Page 10 of Wreckage and Rain

Whatever ease he had through the window is gone. Now he looks like a man trying to remember exactly what he told his wife and whether it can coexist with what she is looking at.

It can’t.

He knows it.

Worse, he knows I can see him figuring that out.

“Mm.” I take a drink. “So this is a working dinner.”

“Yes.”

“At The Butcher Block.”

“Cheyenne suggested it.”

There it is.

Her suggestion.

And then the rest begin to follow.

Cheyenne suggested the restaurant. Cheyenne picked the table. Cheyenne ordered the wine.

He places every decision on her side of the table like a man emptying his pockets to prove he has nothing to hide.

It isn’t even the lie that cuts deepest.

It’s how easily the defense comes to him. How little it costs. As though he has rehearsed it privately a hundred times and is only now being forced to say it aloud.

“Well.” I set down my glass. “I’ll order the risotto and let you two finish. What were you discussing when I came in?”

“Risk allocation,” Cheyenne says.

“Calloway’s portfolio,” Colt says at the same time.

The silence after is long enough to become its own paragraph.

“Both,” Cheyenne says, recovering smoothly for the two of them. “The conversation got a little wide-ranging.”

“I’ll bet.”

I order the risotto.

Then I become charming.

I ask Cheyenne about her sister, her hometown, the arc of her career. Every question is warm, sincere, and chosen with care.

There is very little in this world more unsettling to a woman sitting where she is than a wife who refuses to become ugly for her.

Cheyenne answers beautifully.

We are both extraordinary at this.

Under the table, Colt’s hand settles on my thigh.

Not tenderly. Not really.

More like a flag pressed into ground he is no longer sure belongs to him.