Page 48 of Circle of Strangers
“I brought some things. Thought we could spruce this place up a bit.” I push Will’s office door open with my hip, balancing a paper bag stuffed with frames from HomeGoods.
Will glances up from his desk, pleasant surprise lighting his deep blues before he smiles.
“Camille, hi.” He steps around the desk and kisses me on the cheek. “Two visits in one week. How lucky am I?”
“After last time, I thought this place could use a little more personality. There’s a lot going on. I feel like this room can’t decide what it wants to be,” I say, glancing around as if it’s my creative wheels spinning and not my calculating wheels. “Plus, I needed a project. Too much time on my hands, I think.”
He chuckles with amusement at hissilly little wife, combing his fingers through his thick dark hair. The vintage watch on his wrist—one I now know to be a gift from his mother—glints in the sun that peeks in from his window.
“I won’t argue—this place could use some help. But I’m about to head to class.” He grabs his attaché from the chair beside me and glides the strap over his left shoulder. “You okay hanging out here for the next forty?”
“Of course.” I scrunch my nose and pat his chest like the good wife that I am. “I’ll get everything set up. It’ll look great when you come back.”
He presses a quick kiss to my temple, squeezing my arm as he heads for the door. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“Don’t forget it.” My tone is teasing, but I’m not.
“I don’t deserve you. Truly.” He lingers for an extra second, drinking me in the way he does sometimes. It almost feels ordinary.
Almost.
How I wish it was.
As soon as the door clicks shut, the smile drops from my face. I place the HomeGoods bag on his desk and take a seat, shaking his mouse to wake his computer. The password prompt fills the screen. I try five of his old go-tos before I get a match, and I waste no time clicking into his work email and scrolling through the inbox. Meeting invites, student correspondence, faculty memos. Everything is tidy, professional. Will to aT.
Turning my attention to his folders, I go through them one by one—until I strike gold.
There’s one labeled “F,” containing various email chains between Will, his father George, his sister Nicola, and some attorney out of San Diego County. I can only assume the “F” stands forfamily, but at this point what does it matter?
It takes me all of ten minutes to ascertain that Jacqueline has been out on bail since we moved to Phoenix a couple of months ago, and that they’re working to see if they can drop the charges and the no-contact order that Jacqueline has already violated.
Of all the things I was expecting to find today ... this was not one of them.
My skin flushes hot, the office temperature suddenly feeling as if it could boil me alive if I don’t get out of here immediately.
I take photos of all the emails using my phone, then I log off his system and leave the bag of decor untouched before getting the hell out of there. When Will asks later, I’ll tell him I wasn’t feeling well.
And it’s the truth.
I’m feeling especiallyunwellright now.
36
“Mom, watch!” Jackson shouts, leaping off the side of the pool and cannonballing into the water. The move sends a spray of cold droplets across the patio that reaches my bare feet. Georgiana giggles, kicking her legs under the surface as she floats on a neon green pool noodle.
“That was your biggest one yet, Jack-Jack,” I feign enthusiasm. Physically I’m here with my children, but my mind is elsewhere.
I lean back in my lounge chair, dabbing a towel over my legs to dry the remnants of Jackson’s splash. My thoughts spin as the late-afternoon sun settles over the backyard. I check the time on my phone. As if on cue, I’m met with the familiar hum of Will’s car pulling into the driveway followed by the soft thud of his door closing.
A few moments later, the back gate creaks open.
My stomach is leaden, my fists clenched, but I take a deep breath and paint a chipper expression on my face by the time he comes into view.
“Hello, hello.” Will’s voice is bright, overly cheerful. His casual stride and the way he’s slinging his tweed jacket over his shoulder makes it look like he’s coming off the best day ever.
His nonchalance only makes me detest him more. And it’s a strange new reality I’ve been grappling with all day—resenting the man I’d have killed for up until recently.
I always loved his refreshing, simplistic honesty, how I could read this man like an open book. It was a stark contrast against the way I operated, but still—it worked for us. Or so I thought.
