Page 69 of Fault Lines
“Ignore it,” Nate murmured, lips at my throat.
But the phone didn’t quit. It stopped, then rang again, louder this time.
“Stop, Nate,” I said, pushing on his shoulders. “It might be Cam.”
He flopped to the side, frustrated. “Sorry.”
I propped myself up, picking up the phone. Two missed calls. A new text.
Where are you?
“It’s my husband,” I said, a wave of guilty heat rolling over me. All this time with Nate, and Cam was trying to reach me.
Nate saw the change in me and came over, tipping my chin up. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t you dare feel guilty after what he’s been out doing tonight.”
“It’s so early,” I stammered, glancing at the time. “He’s never home this early. Something must’ve happened.”
Nate’s hand squeezed, steadying me. “Look at me, Livi.”
I met his eyes, dark grey, serious. “Don’t let this ruin what’s happening between us. One night of your husband coming home early doesn’t undo everything else he’s done. Don’t close me out. Nothing we just did was wrong.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stuff the guilt down. “I know. I know it in my head, but my heart is screaming at me to stop. I’m so sorry, Nate, but I love him. If he’s come home early because he’s finally had enough, then this is over, and we’ll go back to being friends. At least, I hope you’ll still be willing to be friends. I’d hate to lose you.”
He leaned in, pressed a gentle kiss to my lips. “You’ll never lose me. And I’m not worried. I doubt your husband’s home because he’s ready to dissolve your arrangement.”
But I refused to give up that tiny spark of hope that maybe, maybe this was the sign things were changing.
“Go home,” Nate said, voice low. “But if you need anything, you call me. Understand? If he’s angry—or if you just need to get away—you come to me. Alright?”
I nodded. “Thank you for understanding, Nate.”
“I’m willing to wait for you, Livi. You’re worth it.”
I hugged Rachel on my way out, then got in my car, hands still shaking. The drive home was fast, streetlights blurringoutside the window. Every light in our house was on when I pulled up, the brightness almost taunting.
Cam was waiting at the door, arms folded, eyes burning. “What the fuck, Livi? You didn’t respond to my calls or texts.”
“Sorry, I saw your message and just drove home,” I said, brushing past him into the living room. My purse hit the couch. I kicked off my shoes, headed straight for the bedroom.
He followed, close behind. “Why are you home so early?” I asked, not looking at him. “It’s barely nine.”
“What?” Cam’s voice rose, sharp. “I can’t come home to my wife now?”
I spun. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I came home early for you and you weren’t even here.”
“So?” I asked, slumping onto the bed, busying myself with my shoes. “You never tell me when you’re coming home early. You told me to go out on Thursdays—to stop moping around the house.”
“You didn’t tell me you were going out.” His arms crossed, tone hard.
“You didn’t ask.” I was so tired—the conversation was déjà vu. “You’re so wrapped up in your own fun, you haven’t asked what I do on Thursday nights in months. If you had, you’d know I stopped staying in by myself a while ago.”
His jaw clenched. “So where do you go?”
“I hang out with Rachel,” I said. Which was mostly true.
“Don’t lie to me, Livi. Are you fucking someone?”
