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Page 73 of Beauty and the Beach

I slow some more. He glances at me briefly, but he doesn’t speak.

We’re only a few miles from home when it happens.

Rain begins to fall.

And rain is fine, rain is normal, but there’s something about this night that feels different; an icy hand squeezing my lungs. Visibility is worse now, and although I’m driving slowly, it doesn’t seem to make much difference. We’re halfway over the river when the wheels catch a patch of water, and awfully, horribly, terrifyingly—I lose control of the car.

“Phoenix,” I say immediately; I don’t know why his is the name that comes to my lips.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, dig imprints of the seams into my palms, but everything is happening in slow motion and I don’t know what to do. We’re hydroplaning as though we’re weightless—the middle of the road, the edge of the bridge, and horror like I’ve never known in my life?—

Screaming, yelling, shouting, a cacophony of wordless terror?—

And finally darkness as the car crashes through the guard rail and plunges into the river below.

Phoenix

Holland isquiet when she comes home from her first therapy session.

We decided that it would be weird if she saw the same therapist I see, so she’s going to someone different in the same clinic. It’s a little place on the mainland, discreet, and I’ve liked them a lot.

But it’s hard to tell if Holland likes them.

When I pick her up from the ferry, she looks horrible; haunted, almost, and her whole body is listless, dragging.

Was therapy a bad idea?

It’s not that I expect change after one session—or even have the right to expect change at all—but she looks exponentially worse than she did when she boarded the ferry two hours ago. And I’m smart enough to know that you don’t ask someone what they talk about with their therapist, but when I ask her vaguely how it went, she doesn’t even give a verbal response. She just shrugs and gives a noncommittal humming sound before turning to stare out the golf cart.

I keep my thoughts to myself, and the rest of my questions, and my concerns. She might be my wife, and we might have reached a tentative peace, but we’re not close enough that I can broach these things withher yet. So I settle for keeping my eyes on the road and sneaking occasional glances at her.

She goes to bed less than thirty minutes after we get home.

And I shouldn’t be so worried; I shouldn’t feel this anxious. She’s a grown woman; she doesn’t need me meddling into her mental health, and I don’t have the right to meddle. But I find myself drifting down the hallway every so often, listening intently when I pass her door, just to make sure…

What? What am I trying to make sure of?

On my third such trip, I finally sigh and tell myself to get a grip. I’m all but pacing, and it’s unlike me.

I go to the living room instead and pick up a magazine I’ve been meaning to read, last week’s Forbes. I flip it open randomly, latching onto the first article I see, trying to force myself to be interested—but my eyes do little more than skim the words. It’s almost a relief when my phone rings.

I answer without looking at the caller ID, which I regret immediately, because it’s Clarence.

“Yes,” I say.

“Come to dinner next week,” he says. “At your grandmother’s.”

His voice, gruff and impatient, tells me that he doesn’t want to be calling me any more than I want to be hearing from him; these are the kinds of tasks Mavis offloads to other people.

“I’m busy,” I say. It’s true; I’m always busy.

“On Monday,” he says, ignoring me completely. “Be there. Bring your wife.”

Then he hangs up, leaving me staring at the phone, clenched tightly in my hand.

Deep breath.

I toss the magazine to the side; then I stand up and head to my study, my steps determined.