Page 68 of Circle of Strangers
He kisses me hard, and like the good wife he still so badly wants me to be, I kiss him back.
Will doesn’t feel it, but my heart is colder than ice.
And he doesn’t know it yet, but this kiss has officially sealed his fate.
51
The checkout line is moving fast as I load the last of my groceries onto the conveyor belt—just a few things to get us through the next couple of days. Bananas for Georgie’s lunchbox, alphabet cereal for Jackson, and a few ingredients for tonight’s dinner—chicken cordon bleu. It’s Will’s favorite and I haven’t made it in a while. It’s also a strategic move, one to help him believe he has nothing to worry about with me, that I’m grateful for what he did.
“That’ll be $43.76,” the cashier says, still smiling.
Declined.
The word flashes on the screen, bright and unforgiving. The man in line behind me rises on the balls of his feet, his caterpillar brows lifting as he silently judges me.
“Well, this is strange.” I force a tight smile. “Let me try that again.”
I swipe the card a second time, slower, holding my breath.
Declined.
I pull another card from my wallet, hands trembling now, and try again.
Declined.
The cashier’s friendly smile weakens. She glances toward the growing line behind me, her polite demeanor moments from slipping into impatience. “Want to try another one?”
I grab my third card, swiping it with confidence this time, giving off the air that everything is fine.
The screen beeps again.
Declined.
“Maybe your system is down?” My question goes unanswered.
Riffling through my wallet, I discover I don’t have enough cash on hand to cover this. I start mentally tallying what I can put back—anything to shrink the total and get out of here—but it’s no use. The cashier’s already giving me a look.
“I’ll just ... I’ll come back.” I gather my personal belongings—everything except my pride—and walk out of the store empty-handed. Once I hit the parking lot, I dig my phone out of my purse and open the banking app.
My first attempt to log in fails.
A stark wave of realization hits me. My hands tremble as I try again, typing the password slowly, deliberately. But the screen flashes red.
Incorrect password: one attempt remaining.
I know exactly what’s happening.
Dialing Will, I grip the steering wheel with both hands. It rings once, twice, five times—before I get his voice mail.
“Will, call me back.” My voice comes out clipped. I hang up and try again, but it goes straight to voice mail this time.
He’s doing this on purpose.
This is his way of making sure I don’t leave.
No money equals no chance to escape.
The realization hits hard and fast, stealing the breath from my lungs. For a stay-at-home mom, money is freedom. Money is autonomy. And he wasted no time taking both from me.
