Greer: Maybe a little, but only because it’s slightly comical that you gave your only key away.
Cora: I’m nervous.
Stella: Just rip the bandage off. And then, for the love of God, tell us what happens.
Greer: Yes, tell us all the things. We love you.
Cora: I tolerate you.
Stella: Good luck talking to your husband!
Greer: [Ron Swanson Giggling GIF]
Cora: You two are no longer my friends.
Chapter Seven
PIKE
Killian: Is she home yet? I can’t fall asleep. I really think I might throw up.
I glance around Cora’s studio apartment, wondering how the hell we’re going to make this work. A queen-size bed is situated against the wall, a window to the right of it offering a decent view of a park across the street. There’s a miniature-sized bathroom to the right of the bed, which offers absolutely zero room for two people at the same time, and her kitchen is barely a kitchen. Her counter space probably adds up to four square feet altogether. Her apartment is tiny, perfect for one person, but two people? Yeah, this might be difficult.
But convincing her to move to my more spacious apartment? I doubt that’s a possibility. Because I know the minute she walks through that door and sees me, unpacked and moved in, I’m going to have to perform some serious squatter’s rights to stay here.
When I arrived, I gave myself a self-guided tour, which took about two seconds, given it’s a studio apartment and there isn’t much to explore at all. But after that, I snooped a bit. I know what you’re thinking, you’re invading her privacy. Maybe, but she’s also my wife, and if I want to keep it that way, then I’m going to have to know more about her.
Things I’ve learned:
She doesn’t seem to cook . . . like at all. There are no spices, not much cookware—just a couple pots and frying pan—and there’s barely any food in the cabinets or fridge.
Despite packing for Vegas, she’s still fully stocked with makeup and face products, and funnily enough, there are condoms in her bathroom drawers. A full box, untouched.
From the collection of paperbacks on the short shelves across from her bed, I noticed she likes to read and she enjoys mysteries. I kind of like that about her.
And of course, I perused her nightstand, where I found a vibrating wand. Not surprised at all. She seems like a woman who has no shame in pleasuring herself.
Shamelessly, I searched for a diary, hoping and praying there was something that would give me more information about her, but sadly, I came up short. After I stopped snooping, I unpacked, somehow made room for my things—basically used the space underneath her bed for all my clothes—and I ordered some food, just going with some simple pizza, because I feel as if you can’t go wrong with that.
It’s in the oven on warm and the smell is making my stomach gurgle.
Where the hell is she?
Pike: She’s not home yet.
I can practically hear my brother furiously typing from across the pond.
Killian: Why the hell not? Where is she? Are you sure you’re in the right apartment?
My eyes fall to a picture frame of Cora and the girls that’s on her nightstand. They’re in Hawaii and they’re all wearing their bathing suits, including Keiko, who seems to be wearing some sort of old-fashioned wetsuit, not an inch of skin showing.
Pike: Yeah, I’m at the right place. Maybe her flight was delayed.
Killian: Can you check?
Pike: You act as if I’ve actually been talking to my wife.
Killian: I’m going to need you to try harder here. There’s too much on the line.
Pike: I assure you—I’m bringing everything I’ve got, okay? I’ll fix this, I promise. Now leave me the fuck alone. I’ll text you tomorrow.
Killian: If I need to fly out there, I will.
Pike: Trust me, I know. Good night.
I silence my mobile and rest it on the dining area table I’ve been sitting at. I don’t need him jacking up my nerves any more than they already are, because the waiting feels impossible as is.
Seriously, where the hell is she?
I stand from the table and pace the small length of her apartment—well, our apartment—and I think about our night, trying to recount exactly what we did. There were a few pictures in my mobile.
One of us on the Ferris wheel, eating pretzels.
One of us on the gondola taken by the guy who convinced us to get married—yeah, that came back in a rush of memory.
One of us outside the chapel, the one I apparently sent to everyone.
And then one of us in a pink Cadillac, sitting in the back, Cora curled against me and my arm wrapped around her.