watched some of the Raiders’ game,” Brian points out in a low murmur. “So, she’s not exactly catatonic.”
“And she did brush her hair.” Laney would be the one to notice something like that.
“Well, I don’t like it,” my father adds his own two cents, also in a harsh whisper. “She’s clearly depressed.”
That actually makes me smile—my father assessing my mental fortitude.
I suppose they might be a little freaked out. After all, I got kidnapped yesterday and rescued by late evening. They discovered I was secretly married, and I found out after they did that my husband wasn’t who I thought he was. When we left the FBI station, I asked if I could stay at their house for a few days.
Mom and Dad had exchanged a worried look because I’ve always been the independent one. While their home is open to any of their kids—as evidenced by their adult son living in their basement—my request to stay with them indicated I wasn’t in a good headspace.
Of course, another reason I wanted to stay at my parents’ was that Cage had been blowing up my phone with texts and voicemails, reiterating his apologies and begging for some time to talk. I deleted every single one. At one point, my finger actually hovered over the button that would block him.
But I hadn’t.
We went to my childhood home, and I slept in the old bedroom I shared with Laney. Back then, we had twin beds with matching white comforters with eyelet embroidery around the edge. Our mom had made them for us.
The twin beds are long gone, and there’s just a pull-out couch. My mom uses it for her sewing room now, having moved all her fabrics and her machine up from the basement to give Brian a place to sleep. I was so tired last night, I didn’t even bother pulling the couch out. I threw a sheet over it, pulled a blanket over myself, and dropped into a dead sleep that was devoid of any dreams or nightmares. My mind and body were exhausted from a whirlwind week, starting in Vegas, culminating in an unplanned and spontaneous marriage, followed by a kidnapping, and ending with the knowledge my husband is not who he said he was.
When I awoke this morning, my first thought was of Cage, and it was through a haze of sadness and uncertainty. I’m still so angry. At some point, I know I’ll have to give him a chance to say his piece. The question is whether I’ll ever accept anything he has to say.
I have no clue why I feel so betrayed. It’s not like he hid a secret family, a sordid criminal past, or a drug addiction.
He lied about his job.
Most, like my mother, would say “big whoop.”
But damn if it doesn’t bother me way down deep, and I think a lot of it is because I feel like the world’s biggest idiot for marrying a man who suckered me. It feels worse than betrayal because part of this is my fault for being so damn gullible in believing we had a real connection.
The fact he lied in the first place and didn’t correct it meant that everything built upon it was a sham.
“Dinner’s going to be ready in about five minutes,” my mom calls from the kitchen. It’s dead silent in there, all waiting for me to respond.
I attempt a cheery voice as I call back, “Awesome. I’m starved.”
But I’m really not. My stomach is knotted, and my chest aches.
My mom starts giving orders to Laney and Brian to set the table, and my dad meanders back into the living room. I go ahead and sit up to make a show to him that I’m okay. When he gives me a tentative smile, I level one back at him so overly bright I know it looks fake.
“Your mom made rigatoni marinara… your favorite,” he says, shifting from foot to foot. He seems uncomfortable, perhaps fearful I’ll have a breakdown on his watch. Dad was always the one we played with, and he helped us with schoolwork. Mom was the one who nursed our wounds and held our secrets.
“I can smell it,” I reply with a chuckle. My stomach growls in response, a pointed reminder I’ve yet to eat today despite my mom trying to tempt me with some delicacy every half hour.
When the doorbell rings, my dad turns that way, saying, “I’ll get it.”
I frown because he doesn’t seem startled by an unexpected visitor. A