Page 62 of A Song for Another Woman

"He came back early."

"What?"

"He didn't see me."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Pretty sure isn't my favorite phrase."

"He was working."

June goes quiet.

"I mean, really working," I say, hating every word as it leaves me because saying it makes it more real. "No people, no press, and no audience. He just came back after the crew left and kept going."

June exhales.

"Don't make that sound," I say.

"What sound?"

"The sound where you're being moved against your will."

"I'm not moved. I'm irritated."

"Good. Stay there."

"I'm trying."

My throat tightens again. I blink hard, keeping my eyes on the road. "It's my house, June."

June's voice gentles. "Yeah, it is."

"No, you don't understand. It isn't some rich-man version. It's not even close. It's exact. The porch, the kitchen, the nook." I swallow. "The dogwood."

"Oh, Em."

"He kept the drawings."

"Yeah."

I hate that she isn't trying to explain it away. I need her to explain it away. I need someone to hand me a clean, ugly motive I can hold like a weapon. Manipulation, optics, or guilt with a floor plan, just something simple.

Instead, there's that house on Mill Creek Road with the right window over the kitchen, and my husband working alone in the dark until his hands tear open.

"He can build a house," I say.

June waits.

"A house isn't a marriage."

"No," she says. "It isn't."

"He humiliated me on live television."

"Yes, he did."