Page 74 of Every Silent Lie

“I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t have a tree or decorations.” I press my lips together the moment I’ve uttered the words. Or, more like, uttered the subtle hint.

The scrutiny I’m suddenly under is painful, which begs the question why I opened my big mouth. “Care to enlighten me?” he asks.

“Not right now. Five years?”

“I’m a busy man.”

So the last woman he slept with was his wife. “You’re not very busy right now,” I whisper, my eyes dropping to his mouth as I take his hands and guide them to the zip on the back of my dress.

“Then I guess I better fix that.” He pulls my dress up and tosses it aside before rolling me to my back. “I think you’re beautiful.” he says quietly, scanning my eyes. “And it feels fucking incredible to be inside you.”

I can’t take it. How utterly amazing this man is, I just can’t take it. I nod, agreeing, and he exhales, the sound a groan mixed with heavy breathing, and rolls his mouth onto mine as he flexes his hips and plunges deeply into me.

I’ve been awake since five, and despite only drifting off past one, therefore only having four hours’ sleep, I feel rested. Wide awake. I should have left at six to walk home so I could dress and make it to work on time. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave the warmth of Dec’s bed, where I’m tucked under his arm, my cheek on his pec, my fingers brushing through the trail of hair that drifts from his belly button down to his lower stomach. Listening to his breathing. Feeling his heart beating under my cheek.

Lost in my thoughts.

Daring to hope.

Calm is a cosy blanket around my usually frantic, lonely heart.

I told myself I’d brave the Tube or get a cab, just to stay here for a while longer. And I’ve stretched my time in bed to the absolute limit. It’s seven. I have to be at work in an hour. Not contractually—my working hours are nine to five—but for the sake of predictability. I’m always in the office for eight.

I peel myself away from Dec, pouting my sullenness as I do, and creep around his bedroom, collecting my things. I’m halfway down the stairs when Lynette appears, a basket of washing resting on her hip. I stop, clutching the balustrade, feeling all kinds of awkward. “Morning.” I smile, that’s awkward too, and shift on the spot.

“Morning, Camryn.” Her smile isn’t awkward at all. It’s as genuine as a smile can be. She’s not surprised I’m here. “Can I get you a coffee or anything?”

I descend the rest of the stairs and slip my heels on, unable to stop my thoughts from locking down on that. She’s not surprised I’m here. “No, thank you, I really have to get myself home or I’ll be late for work.”

“You weren’t expecting to stay?” she asks, carrying on to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder as she goes.

“I definitely wasn’t expecting to stay,” I say quietly, following her. And had I known it had been five years, I would have been more doubtful to be having a sleepover. Five years. I just can’t wrap my head around that. I wouldn’t be able to with any man, but Dec? He’s the full package. Was he being honest? I cock my head. Why would he lie about that? “Does Dec have overnight guests often?” I blink my surprise, recoiling at my own question. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, I was only supposed to ask that in my head.”

Lynette chuckles, dumping the basket on the island. “If I were in your shoes, I’d probably be asking that question too.”

My nose wrinkles. “It was inappropriate.”

“I’ve worked for Dec for four years.”

“Definitely inappropriate.”

“And I’ve never known him to have a guest overnight.”

My stomach flutters. “But he’s had guests?” Why the hell am I digging?

“Never.”

“No one?”

“I assume you’re talking about the female variety.” She flicks on the coffee machine.

“I need to learn to control my mouth, clearly.” I point behind me, guilt getting me good. Of course he wouldn’t lie. I know he’s a good man, and now, frankly, I feel utterly ashamed of myself for doubting that. But, in my defence, he did not have sex like it was the first time in nearly five years. “I’ll just get my coat. Dec’s asleep, I didn’t want to disturb him.”

“Should I give him a message?”

I pause for thought at the door. She thinks I’m running out too. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

She smiles, and something tells me she’s pleased as she opens a drawer and pulls out a pad and pencil, pushing it toward me before giving me some privacy and disappearing through a door at the end of the kitchen—the laundry room, I assume. Picking up the pen and bending over the counter, not overthinking, I just writing what my heart tells me to write.