Page 29 of What He Doesn't Know

Charlie

My eyes were puffy and tired as I dragged myself up my driveway, tossing a wave back at Reese. He waited until I unlocked my front door and slipped inside before he pulled away, and I sighed, tossing my keys into the dish by the door and shrugging off my coat.

For a moment I just stood there, my back to the front door, eyes closed and head cast upward. I didn’t know if I was sending up a prayer of thanks or one asking for forgiveness. Maybe both. The evening’s events blurred behind my vision, and I couldn’t make sense of anything — least of all the fact that I’d asked Reese why he hadn’t kissed me fourteen years ago.

The entire house was dark, save for the kitchen light, which was just enough to light my way as I kicked off my boots and padded in to make a cup of hot tea. I needed to sober up a little before bed, and my throat was raw from telling Reese about the boys.

I still couldn’t believe I’d told him at all.

The way he’d listened, the way he’d held me as I broke completely in his arms, it was enough to move me to tears again as I put the tea kettle on the stove. Once the water was heating, I leaned against the kitchen counter beside it, pinching the bridge of my nose with a sigh.

How long had I wanted Cameron to hold me that way, to fall to his knees and kiss the scars left by our children? How long had I silently begged him to talk about it, to acknowledge it, to let me know it was real? With Cameron, it was as if those months, that day, those roughly two-hundred-and-sixteen hours, as if none of it had happened at all. He was able to pack away the nursery — out of sight, out of mind — while I lived with the scars they left behind.

For Cameron, there was before, a big blank, empty space, and then after. But we never talked about the catalyst that propelled us from the first to the latter.

Still, I felt guilty for finding comfort in another man, in anotherperson,period. It felt weak and inexcusable that I’d done so. I wanted to blame it on the alcohol, on the nostalgia of being back on the Incline, but I wasn’t sure I truthfully could.

Had I been aware of Reese ever since he’d come back into town? Had I secretly wondered what it would be like if he had never left at all?

It was impossible to say, and it only made my head hurt more as I stood in my kitchen, wishing for answers that wouldn’t come.

“Fun night?”

Cameron’s deep voice startled me, and I jumped, pressing a cold hand to my chest before I let out a relieved sigh at the sight of him.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“I wasn’t going to sleep before you got home, Charlie. I’m your husband.”

His tone set me on edge, my defenses rising of their own accord as I stood to pull out the jar of tea packets. I filtered through them, not meeting his gaze. “You say that like you think I’ve forgotten.”

“It’s late.”

I glanced up at the time on the microwave as the tea pot began to scream. I moved it gently off to the side, clicking off the burner and ripping open the packet of tea I’d chosen. “It’s only one.”

“Thirty. It’s one-thirty, and you didn’t think to call your husband or even send a text to let him know you were okay?”

“Did you call or text?” I threw back at him, turning long enough to watch his face as I said the words.

His jaw tightened, and I noticed how tired his eyes were, how his hair had been mussed like his hands hadn’t left it all night. His beard was growing in again, dark stubble now that he would tame as it grew longer.

“That’s right,” I said. “You didn’t. And I’m home now, so what does it matter, anyway? You had to work, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Don’t pull the work card.”

“Why not? It’s your favorite one to pull.”

Cameron’s head snapped back as if I’d slapped him, and I couldn’t find it in me to apologize as I turned back to the stove. I couldn’t believe I’d said it either, but at the same time, I was glad it was finally out. I never wanted to push Cameron, never wanted to fight with him or make him feel bad for working so hard to provide for us.

But I needed him. I’d needed him for five years now, and it was like he didn’t have a single clue.

I filled one mug with the steaming water, dropping a bag of chamomile into it and noting the steep time.

“Want some?” I asked over my shoulder.

Cameron didn’t answer, so I shut the cabinet that housed our mugs and dunked the tea bag as the silence stretched between us.

“Where have you been?” he asked after a moment. He still stood in the opening where the kitchen met our dining area, his arms crossed over his chest, checkered sleep pants hanging on his hips.