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outside our marriage, I could barely distract myself from the thought of him
and the memory of the way he’d moved when he was inside me. My body
was basted together and the stitches were slipping. I was going to explode
before this was over.
Every morning, we met in the kitchen. As usual, Logan was already
showered, shaved, and wearing his work clothes when I came down. I
didn’t know when he actually slept. If he snored, I never heard it through
the door, but then again, I slept like a dead thing.
“You’re up early,” he said. “Coffee?”
My morning drink changed from day to day. He knew to wait before
pouring mine, and I knew he wanted to get it right.
“Black, two sugars.”
He handed me my cup, properly sweetened and lava hot. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah, what time did you get in?” The Wall Street Journal was open to
the stock ticker. I scanned down to the PPON.
“Late.”
“Papillion’s down,” I said.
“Not enough.”
That was his excuse every time. He was going to wait until Bianca
drove it into the ground with her shitty T-shirts.
“What are you doing today?” he asked as if it was ever anything
interesting.
“Lunch with Mandy at Scopes.”
“Say hi for me.” He stood at the island, hands circling his cup as if he
could crush it.
He had something to say. I knew him at least that well.
“What?” I said. “Say it.”
“The Malones are going to be in town.”
Mike and Twyla Malone owned a swath of land in Tennessee that the
Crownes wanted to lay pipeline through. They were in a constant state of
almost-but-not-quite making a deal. The last time we’d seen Mike Malone
at a business event, he’d gotten drunk and—when Logan’s back was turned
—suggested I looked sexually frustrated. He offered to help me out with
that. He was right about my dissatisfaction, but that was beside the point.
I hadn’t told my fake husband about it until the next day. It had taken all
morning to convince him not to burn down the Malones’ house.
“You said Malones plural,” I said. “Twyla too?”