Page 9

CHAPTER 8

ONE SCOOP OR TWO

CASS

M y furious reflection pants along with me as I glare, blood boiling and heart galloping.

Five minutes ago, I was seconds away from fucking Wilder’s brains out of his skull

Right now? I’m so red, I look like I drank a bottle of hot sauce. Honestly, my guts feel the same—they’re boiling painfully, climbing up my esophagus, threatening me with rage puke.

I turn on the faucet to splash cool water on my face in the hopes I will calm the fuck down.

Thoughts machine gun in my head, ricocheting off my skull, deafening.

Wife. Married. Lies. Husband.

Decade.

Wilder.

I struggle to grasp the truth. How is it possible that I had no idea? Isn’t there some sort of database, for God’s sake? If I applied for a marriage license, shouldn’t there be some system in place to flag it if I was already married? To fucking tell me?

I guess most people know whether or not they’re already married. Lucky them.

Maybe there’s an explanation. Maybe the paperwork got lost in the mail. Maybe he misplaced the papers we signed and was too embarrassed to tell me. Or maybe, for ten fucking years, he’s known we were still married and just…didn’t tell me.

Rage explodes in my ribcage. Hot sauce everywhere.

One fucking phone call. Hell, even a text would do. For two weeks I was in town before the wedding— my fucking wedding—and he could have told me. For two months I’ve been right here, and he could have told me we were fucking married.

Married.

The noise I make is somewhere between a shriek and roar, and I twist the stupid faucet closed. The hand towel is gone— Ughhhgahdammit I fucking hate every man on the entire surface of the fucking goddamn planet —so I dry my hands on the towel next to the shower with unfettered violence, which is a feat considering I’m only drying my hands. The voices floating in from the living room trigger a wrathful sort of antagonism in me, and I have to stop myself from reaching for something to break. I check my reflection again to find my complexion the same shade of that wrath, tightening my ponytail.

Of course he didn’t get rid of them, I think as I exit the bathroom. He thinks I won’t outright kill him if there’s someone in the room. Shows what he knows.

And to think, minutes ago, I was ready to throw caution and my panties to the wind. I guess fate had other plans after all.

My jaw is so tight, my teeth hurt as I march out of his room to find strangers sitting on the couch. They all look a mess. There’s a little girl sitting between a gray-haired couple with the biggest, saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. But my anger is so vivid, it’s electric, crackling across my skin. Nothing really registers.

The adults stand. Wilder looks completely dumbstruck. I barely notice.

Like an asshole, I’m still marching, the smile on my lips terrible, I’m sure.

“Hello!” I say with a manic sort of cheer. “I’m Cassidy—Wilder’s wife. ” I cut him a murderous look. He’s still stupefied, unfazed by my smartassery.

The look on his face pierces the veil of my madness. Still sweaty and filthy in his baseball uniform, his face is pale, his body preternaturally still outside of the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His hat is in his fist, and his dirty hair is somehow both mashed down and sticking out.

I frown. But before I can ask what’s wrong, the woman reaches out to squeeze my hand, placing her free hand outside mine gently.

“Oh, good. That’ll make this easier.”

My head swivels so I’m looking at her again, confounded. Tears are gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“I’m Patty, and this is Paul. We’re…well, we’re Cricket’s grandparents.”

The little girl in glasses is staring at her shoes as she wiggles her foot, shoelaces twitching. Something is very wrong, though I have no idea what. Instantly, my heart softens, Wilder forgotten.

Almost.

I’m smiling without realizing it as I kneel carefully in front of her. “Hey, Cricket. I’m Cass. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her chin is propped on the top of a ladybug pillow clenched in her arms. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Hi.”

I glance at Wilder for answers, but he’s staring at Cricket. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“What’s all this about?” I ask the room.

Patty and Paul share a look. “Our daughter recently passed away,” Patty starts as she sits. “She and Wilder were…well…Cricket is Wilder’s daughter.”

Everything slows down. My heart thuds against my sternum. The little girl in front of me is a statue inside that rubber band stretch of time, her face now buried in her pillow. Sitting on my thighs are my tingling hands, foreign, someone else’s.

Wilder meets my eyes.

The blood has drained from his face, his eyes glassy and distant. At some point, he discarded his hat, and his hair, still dirty from the game, sticks up and out around four ruts from his fingers. He looks wrecked. Wrecked, and confused. And my heart breaks a thousand times because I can feel his as if it’s my own.

He just found out too.

“How…how did this happen?” I ask after the truly pregnant silence, then shake my head. “I mean, how did he not know?”

Patty sighs and looks to Cricket, her chin quivering as she rubs the little girl’s back.

In the moment she hesitates, I see the situation a little more clearly—they can’t speak frankly with Cricket there. So I shake my head again, stopping her before she speaks.

“You know what?” I stand, putting on my best nothing-to-see-here smile. “Wilder always has dutch chocolate ice cream in the fridge…” Cricket looks up, and I know I’ve got her. “Want a scoop?”

A ghost of a smile plays on her lips, and when I extend my hand, she only looks at it for a second before taking it. I offer the trio what I hope is a comforting smile over the top of her head and lead her into the kitchen where we can’t hear them.

I turn on the little radio on the counter just in case, then pull out an island chair and help her into it.

“Now, let’s see,” I start, making my way to the fridge. When I open the freezer, a flicker of warmth sparks in my chest, despite my anger. Because there in the top drawer, as expected, is a gallon of dutch chocolate. “What do you say, Cricket? One scoop or two?”

“Two, please.” For the first time, she’s smiling, and I can see why the S in please was more air than sound—she’s missing two front teeth.

“A girl after my own heart,” I say, pausing in front of the cabinets, not sure where the bowls are. A few lucky guesses later, and I have two bowls, two spoons, and an ice cream scoop. I get to work. “I love your name, by the way.”

“It’s really Karina, but Nana always called me Cricket. I like it better.”

“Me too. So, let me guess—you’re…six?”

She nods. “Almost seven. How did you know? Are you… psychic ?” She whispers the last word like it’s forbidden.

I accidentally snort a laugh. “Definitely not psychic. I teach first grade. When’s your birthday?”

“December thirteenth.”

I make a big, surprised face. “Okay, first, did you know that’s your dad’s number in baseball?”

She shakes her head, her eyes bright.

“And second—oh my gosh—you know that’s Taylor Swift’s birthday too, right?”

That earns me a smile. She nods again.

“What’s your favorite song?” I ask.

“’Bejeweled,’” she answers without hesitation. “What’s yours?”

“Today? ‘Down Bad.’ Yesterday it was ‘Fortnight’ though.” I push her bowl over and hand her a spoon.

“Mommy likes ‘Karma,’” she says, beaming. But before she elaborates, she pales, shrinking in her chair. She swallows.

Something in me breaks. I step to her side and shift to get eye level with her.

“I’m so sorry, Cricket.” The words are quiet, lacking.

Her face crumples the second before she flings herself at me. I catch her, pressing my cheek to her hair with my throat locked and nose stinging.

The angle of our hug is only awkward for a moment—she slides off the seat and into my arms, hers locking around my neck, legs around my waist as she cries. I hold her all the while, rubbing her back, whispering, “Shhh,” not so she’ll stop, but so she’ll know she’s safe.

The reality of the situation begins to dawn on me as I hold the crying, motherless girl. Wilder has a child, which is its own shock. But this little girl’s mother died, and for some reason, after all this time, her grandparents brought her here . It seems unnecessarily cruel not to tell him alone, but I try to remind myself that their daughter is dead, and they’re probably doing their best. There has to be a good reason, some explanation.

I, for one, am anxious to hear it.