Page 19

19

I don’t know what is going on with my clothes.

I’m afraid to wash anything anymore. I sterilize the washing machine the best I can before using it, and I don’t add anything besides a capful of my hypoallergenic detergent, and still, I’m having a terrible allergic reaction to everything that comes out of it. I’m losing my ever-loving mind.

“What are you cleaning the washing machine with?” Krista asks me as we discuss it while getting ready for bed. It’s sadly become one of my favorite topics of conversation. She must be bored out of her skull, but I can’t help myself.

“A hypoallergenic cleaning spray made with all natural ingredients,” I say, feeling about as manly as an eight-year-old girl. “I don’t understand it, because cleaning the machine seemed to work for a while, but now it’s just as bad as it ever was.”

“Do you want me to bring your clothes to the dry cleaner?” she asks. “I can clean them for you there.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.” God knows we don’t need Krista losing her job on top of everything else. “Maybe I’ll try taking it to the laundromat.”

It makes me furious that I have to take my clothes to the laundromat when I have a perfectly good washer and dryer right in the house. I even got the most expensive stackable model they had. And now I can’t use it.

“I don’t mind,” Krista tells me. “Nobody will even know. Really, just let me wash your clothes for you. I can’t stand to see you suffer like this.”

I start to protest again, but Krista is already picking up my laundry basket. She retrieves a mesh laundry bag from the closet and starts throwing my clothes inside.

“Krista, it’s really okay,” I say. “You don’t have to do this.”

She doesn’t answer. She’s holding up one of my dress shirts, a strange expression on her face.

“Krista?”

“Blake,” she says, “what’s this on your collar?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I come around the side of the bed so I can get a better look at whatever’s bothering her so much. I still don’t quite know what she’s so upset about, but then I see it: a bright red stain on the collar of my white shirt.

She rubs her finger against the red smudge, and some of the color comes away. “It’s lipstick,” she says sharply.

I shrug. “I guess you got some lipstick on my collar. What? That’ll come off in the wash.”

Krista whips her head around to glare at me. “I do not have any lipstick this shade.”

My gaze darts between the bright red on the collar and Krista’s lips, which show no trace of whatever she had on them today. I look at her blankly, because how would I know what shades of lipstick she owns?

“I only wear pink,” she says pointedly. “Because of my complexion.”

That could be true. I can’t say I recall her ever wearing bright red lipstick in all the time we’ve been together.

So how the hell did red lipstick get on my collar?

I can’t even begin to imagine how it could have happened, but from the look on Krista’s face, she has a better imagination than I do.

“Krista.” I try to touch her shoulder, and she jerks away. “You don’t really think I’m cheating on you, do you?”

“If you weren’t cheating on me, how did you end up with lipstick on your collar?” Her eyes widen. “Is that why you didn’t want me doing your laundry?”

“No!” I tug the shirt away from her, examining the lipstick on the collar, racking my brain to try to figure out how it ended up there. “I really don’t know. Maybe I left my shirt lying around and some of Whitney’s lipstick got on it.”

“Whitney never wears lipstick.”

That is true. She never seems to wear any makeup. But my gut is telling me that Whitney had something to do with this.

“What if Whitney came into our bedroom while we were both out and rubbed lipstick on my shirts?” I suggest. “She was probably hoping you would see it. She wants me to get in trouble with you.”

“Is that seriously your answer?” Krista puts her hands on her hips as she glares at me. “Whitney came into our bedroom and rubbed lipstick on all your clothes? Seriously? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

Yes, I absolutely do. But I can tell from the way Krista is saying it that the right answer is no. “Listen,” I say. “I genuinely don’t know how the lipstick ended up on my collar. But I promise you, I was not messing around on you. I would never do that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Krista.” I try to tamp down the feeling of panic rising in my chest. “You can’t possibly believe I’m cheating on you. Please tell me you don’t really think that.”

Krista sinks to the bed, her shoulders sagging. “I don’t know anymore. Honestly, Blake, you’ve been acting so strangely lately.”

“Acting strangely?”

“You must know what I mean,” she murmurs. “You barely sleep. You’re always ranting and raving about something, including noises during the night that nobody can hear but you. And you are so weirdly paranoid about Whitney. I mean, Whitney seems perfectly nice to me.”

Right. Of course she’s nice to Krista. Krista isn’t the one she has the inexplicable vendetta against.

“Krista.” I hold out my arms, still covered in that itchy, red rash. “Anyone would be acting strangely if they were dealing with this. It’s driving me out of my mind. Christ, do you really think I’m in any mindset to be having an affair right now?” I bend down, trying to make eye contact. “Who would even want me? I look like I should be at a leper colony!”

That coaxes the tiniest smile out of her. I sit beside her on the bed, and she actually lets me hold her hand, although I don’t attempt to put my arm around her. A kiss would be out of the question.

“I’m sorry this rash is making me nuts,” I say. “I understand it looks bad that there was lipstick on my clothing, but I swear to you I don’t know where it came from. I swear on my life.” I chew on my lower lip. “Do you believe me?”

I hold my breath, waiting for her answer.

“I…I guess so,” she finally says. “I have to admit, it’s hard to imagine you having an affair when you can’t go five seconds without scratching yourself everywhere.”

I squeeze her hand. “Exactly. I don’t want to kiss any other women. All I want is some prescription cortisone cream.”

That gets a laugh out of her. “I know you’re suffering, and you’re trying your best. That’s why I wanted to do your laundry for you.”

“Okay,” I agree. “But only for a little while. I don’t want this to be a permanent arrangement.”

Only until we get Whitney the hell out of here.

Except I’m beginning to worry that it’s not going to happen anytime soon.