Page 91 of Fault Lines
I set my phone down and pushed my plate away, appetite gone. Something was wrong. Had something happened at work? Wouldn’t he have told me?
And then, at last, a message:
I’m so sorry Livi, I’m not going to make it. Please just enjoy your dinner and I’ll make this up to you, I promise.
The words struck me silent. No explanation—not a single detail. Just a bland apology after leaving me stranded for fifty minutes.
What’s going on? Where are you?
I waited, staring at my phone, but nothing came. The waiter reappeared, quiet and gentle. “Would you like anything else?”
I was about to refuse, then shook my head. “Could I have two boxes, please? I’ll just take the leftovers home.”
He nodded, a look of sympathy in his eyes. I bit back the sting of embarrassment. To everyone watching, I was justanother woman left alone by her husband, restless and sad. Was that true? Was this what I had become?
Cam was loving, attentive, present. Except for Thursday nights. Tonight was Thursday. Maybe that was all it meant.
Still, I packed everything up, paid the bill, and fled the restaurant, feeling their eyes on my back as I left. Their pity trailed me all the way home.
Alone in the kitchen, I shoved the food into the fridge with more force than needed. I stripped off my dress on the way upstairs, swapped it for comfy pajamas and let my hair tumble down, washed my face, and found the nearest bottle of wine. Didn’t even bother looking for a wine glass—I just poured straight into the first old tumbler I grabbed. I wanted to be numb, not elegant.
I curled up on the couch, TV flickering, but my mind was chasing itself in circles, replaying every unanswered message. Why wouldn’t he answer me? Was he really caught up at work? Why not just say so?
Hours ticked by. I called again, straight to voicemail. A low, sloshing buzz filled my head as I drank most of the bottle, staring at the wall, the clock.
Eleven o’clock. Still nothing.
My phone vibrated: a message from Nate.
I missed you tonight. I’m currently snuggling with my pillow pretending it’s you.
I tried to smile at that, but the worry in my chest was blunt and consuming.
I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be texting you tonight of all nights. I hope you had a good date.
A bark of laughter escaped me. Some date.
It’s fine that you text. Hope to see you at work in the morning.
Can’t wait.
The urge to call Cam again was irresistible, even though I already knew what would happen. Straight to voicemail.
Cam, I’m starting to get really worried about you. I wish you’d answer me and at least let me know everything’s okay.
I hugged my knees close and sat in the quiet, TV murmuring in the background. I waited, and waited, until the world blurred around the edges.
Somewhere in the early hours, I felt myself being lifted gently, Cam’s arms strong and certain as he carried me up the stairs. I blinked, groggy.
“What’s going on?” My voice came out muffled, soft with sleep and wine.
“Go back to sleep,” Cam whispered, laying me down. “We’ll talk in the morning. I’m sorry about tonight.”
Before I could form another word, I slipped back under, the clock’s blue numbers swimming into a double image: 2:00am.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sunlight hammered in through the curtains when I finally pried open my eyes. Instantly, I winced and hissed, squeezing my lids tight against the day’s glare. My skull throbbed, sharp and hot behind my forehead, and I groaned. That was waaaay too much wine. When had I even gone to bed?
