Page 110 of Sin

Because a decent man would answer his wife before driving his mistress to the airport.

I stare at the screen until it goes dark. Then I get into the truck.

Laurel is watching me.

“You can call her back,” she says.

I start the engine. “I know.”

“You should.”

“Yes.”

Neither of us moves.

Then she looks out the windshield. “You’re not going to.”

“No.”

The answer is quiet. Honest. Ugly, if we’re being truthful.

Laurel closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, there’s pain there. And want.

“We’re not even pretending anymore,” she says.

I pull out of the garage. “I know.”

“Does that scare you?”

I glance at her. The city lights move over her face, soft and gold and gone too fast.

“Yes,” I say.

Her hand rests on the console between us and I cover it with mine. Her fingers curl immediately. That’s the problem. How easy it is. How natural. How much it feels like something I have been missing instead of something I should have never found.

She whispers, “Then why are we going?”

I tighten my hand around hers.

“Because I missed you.”

The words leave before I can stop them. There they are. The words I deleted last night. The truth I should have buried.

Laurel goes still.

I keep my eyes on the road because if I look at her now, I will pull over and kiss her until neither of us remembers the question.

Finally, she says, “I missed you too.”

My chest aches. I hate that it feels better than anything in my life has in years.

I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. It’s not sexual by any means, but somehow it’s worse. She exhales shakily and turns toward the window. We drive the rest of the way in silence. But her hand stays in mine. And when the private terminal comes into view, I know two things with absolute certainty.

This trip isn’t going to fix anything.

And I’m going anyway.

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