“Sins of the father, Mr. Taylor, sins of the father.”
“Look,” I mutter. “This is his business.”
“Well, Mr. Taylor, I’m making it your business.”
Natalie stirs behind me.
“This has nothing to do with me. My father is a fucking degenerate and I have no relationship with him.”
“This has everything to do with you now, Mr. Taylor,” the voice says in that same neutral, almost humored tone. “You have three weeks to deliver, and after that, well…” the voice trails off into a chuckle. “Well, after that I’m not sure I can guarantee you’ll be playing football anytime soon.”
I swallow thickly. “Listen-”
“Three weeks, Mr. Taylor.”
The line goes dead.
I pull the phone away from my face, holding it in my hands and staring at it.
Fuck.
I’m not scared. I don’t get scared. But there’s a white space in my head as the lingering of that cold voice rattle through it. It’s a blankness, a not knowing what to do. And I hate that feeling - the feeling of being helpless and not in control.
The feeling of when my dad used to hit my mom.
It’s the rage, the blank fury that comes out of the darkness and threatens to tear me down.
“Who was that?”
I turn to Natalie, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, and something inside of me seizes up. I can’t tell her this. Everything else, I want her to know, and let her in on. I want to show her places inside of me I’ve never showed anyone, as crazy as I know that is.
But not this. For some reason, the idea of exposing her to this or bringing her into it is too much.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
She rolls her eyes. “Austin with his biiiig secrets-”
“It’s nothing, okay? It doesn’t concern you,” I snap, feeling like an asshole the second I say it. I wince. “Sorry,” I grumble out. “It’s just-”
“Yeah, no, forget it.” Natalie slips out of bed, pulling the top sheet around her body. “It’s fine.”
“Natalie, it’s-”
“Austin it’s fine.” She looks at up, her face neutral and reserved. “This is just casual, right? I don’t need to know your personal stuff.” She shrugs. “I’m not your real wife, remember?”
She pads into the bathroom and closes the door.
It’s a sinking feeling. A few weeks ago, I’d have been grinning and readily agreeing. A few weeks ago, when she was just the strange girl who’d agreed to my stupid plan, she’d be right on the money.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around what’s changed when she steps from the bathroom in a robe and leaves the room, leaving me with an even colder feeling than the phone call.
36
Natalie
I’m toweling my hair off after my shower, still not sure what to think about this morning.
Or last night, for that matter.
My hands freeze, towel still wrapped around my hair, as the ring on my finger suddenly flashes and catches my eye in the mirror.
Last night when I slept with my husband.
It’s like saying the words over in my head makes it mean something, even though it’s not supposed to.
Even if it can’t.
My phone rings from inside the bedroom, dragging me back out of my own head. Wrapping the towel around my body, I pad across the bedroom floor, reaching for it as it chimes a second time.
I freeze at the number n the screen.
Vince.
“Let’s meet, I have something to discuss with you.”
I scrunch my face up at the sound of his voice, as if my mouth was just filled with something sour. No “hello”, no “how are you, Natalie”, just a demand.
I shake my head. “I’m deleting this number, Vince. Please don’t call-”
“Natalie, I have plenty of ways of contacting you without a phone.” There’s something dark and something harsh in his words that I’ve never heard from him before, and it sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine as I snap my mouth shut.
“Just a business proposition, that’s all. Meet me at Cafe Lola on Rodeo in an hour?” He chuckles a flat, icy laugh. “That’s near you, isn’t it?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Vince, please don’t call me agai-”
“You’ll want to be there, Natalie.”
The line goes dead.
I’m cold, shivering at the silence on the phone as I stand there in my towel. And for a moment, I think about calling Austin. For a moment, that’s all I want - for him to make this better.
Except, that’s not what we are, as I guess we’ve both made that clear. We’re not real, we’re a convenience.
An arrangement.