Page 18 of Every Silent Lie

Because it might change this.

“Goodnight, Camryn,” he says, reaching for my face and cupping my cheek, gently holding me.

I automatically nuzzle into it. “Goodnight.”

The second he breaks contact, reversing his steps, I want to scream at him to come back. Hold me again, even if it’s just my hand or my cheek. But he turns away before I have the chance.

Or can make that mistake.

I watch him until he disappears around the corner before I take myself inside. Closing the door behind me, I listen to the sound of silence for a few moments before flicking the lights on and tossing my keys on the table by the door. Wandering into the kitchen, I home in on the sound of the fridge whirring and drop my bag on the table. What the hell was I thinking letting him convince me to come home at this hour? Why the hell didn’t I bring any files home? Why on earth haven’t I slept with him yet?

Knock, knock, knock.

My body tenses, my gaze darting to the kitchen doorway. He’s back.

Heat pounding, my mouth dry with anticipation, I walk faster than I would ever admit to the door and swing it open.

Coming face to face with someone I never want to see again.

“Camryn.” My husband carries indifference so well these days. Did I ever know him? He walks past me without an invitation to enter and, as he has done on the handful of other times he’s tracked me down to my apartment, stops and takes in the soulless space. But this time he doesn’t pass comment on it. He pushes his jacket back and slips his hands into his pockets, facing me. Takes me in, up and down. I’d ask what he wants, but that would be a stupid question.

“You can leave,” I say, keeping the door open for him.

“Not until you’ve signed the papers.” He stalks into the kitchen, and I follow, finding him rummaging through my handbag.

“They’re not in there,” I say, folding my arms and resting my shoulder on the doorframe, fighting to keep the monster inside buried.

“Just sign the damn papers, Cam.”

I bite down on my back teeth. “And agree to unreasonable behaviour?” No, I don’t think so.

“You don’t think you were unreasonable?” he asks, his surprise maddening, as he starts opening empty cupboards and drawers, searching. “I still can’t believe you’ve not unpacked your fucking things.”

“Get out,” I grate.

He huffs and passes me, forcing my back to the door to avoid touching him. Do not touch him. I don’t know how you can love someone and hate them at the same time. But I do. I love him. I love what we had, what we were. And now I hate him for destroying it all. Destroying me.

But I hate myself more.

He finds what he’s looking for on the footstool and flicks through, looking for my signature, and exhales his exasperation when he doesn’t find it, dropping them again, raking a hand through his hair. “Why are you dragging this out, Cam?”

I stare at him, out of words, but full to the brim with resentment.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a pen and lays it on our divorce papers. “Please, just sign them.” Then he walks out, slamming the door behind him. I roll onto my back, the silence screaming at me again, staring at the papers for an eternity.

Just sign them. Move on.

But I can never move on.

I leave the papers and head to the shower.

December 6th

I sigh and push the file away, resting my head back and looking at the ceiling. TF Shipping isn’t strong enough, will never be at this rate, no matter what I do. I feel like I’m swimming against the tide, talking to a brick fucking wall. I pick up my desk phone and call Thomas’s line.

“Camryn,” he says, a definite wary edge to his voice.

“We need to talk.”