I toss cash onto the bar and push out the distillery door, charge down the steps, and round the corner of the block before my thoughts come together. If Joanna’s not home sick in bed, I’m going to lose my mind.
The lights in Ravenwood are on, but it’s empty and cold inside. She’s not in our room or the second master. She moved out of our bedroom in May—nearly two months ago—because she claimed she needed space. She’d secluded herself in that new room of hers for at least a week when she first moved in, and I’d thought for sure it was over. Since then, she’s remained aloof about resolving the issues in our relationship.
Hey, honey, I text. Just got home. Still out with Rachael?
I keep my phone in my hand as I pace through the house like a caged lion. I shouldn’t get worked up, not until I hear what she has to say, but I can’t keep the bitterness at bay. I call Joanna, leave an urgent voicemail, and then search through my phone contacts, stopping at M for Martin. I punch the call button for Rachael’s cell.
No answer.
I call Travis and also get voicemail.
Furious, I pitch my phone across the kitchen. It hits the wall and drops to the floor with the expensive sound of glass meeting tile. I feel like tearing the house apart. I want to track Joanna down and demand to know where she’s been. I want to hear the truth from her lips.
When the lights of a car sweep through the living room at two o’clock in the morning, I tip back my glass and down the remains of my Jack. At this point it tastes like water. That’s what usually happens after the fifth—or was it sixth?—drink. I’m no longer on the verge of bursting through my skin. I’ve moved beyond the wild, irrational state of anger. The fury inside me has boiled down to contempt.
Joanna strides through the front garden as the purr of a motor pulls away from the house and rumbles down Cypress Street. I hear keys jingling in the lock, and the handle turns. She appears in the foyer, smiling to herself, her eyes downcast as if she’s lost in thought. She glances into the kitchen and spots me sitting at the island in the dark. Her smile drops.
Sick, my ass.
Ditching Rachael freed up Joanna’s night to see whomever she wanted.
“Michael?” Clicking on the light, she closes the door behind her. “You scared me. What are you still doing up?”
Even in my drunken haze, I can see she looks stunning tonight. She’s dressed in a low-cut pink top, dark blue jeans, and spiky heels. Her stomach appears flat. Her black hair is pinned on top of her head except for a few tendrils tickling her neck. Silver earrings dangle from each ear. She’s made up her face with smoky eyes and red cheeks, but her lips are bare. Not a hint of lipstick. She’s probably kissed it off.
“How was paint night?” My words drag, slowed by the liquor chugging through my system and the numbness tingling my mouth. I’m probably slurring, but I can’t tell.
“What do you care?” she says. “You’ve never asked before.”
“I’m asking now.”
“I’m nearly a Monet. A few more classes and I think I’ll best him. Is that what you want to hear? That my time away from you isn’t wasted on something frivolous?” Scoffing, she shakes her head. “I made it home safely. You can go to bed now.”
She avoids my eyes as she takes down her hair and disappears into the living room. I hear her footsteps on the stairs and then, moments later, a faucet. She’s showering to wash away the scent of another man, I know it.
I charge upstairs and into her master. Her room smells so different from mine—floral and sweet mixed with something else I can’t place.