Page 75 of Bridesmaid By Chance
I glance at the clock for the twentieth time in an hour and grumble under my breath.
Where the fuck is she?
Is she not coming home?
She hasn’t packed yet, we leave tomorrow for London, she’s not answering her phone, and it’s past eleven at night.
I pace the living room, trying to keep it together, but Jesus, it’s hard to not flip your shit when your wife is so…so erratic.
Lights flash past the window, and I quickly walk up to the curtains and pull them back slightly to see Sloane step out of a car and thank the driver.
I move toward the front door and open it just as she reaches the top step, scaring her.
“Jesus, what are you doing?” she asks as she makes her way past me and into the house, as if nothing is wrong.
“Waiting for you,” I say. “Where the hell have you been?”
“With Stacey,” she says and keeps walking up the stairs, no more explanation to that.
I quickly lock up the house and follow her up the stairs. When I reach the bedroom, she moves past the laundry I folded for her and to the bathroom, where she grabs a pair of pajamas from the dresser, not opting for one of my shirts. And that is just wrong. It’s become my new normal to see her in my shirts, so what is going on?
“Uh, care to explain?”
“Explain what?” she asks.
“Where you were,” I say.
“I said I was with Stacey. We were at the house, enjoying ourselves.” Then she moves into the toilet room and shuts the door. When she comes out, she’s dressed and puts her dirty clothes in the hamper before walking over to the sink, where she starts washing her face.
“Sloane,” I say, irritated.
“What?” she replies as she suds up her face with facial cleanser.
“Are you going to ignore the fact that I was trying to get in touch with you and you weren’t answering?”
She rinses her face and then towel dries it before picking up her lotion. “Why were you trying to get in touch with me?” she asks with such a blasé attitude that it grates on my nerves.
“Because I wanted to know where the fuck my wife was.”
“You knew I was with Stacey.”
“Were you though?” I ask, feeling jealousy pulse through me as my imagination runs wild with other possibilities.
“Yes,” she says in an annoyed tone. “And before you suggest I was with anyone but you, you better check yourself. Because I might be horny, but I gave you my word. You’re my husband, plain and simple. I won’t be searching for anything else.”
I’m annoyed that her reassurance puts me slightly at ease because I shouldn’t care that much, even though I do.
“Why did you come home late?” I ask, not able to drop this.
She lotions her face and answers, “Because I don’t need to answer to you. You made it clear that nothing in our arrangement extends past what is required of me, so that’s what I’m going to stick to: what is required of me in this marriage. And frankly, Hudson, I’m done trying. I spent a week attempting to get to know you, to lean on you through this situation, and you’ve given me nothing. So I’ll do what you wantbut give the bare minimum.” She lines her toothbrush with toothpaste and starts brushing.
The bare minimum.
I don’t like that.
And I have no right to complain about it because she’s right—she’s done a lot in the last week, and I’ve kept her at arm’s length. I’ve shut her down, made sure to not get tempted, to not fall into the trap of her charm, because fuck is she charming.
This distance? The lack of joy in her expression?
