Page 52 of Circle of Strangers
I look up from my book, lashes fluttering. “Whatever do you mean?”
He takes a seat on his side, the mattress shifting with his weight, and then he exhales. “You’ve been distant all week—ever since you left my office. It’s like you’re checked out. I don’t understand what’s going on, Cam. I feel that you’re upset with me, but I don’t know why. And you won’t talk to me. The other night you accused me of keeping secrets and then you walked away without explaining ...”
“You could’ve asked. You chose not to.”
“I’m afraid to ask you anything.” His voice is raised a level. He flattens his lips, as if he’s suddenly remembering the kids are asleep. “The cryptic behavior needs to stop.”
I fold my book and angle myself toward him. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Okay then.”
We’re locked in a deep stare-off for what feels like an eternity before he finally breaks.
“You go first,” he says.
I chuff. “I’m not the one keeping secrets.”
His mouth forms a hard line. “You and I both know that’s a lie.”
I lift a brow. I don’t know what secrets he thinks I’m keeping, but none of them are as damning as the one he’s been keeping since we moved here. Sure, I dabbled in the dating app thing for a hot minuteor two, but my actions weren’t an affront to our marriage or a blatant violation of our trust. I wasn’t using my real name or photo. I never met anyone. It was a stupid hobby that ended just as quickly as it began.
His secret communication with his mother—a woman we currently have a protective no-contact order against, a woman we both agreed was mentally deranged and no longer a part of our family—is damning.
It’s getting late.
I yawn.
The energy it’s taking to fight this silent battle has been draining, and I’ve not come up with a solid plan—which was why I’d yet to confront him.
Plan or no plan, I can’t take the pretending another minute, and the thought of spending another night asleep next to him gives me a headache. I get up, step to his side of the bed, grab his pillow, and gently shove it into his lap. Aggressive but not overly so. It’s imperative I maintain some level of composure until I know how this is going to play out.
“I know your mother is out on bail and that you’ve been communicating with her,” I say. “You should sleep in the guest room for the foreseeable future.” He begins to protest, but I cut him off. “Also, I don’t appreciate you telling Mara that I’dcalm down eventually.”
Will’s jaw tightens, frustration flickering in his eyes.
“The cologne, the watch,” I say, thinking back to the text messages from “M” that mentioned those items. “Both were gifts from your mother—not spur-of-the-moment purchases like you said. And you’ve been working with her attorney to drop the charges? After everything she did, after everything she put us—and our children—through ... Need I remind you that we had to relocate our entire lives because of that woman?”
“We didn’t have to—you wanted to,” he says. “Youwanted a fresh start.”
I didn’t want a fresh start. It was necessary.
San Diego—and our beautiful little life there—had been marred, tainted, all because of his mother.
“You think it’s been easy for me? Cutting off my own mother?” he asks. “Some of us can actually feel things, you know. We’re not all robots like you.”
His words shoot ice through my veins, and judging by the look on his face, he realizes this a moment too late.
“Tell me what you really think of me, Will,” I say, my response unaffected—or one could even argue, robotic.
Getting up from the bed, his pillow under his arm, he shuffles toward our bedroom door, stopping to turn back once he gets there. “It’s late. We’re tired. I shouldn’t have said that. Let’s revisit everything when we’ve had some sleep.”
“I’m not sure what there is to revisit. What’s done is done. You lied to me. You betrayed my trust.” I fold my arms, my focus on him dagger sharp.
“I miss my mother, Camille.” He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he glances over at me, his eyes are glassy, wet. If it’s my sympathy he’s after, he knows damn well that’s something I’m incapable of giving. Even if I could, he’s the last person I’d give it to right now. “She did a bad thing. Yes. But that doesn’t make her a bad person. She was trying to protect her child—just like you were trying to protect yours.”
“You’re not a helpless six-year-old. You’re a grown man. A doctor. You have a loving wife, two healthy kids, and a happy home. You can make all the excuses you want, but she didn’t need to protect you.”
He pauses, appearing lost in thought as he digests my words. “You’re right. No. You’re right. I guess this whole thing has been harder than I thought it would be. I can’t just stop loving my mother. Am I angry about what she did? Yes. But she’s still my mother. The thought of her in a jail cell—”
