No One Can Know(48)

It was dinner when it finally boiled over. It started with a look, Nathan watching her, his fork in his hand.

“With everything that’s happening, maybe…” He paused. “I mean, it’s not too late. To change our minds.”

“About what?” she asked, but the implication hit her before the words had fully left her mouth. She set her fork down. She hadn’t touched her dinner. She knew she should be eating more. She’d started getting faint in the middle of the day, but she could still only manage to nibble at plain bread. Now the alfredo that she’d hoped would be enticing enough that she could get down a few bites was congealing on her plate. “No.”

“You’re not being rational about this. You can’t tell me you have a good argument for keeping it. Why are you so set on having a baby right now?”

“That’s not it,” Emma said. It wasn’t something she could break into a list of pros and cons, because there was only one pro that mattered—she wanted this child, wanted this little life to kindle inside of her. She didn’t know why. She didn’t need to. “It’s not up for discussion, Nathan.”

“There’s a time limit on these things,” he said, but she didn’t answer. She thought of after the accident, after the doctor had told her that she might not be able to safely carry a pregnancy to term. The way Nathan’s face had crumpled, and for the next week he slept with his back to her, could hardly meet her eyes. But she’d healed. Better than anyone had expected. He’d been the one to cry when they got the news, pressing his face to the crook of her neck.

He let out a frustrated sigh. “I just hate having to wonder how many more secrets you’re keeping. It’s like you’ve been putting on an act the whole time we’ve been married,” he said.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked. For once, she couldn’t tell. Should she cry? Should she plead? Should she shout at him in turn? Did he want her anger, or her confession?

“I don’t know, Emma. The truth, maybe?” Nathan asked.

“I don’t even know what the truth is. If I did, I would tell you, and we could be done with this.”

“Come on. That’s bullshit,” Nathan said, slamming his palm on the table so hard she jumped. “You know plenty. You still haven’t told me what happened. Why? Are you hiding something that would make you look guilty?”

She remembered, suddenly, standing in front of her father in the study while he sat in that huge chair with its oak arms and dark upholstery, a glass of amber liquid sweating in his hand. Remembered her silence, and all her meaningless noise as she tried to explain and justify and apologize, to find the secret code, the combination of contrition and logic that would spare her the punishment she had never once managed to evade.

Nathan’s face was red, his jaw clenched. He wouldn’t hit her. He’d never hit her. He was not like her father.

But there was nothing she could say to apologize, she knew that. He would push and push and push and she would have no answer, and this precarious balance of theirs would topple at last, and it would be her fault.

She couldn’t stop it. But she could make it so that it wasn’t her fault. Not only her fault.

She looked up at him, and her lips parted to speak. His face was ruddy with anger, lines deep at the corners of his mouth. I know, she could have told him.

She stood instead. She walked to the hall, plucking her purse from its place on the credenza.

“Where are you going?” Nathan asked.

“Out,” she said. Because if she stayed, they would break. She would lose him.

“Emma.” He put himself in her path.

“I just need some air,” she said. She started to step around him. He grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop. She looked down at his hand, fingers dimpling the skin of her upper arm. Tight enough to balance on the edge of pain.

He let her go.

She was afraid of so many things; he had never been one of them, and he wasn’t now. But she couldn’t be here.

“When are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked.

Never, she thought. “Soon,” she said.

This time, he let her leave.





23

EMMA




Now



Wilson’s was a bar utterly without personality; it didn’t slouch into dive bar territory or manage the gloss necessary to be trendy. It was a bar you only ever ended up at because it was the only one open or the only one close by.

As soon as she opened the door she spotted the man she was looking for down at the end of the bar, pulling a pint. At forty, Logan Ellis had a few flecks of gray in his hair and more definition to his jaw, but little else about him had changed. Still good-looking in that slightly off-putting way, still with those pale eyes. His attention flicked up to her, and he raised a few fingers in a perfunctory greeting, not showing a glimmer of recognition. She made her way down to the other end of the bar and sat, watching as he delivered the beer to the only other patron in the bar before coming back her way.

Logan approached. A puzzled smile crossed his features, and he rested his hands on the bar. “Emma Palmer. My dad mentioned you were back in town.”

“I’m sure he’s thrilled,” Emma said.

He laughed, not unpleasantly. “Yeah, he’s not exactly your biggest fan. What can I get you? Club soda and lime?”