I take a deep breath and avoid looking in the mirror. I don’t care to see myself right now. The person staring back is not me. Not anymore. I can feel my world starting to crumble. Ray will never understand the lies I’ve told.
As I head back downstairs, Chloe and Ray are sitting at the table carrying on a funny conversation. I hate that I wasn’t here to hear the story, but maybe they’ll share with me.
“Have you been crying?” Ray asks. There’s an undertone to his voice that I can’t describe.
“You okay, Mom?”
I smile at Chloe and set my hand on hers. “I’m fine. And no I haven’t been crying. I got soap in my eyes when I was taking off my make-up,” I tell my husband who has grown quite sour this evening.
We eat dinner in silence and when it’s done, Chloe helps clear the table while I take care of the dishes.
When Ray puts his hand on my waist, I jump. I don’t mean to, but it’s not like I can tell him that.
“Amy, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Ray. I’m just doing the dishes, you scared me is all.”
“I called your name a few times before I touched you. I thought maybe you had earphones in.”
I shake my head and offer him a sweet smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I look at Ray in his pale-green button down and black slacks. His hair is always perfectly styled and his face freshly shaven. I asked him once if he thought about letting his facial hair grow, especially on the weekends, but he said he’d never do that. I miss the feel of stubble against my fingertips and along my cheek. I miss the way I used to be kissed, but I couldn’t ever tell him that.
“I’m fine, Ray. I promise.”
“Do you think you could be pregnant?”
I shake my head sadly and watch his face fall. He’s wanted another child for years, but I’ve been secretly taking the birth control pill since we started dating, fearful that I’d never be able to love another child the way I love Chloe.
He nods and moves back toward the table. With my back to him I finish washing the dishes. He talks about his day and I respond at the appropriate times.
“You know our politicians leave something to be desired.”
“Uh huh.” Please change the subject, Ray. I beg of you. I close my eyes and pray he moves onto the next topic.
“Ted Lawson,” he tsks as I fight back the tears. “Hopefully he’s put away for life.”
“Or gets the death penalty,” I mutter under my breath. Shutting off the water, I excuse myself to retreat back to the bathroom where I empty the contents of my stomach.
I’M A FAN of flying and jumping out of airplanes. What I’m not a fan of is walking through the airport in handcuffs, but that’s what Cara had to do to make this an official prisoner transport. Of course it doesn’t help that EJ is asking, very loudly, why I have to be handcuffed and why he can’t wear some, too. The only benefit is that people are steering clear of me and offering sympathy to Ryley because they’re all assuming I’m her fugitive husband.
Being a “fugitive” means we don’t have to sit and wait with everyone else. The first class lounge is very nice, and even with it being my first time in here, I find that I could get used to something like this. Being in the Navy doesn’t exactly pad the pocketbook—therefore, if it takes handcuffs to get into the first class lounge, so be it. Unfortunately, when we get on the plane we’ll be in coach like everyone else, except we have the luxury of getting on first. You know, dangerous criminal and all.
I have to say, Ryley isn’t playing the role of doting wife to me right now; she’s chasing EJ around. Cara is talking with security, and I’m sitting on a leather chair with my coat wrapped around my hands trying to figure out how to pick up the glass of water the hostess sat down on the table for me. Mind you, she should’ve never given a criminal a glass, but that’s beside the point. I’m thirsty and the water is mocking me.
As soon as our flight is called, Cara is at my side, being dutiful. She walks me toward the gate, flashes her badge and our papers amongst the whispers, and escorts me onto the plane. Ryley and EJ are sitting across from us, with us all being in the first row of coach.
“Let me see your hands,” Cara says as I lift them toward her. After this, you can bet your ass I’ll be following every law mandated because being unable to use my hands is not my cup of tea. As soon as Cara unlocks the cuffs, I instinctively rub my wrist. Even though they weren’t tight, the metal still rubbed against my skin causing an irritation.
“How long’s the flight?”
“Under three hours,” Cara replies while scrolling through her phone. “When we land, Jensen will be there waiting for Ryley and EJ. You and I will get into a black town car and meet them at the Clarke’s.”
I frown at the realization that we’ve had to go through so much trouble to get me back to San Diego. I should’ve just taken the bus, which is how I ended up in Seattle to begin with. The security is so much less strict, and they’re not paying attention once you show them your military ID.
The plane starts to fill and I keep my hands under my coat so as to not cause a panic. The passengers need to think I’m still under Cara’s control. They need to feel safe, and if that means hiding my hands, giving them the illusion I have cuffs on, so be it. The last thing people need is fear when they get on a plane. People can’t help but stare, even the few eyes I’ve made contact with as they’ve come down the aisle has them questioning what I’m doing on the plane and whether I’ll be causing a ruckus.