairs, silver metal upholstered in maroon bouclé—a nod to school colors.
There’s a section of window next to his office door where the blinds have not been drawn closed. From here, I can spot him. Part of him, anyway. He’s standing behind his desk, talking to someone who, based on their lithe arm and red nail polish, is a female student.
My mind goes to the texts between Will and “M.”
What if “M” wasn’t Mara? What if “M” was a student? It would make sense, the way he’s taking his new career in education as an excuse to give himself a complete makeover. There’s no denying he’s exactly the kind of professor the young girls would lose their minds over, much like the nurses did at the hospitals where he once worked.
I never thought I needed to worry.
I gave him everything he could ever want and more.
My foot is tapping. The receptionist glances over. I stop and cross my legs.
Eight minutes later, his door swings open. The student—young, pretty, with a slick-backed platinum ponytail—gives him a finger wave and a few thank-yous before tucking a thick file under her arm. When she passes on her way out, she leaves me in a cloud of overdone perfume and cinnamon chewing gum.
“Camille.” The instant Will notices me, his whole face lights. “Isn’t this a nice surprise? Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
I’m sure he wasn’t . . .
He ushers me in and shuts the door behind us. Taking a seat on the edge of his desk, he reaches for my waist and pulls me close. Never mind that the blinds are still open on one of his windows. I place my hands over his to temper his intentions, whatever they may be.
Now is not the time.
His office is smaller than I remember, and the air smells faintly of old coffee and printer paper, the walls bare except for a framed degree and a couple of dry-erase boards cluttered with half-finished notes in his impossibly illegible handwriting.
I can smell the faint, sweet scent of a cinnamon-perfume cocktail in the space I now share with my husband. It bothers me more than it should.
Will, for his part, seems unbothered, oblivious.
Knowing what I now know, I’m convinced it’s an act—a page out of his mother’s playbook.
“I tried calling you.” I brush off his second attempt to pull me closer.
“Had my phone on silent. I was with a student.” He shrugs, his hands still lingering on my sides. “Can I help you with something, Mrs. Prescott? Or are you just here to see me?”
His charm is disarming. I’ll give him that. But today it repels me.
I push his hands away, gently but firmly. “Mara came home.”
“You’re kidding. That’s great. I figured she would.” His expression is one of pleasant surprise, but his reaction is still too easy, too light—as if we’re talking about the weather, not the neighbor whose face was plastered across the news just days ago.
“You don’t seem that interested.”
“Wouldn’t it be strange if I cared ... too much?” He blinks slow, the corners of his mouth still curled in that infuriatingly calm grin.
I fold my arms. “I don’t get how you can act like it’s nothing.”
He lets out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair and leaving a disheveled trail in its wake. “I feel like I can’t do anything right lately. If I care too much, that’s a problem. If I don’t care enough, that’s also a problem. What exactly do you need from me? How can I make you happy again?”
He’s playing the victim, but I see through it.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He’s no idiot, though I’m beginning to wish he were.
Two can play this game—but only one of us will win.
