television mostly. Housewives from any county. Athletic wives. Celebrity wives. Wives and mistresses. Court television. Dating shows with more roses than morals. Baking cook-offs. Surviving in the wild, nude or otherwise. Doesn’t matter what it’s about. Show me real people with real problems, however sensational. Let me peek behind the curtain into their homes and their messy lives, and I’m hooked.
It makes me feel better to know I’m not the only one with issues, not the only one barely keeping things afloat.
It’s exhausting trying to keep up the fa?ade sometimes.
Travis doesn’t watch much television—he despises “reality TV garbage”—so when I’m on the couch Netflix and chilling by myself, he’s upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms playing his guitar or writing music.
It gets lonely sometimes, but it’s how we make it work. I get what I need, and so does he.
But tonight, we had to entertain Michael and Colleen. All smiles and stupid games and expensive bottles of the finest liquor. Anything to keep things upbeat and happy and, most important, surface-level.
Because we can’t afford for Michael and Colleen to look any deeper.
Especially not now.
As I prop my leg up on the stool in the bathroom and slather vanilla and coconut lotion over it, the bedroom door clicks shut. It’s nearly midnight. I’ve been up here for an hour, showering and getting ready for bed. Travis has been making sure our guests are settled in the guest room.
When I glance up, he’s standing in the doorway, staring at the lights above the mirror. One is flickering.
“Michael doesn’t look good,” he says. “It’s like he’s falling apart.”
“Wouldn’t you be if the police pulled me out of the mud across the street?”
“Absolutely.” But he doesn’t sound like it would trouble him much. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he’s really torn up about Joanna. But I think the stress of the investigation is taking a major toll. He doesn’t like being questioned.”
I don’t mention that Travis doesn’t like being questioned either. They’re alike in that way. Instead, I rub lotion on my arms as the sweet scent fills the bathroom.
I glance up at Travis. I’m standing in front of him spreading lotion all over my naked body, exposing the most intimate parts of me, and he still won’t drag his attention away from that bulb. He’s so fixated on the one problem, he doesn’t notice anything else. Not even me.
The guy’s a perfectionist. One of the reasons I love him. And hate him.
“I’ll be right back,” he says.
He disappears for a few minutes and returns with not one bulb, but an entire box. Kneeling on the counter, he goes to work unscrewing each one and replacing it. I don’t need to ask why. I have before, and the answer is always the same. If one is about to go out, the others are too. This way, they’ll all be new. They’ll all be perfect. And then he’ll be able to sleep at night without brooding about one ultra-bright bulb among the dimming ones.
“Colleen is nice,” he says, as he reaches for another bulb.
My gaze snaps to his. “You think so?”
“Yeah.” He drops the dead one in the box. “Kind of a goody two-shoes though.”
I massage the lotion into my skin a little harder. “They don’t seem like a good match to me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I can’t really put it into words. But I get the feeling she’s easily manipulated by men. “She’s na?ve, I guess.”
“Well, yeah. She’s green. Much younger than Michael.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?” He pulls out a new bulb and spins it into place. “Why does that make them a poor match? You’re younger than I am.”
I hesitate, shooting him a sideways glance as I move on to lathering my breasts. “By a year. Come on. There’s an