I hesitated, then slid my palm into his. “Taylor.”
And just like that, my fake life began.
Some women careened into deception with reckless disregard, but I slid, on my bottom, slowly down the hill, bumping along and using my feet to stop myself if I started to get out of control. That first day, it was just an introduction and a simple lie about my name and occupation.David went his way, and I went mine, and no one was harmed in the transgression. It was my butt hitting the grass, my legs jutting out and pointing down the hill, my mind deciding whether I wanted to push forward and begin my descent.
It was nice, having someone smile at me. Pay attention to me. Laugh at my witty remarks.
It was nice, wearing the skin of another woman, even if I was the only one who knew of her intricacies.
Maybe that was what my husband was keeping from me. A search for another life more exciting than our own.
CHAPTER 8
LILLIAN
Two hours later, I held my purse over my head and jogged through the Oyster House parking lot, cursing at the rain, which increased in ferocity as I got closer to the double doors.
I escaped into the interior and shook the rain off my bag, looking for Sam. The Oyster House was a tetanus-worthy dump with a sliver of a beach view. Their draw was in their cheap gulf oysters and ice-cold beer served in frozen mugs. I moved through the crowded tables and spotted Sam at a booth by the bathrooms. I was late, but he was used to that. He considered tardiness a sign of disrespect but always delivered the criticism with a smile.
“Hello, my love.” I bent over to receive his standard kiss on each cheek. “Sorry for being late. You know. Traffic.” I waved a hand in the general direction of the 405.
“No worries—it’s given me a chance to scope out the local talent.”
“Any hot surfers?” I asked and stole a sip of his beer.
“No, just suits and tourists.”
Sam, who had a weakness for shirtless and sandy athletes, was on a yearlong dry spell. I’d been supportive. I’d played matchmaker. I’d analyzed dating profiles and social media messages and listened to a dozen bad-date recaps, which had been entertaining but dismal. Anotherreason to hang on to my neurotic yet stable husband, even if he was hiding something from me. As chapter 2 had pointed out, it might not be a woman; it might be a gambling debt or drug habit. It was pathetic that I was almost hoping for those—though my husband, a man who had read the owner’s manual on our new microwave before using it, would never gamble or use drugs. Sadly, he was above such weak activities.
A woman, though ... Was he above that? According to my new book, affairs were often more than just carnal need. They were about receiving attention or fighting insecurity. Which ... after twenty minutes of quasi-flirting with the man in the coffee shop, I could almost understand. The attention of a strange man was intoxicating. I kept thinking about the way his eyes had been pinned on mine, as if he couldn’t wait to hear the next thing I said.
I tried to refocus. “You act like you couldn’t be with a suit. Trust me, there’s nothing wrong with bedding someone with a high attention to detail.”
He raised a brow. “Says the woman whose husband hasn’t tapped her calculator in ... months?”
“Easy,” I said sharply and gave him a warning glare.
“Sorry.” He raised his hands in surrender and stepped into the one subject I really didn’t want to talk about. “Howisyour other half?”
“Umm ...” I looked around for a waiter. “Not great. I mean, Mike seems fine. But like you said”—I reluctantly met his eyes—“he’s been distant. It’s like there’s a wall between us and I can’t figure out what it’s made of.”
He winced. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Have you given any more thought to—”
“Don’t say it,” I warned. “Please. That was a weak moment, fueled by Jäger.” While tucked into Sam’s side at our Fourth of July barbecue, I’d shared that I was thinking of leaving Mike. We’d been alone in the living room, the rest of the party outside by the firepit, and I had been feeling uncharacteristically emotional and irritated by Mike, who hadspent most of the evening chatting up our buxom new neighbor—a conversation he’d sworn was only in the interest of securing a new client.
“Maybe the Jäger was telling you something.”
Telling me to leave my husband? Not likely. I shook my head. “No. I just ...” I thought of Taylor Fortwood. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d chosen a different path in life.”
One without a husband and child.God, the words were so horrible. Could he hear me thinking them? I reached out and grabbed his arm, hoping to distract him from the last thing I’d said. “Tell me I’m crazy, please.”
“You’re not crazy.” He leaned forward and gave me the same slightly crooked grin that had carried me through the last five years. “You’re normal. I know you don’t want to hear it, Lill, but you’re one hundred percent normal.”
I returned his smile, but inside, a part of me cracked in dismay.Normal.How incredibly boring.
CHAPTER 9
LILLIAN