Page 24 of Faithless Vows

She’ll look at me like I’m everything.

And I’ll know what I did the night before.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

***

I shower until the water runs cold, scrubbing at my skin like I can wash away what I’ve done.

It doesn’t help.

I dress in clean clothes, splash on aftershave, and check my watch. Eleven-thirty. I need to leave now if I’m going to pick her up on time.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

Same face. Same eyes. Nothing’s changed.

Except everything has.

I make my way downstairs, grab the Cadillac keys, and head for the door. When I open it, the car’s parked out front—blue paint gleaming, chrome catching the light.

I stop.

No. Not today.

I turn back, toss the keys onto the counter, and grab the set for the old Ford instead—the one I never got around to selling after I finished the Caddy. I’ll deal with moving it into the garage later.

Alannah’s waiting for me.

***

Alannah’s standing outside when I pull up. Her brows pull together slightly when she sees the car. I get out and walk up to her.

“Hi,” she says. A smile spreads across her face.

She looks beautiful. I don’t deserve that smile.

“Hi.”

“I haven’t seen this car in forever,” she says, glancing past me. “Everything okay?”

I kiss her on the cheek. We walk to the car, and I open the passenger door for her. She gets in, smoothing her dress over her knees. I move to the driver’s side and climb in.

“The Caddy was making a funny noise this morning,” I say as I start the engine. “Need to have a look at it later.”

She nods. Then her face lights up. “I barely slept last night. I kept thinking about the house.”

I pull away from the curb, nodding. “Yeah?”

“I hope the furniture looks good with the paint colours we chose,” she says, her voice bright with excitement. “And I hope the decorator remembered the lamp I wanted in the front room—the one with the brass base. I know it’s silly, but I keep picturing it there by the window.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say.

She keeps talking—about the curtains, about whether the dining table will fit the way she imagined, about how she can’t wait to see it all put together. I nod, say the right things, but the words barely register.

All I can think about is last night. Kitty’s hands on my belt. The way the car rocked. The sound of her voice in my ear.