Page 81 of Fake Wife
“Will he?”
“Well.” She shrugs, that same silly grin. “He might not come back until he’s checked every hotel from here to Seattle, but yeah, at some point he’ll come home.”
Home. Our home. Cannon Bluffs.
I hope he doesn’t go there, but if he’s not back by tomorrow, that’s where I’ll check.
“I’ll keep trying to reach him,” she says. “Eventually he’ll cave and get a charger or something. I know it.”
“Um…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do it at my own home.” She hugs me again, kissing my cheek. “This is so great, Teagan. I’m so glad you came back. You guys will work it out, I promise.”
She hugs me tightly until I return it fully and relax into her. “Thanks, Caitlin. You’re the best.”
“The best enough to be your maid of honor?”
“Not like I have other options.”
“Hey!”
“But even if I did, you’d be the one I’d choose.” I pop a carrot into my mouth. The teasing feels good, but nothing will feel right until Corbin comes back.
“I know.” She jumps and spins. “I’m the best. And I’m also out of here.”
I walk with her to the front door, and as she’s about to open it, it opens from the other side. Door clicking, swooshing, all of it in slow motion, and then he’s here, in front of me. Head bent, hair messed. He must see Caitlin so close to him because he looks up at her.
Then me.
And he freezes.
“Hi,” I say. I wave lamely. Caitlin snorts and I drop my hand to my side.
His jaw is tight. Shirt wrinkled. I’ve never seen him look so disheveled. So defeated.
He says nothing, and the three of us stare at each other. Caitlin at Corbin. Corbin at me. Me at Corbin.
“Leave,” he barks, not taking his eyes off me.
I squeeze my eyes closed and nod. I’ve totally screwed up. “Okay.”
“Not you. Get the fuck out of here, Caitlin.”
My breath leaves me in a whoosh. Okay. This might not be so bad.
“Okeydokey.” He moves just enough to give her room to slide out, and as she does, she looks back through a sliver in the doorway and sings, “Call me!”
He shuts the door and takes two steps toward me, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Forget something?”
His eyes are cold. Hurt and empty. I did this to him.
“Yeah,” I say. My voice is dry. It cracks on the word and I swallow. I pray for strength and say, “Yeah. I forgot you.”
His head falls forward and his shoulders heave. He scrubs his face, a visible shudder rolling through his body as he drops his hands and lifts his head. “Jesus. Tell me you’re here and I’m not imagining this.”
The roughness, the fear in his voice, threatens to undo me. I step toward him. One step. Two.
He comes to me.
