Page 55 of Top Shelf

“I have said nothing.”

She points at me. “Don’t make that face, then.”

I laugh. “What face?”

“That one!” She walks past me, down the hallway, and back into the bedroom. “We can stay on our own sides, and if you wanna be weird about it, we can construct a pillow barrier.”

“A barrier.”

“Yes, like a border.”

“Pillows can move.”

She turns with her hand on the doorframe, the hem of her dress shifting against her thighs. “Then don’t invade my territory, Karlsson.”

I should not laugh, but it escapes anyway, and her face changes with the sound.

“Good,” she says with a nod, heading back down the hallway. “Then that’s settled.”

She carries the Pink Lady back a moment later, then places it on the nightstand nearest the window. It looks completely ridiculous against the neutral bedding.

“And when this is over,” she says absently as she crouches to look for a nearby outlet, “you can leave the signed divorce papers on my new studio desk with a bow. Make it my studio-warming gift.”

Divorce.

A practical ending to a practical agreement.

I look down at her, dress bunched around her thighs and my ring on her finger, with irritation and life spilling out of her in every direction as she mutters about designing bedrooms with no outlets by the beds.

“Do not worry,” I say, grabbing my suitcase and carefully wheeling it into the walk-in-wardrobe. “I will choose a tasteful bow for the divorce papers.”

She laughs without looking back. “You know about taste?”

“No,” I say, surveying the contents. “But my wife owns a pink sparkly lamp. I am learning.”

Chapter nine

Heidi

Ispit toothpaste into the sink and look at myself in the mirror.

“This is completely normal,” I whisper.

Yes. Very normal. My reflection, however, looks unconvinced.

Contractually speaking, this is fine. We’re adults with fully developed frontal lobes and a shared interest in making sure neither of us ruins the other’s life. People have survived worse living arrangements than a California king-size bed and a bunch of pillows.

The problem is not the bed, though. The problem is that a few days ago, Viktor kissed me in a courthouse office while my best friend pretended not to cry, and now my mouth remembers the feel of his lips on mine. I keep feeling the brush of his fingers at my jaw, and the warmth of his hand.

And I know a good kiss. I’ve kissed men and women. I’ve kissed people for fun, because I’m horny, and for mutual bad decisions. I’m not some trembling Victorian maiden undone by a mouth. Usually, wanting someone is the easiest part of my life.

Viktor makes it complicated.

I rinse the sink twice because toothpaste foam is gross, then line my skincare up next to the faucet. I take my time patting each into my face and pretending I’m not hiding in a bathroom from my own husband.

Temporary husband. Temporary, hockey-playing husband, whose mouth I like the feel of.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, pressing my palms to my cheeks.