Page 49 of Thicker Than Water
If I were more like Sienna, I’d laugh or spit in Maeve’s face. I’dthunder curses at her, unleash a storm offuck you, how dare you, go the fuck away.
Butthat nightwas something else, too. Gavin on the grass in his own backyard: stabbed, smothered, stitched.
I touch the doorframe, disoriented by the contrast of those images—sex and death, adultery and murder. How is it possible that both nights existed at once, that my husband is the common thread between them? Jason’s mouth on Maeve’s skin. Gavin’s blood on Jason’s knife.
As I stand frozen, a sick, slushy feeling mucking about inside me, Maeve interprets my stillness as an invitation. She slips over the threshold into the house.
“I know I’m the last person you want to see,” she says, heading straight for the kitchen. She stops at the table where we hosted her for Thanksgiving, where she complimented the cranberry sauce Jason had made from scratch, where she asked for seconds of it, then thirds, her hungry lips closing around the berries, her smile, aimed at my husband, stained with red.
“I just— I have to apologize, again,” she says, fingers skimming the surface of the table as she stares at the wood. “It’s my fault you’re hurting, and I’m so sorry about that.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I think how untrue her statement is. As much as I’d love to assign her all the blame, it’s not a fair assessment of what happened. Even though she initiated things by kissing Jason, he still could have recoiled, walked out the door, done anything but kiss her back.
“And I want you to know that I’m going to pay back that ten grand.” She pulls a piece of paper, folded into thirds, from her canvas tote, and I’m dislodged for a moment, picturing the arrest warrant Beck extracted from his jacket.
Maeve opens the paper and sets it on the table. It’s a spreadsheet of dates and numbers.
“I’ve made a repayment schedule. This is your copy, for your records. I have the first payment due to you at the end of September. If that’s too late, I can adjust it. Jason kept insisting the money was a gift, but I’vealwaysthought of it as a loan. So as soon as my store is open, I’ll be setting aside—”
“Wait.” My stomach grows heavy, as if it’s lined with iron. “Jason said it was a gift?”
Maeve bites her lip. “Maybe he didn’t use that word. He was just adamant that he didn’t expect me to pay him back. All he cared about was me getting to open my store.”
Unsteady, I sink onto a chair. “Your dream store,” I mutter—and it’s a fresh smack of pain: he contributed to Maeve’s dream while stealing from mine.
“He must’ve had feelings for you for a while then,” I add, “to give you such an extravagant gift.”
“Oh—no!” Maeve says. “That wasn’t it at all. He was just… really freaked out by what Gavin said to me in the warehouse. He kept telling me I couldn’t work for someone who’d treat me like that, and then I’d say, ‘Well, I need this job until I can save enough money for my store,’ and then he—”
She stops as I wave off the explanation. He was rescuing her, sure; that’s what he does. But would one creepy incident from Gavin—one in which he didn’t even touch her—really push Jason to give Maeve so much money, no strings attached, if he only saw her as a friend?
“Maeve.” I clasp my hands in my lap. “Tell me the truth. Did you sleep with my husband before that night?”
She plunks into the chair diagonal from me, eyes swelling wide. “No! I swear.”
Before I can decide if I believe her, my phone trills with an incoming email. I glance at it on the table and feel a punch of dread at the sender’s name: Dale Stapleton, our notoriously difficult client.Opening the message, I’m assaulted by a string of all-caps sentences. Phrases pop out—UNACCEPTABLE, NOT HOW PROPER BUSINESSES OPERATE, I EXPECT IT BY MONDAY—before I press my forehead into the heel of my hand.
“Is everything okay?” Maeve asks. “It’s—it’s not bad news about Jason, is it?”
“No.” I heave out a sigh, then rattle off Dr. Brighton’s update before I remember that Maeve is the last person who deserves to hear it.
“Are you serious? He’s really waking up soon?” Maeve pitches forward, practically salivating for details. “When?”
I swipe my gaze at her, and she’s self-aware enough to wince. It’s not a great look, so soon after her apology—her eagerness for the moment my husband’s awake.
“Sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” Maeve nudges her chin toward my phone, quick to change the subject. “You can deal with… whatever that was, if you need to.”
“It’s fine. It’s just a client being nasty.”
She grunts in understanding. “That’s the last thing you need this week.”
I shrug. “He’s mad we’re missing a deadline. Sienna’s told him—twice now—that we have a family emergency, but…” I trail off, uncomfortable to be confiding in her.
“What a dick,” Maeve says. “Reminds me of the time my dad had a stroke—a minor one, but still—and even though I told my customer there’d be a delay in her order because I was flying home, she sent me a message, all capital letters, about how I’d better mail her the order by the end of the week or she’d ‘go nuclear’ in my online reviews.”
“This message was all caps too,” I admit.
“Of course it was.” Maeve rolls her eyes. “This is how I’d respond: ‘So sorry you’re frustrated’—apologize forhisfeelings, not anythingyou’vedone—‘but my family comes before your business,which I encourage you to take elsewhere if you’re unable to grant us an extension while my husband’s in a fucking coma.’?” She pauses. “Maybe without the ‘fucking,’ though.”
