The Good Wife(94)
And she wanted a husband who would be with her. Sleeping with her. Eating with her. Going on walks and to the store and to a movie and whatever else they wanted to do.
Her phone finally rang. Boone. Thank God.
“Morning, hon,” he said, his voice scratchy with sleep.
“Just waking up?” she asked, dropping onto the couch and curling her legs under her.
“Yeah. Still in bed.” He yawned. “How is it there? What are you doing?”
“Raining like crazy. Super stormy weather. And I’m just cleaning house. Again.”
He said nothing, and that made something inside her twist, churn. “I hate selling houses,” she said, anger rushing through her. “But I do it every time we move, ’cause that’s my job.”
“You do it well. We’ve never lost money on a house, thanks to you.”
She should own the compliment, she should, but she couldn’t, not when the anger was bubbling and festering inside of her. She needed to get it out. Needed to feel calm again. Good again. “You have no idea what it’s like, cleaning and cleaning, hoping someone will come by. And then when you get an appointment, you clean even more and leave everything just so—pillows plump, candles lit, fresh flowers on the counter. You want it to look like a dream house, a model house, and so you throw the kids in the car and do one more quick Windex on the windows and doors . . . and you drive around and around, hoping for good news, hoping they’ll love it, and then you find out the buyers were only there a few minutes. They walked in, walked out, really had no interest in seeing the house but were there, just killing time—” Sarah broke off, a lump filling her throat from spilling all her bitterness.
She sounded like a bitch.
That was probably because she felt like one, too.
“You’ll be here end of the week,” Boone said quietly, no emotion in his voice. “Even if the house doesn’t sell—”
“But I want it to sell. I haven’t spent weeks cleaning and showing the house not to have it sell. I don’t do anything anymore but keep the house pristine.”
“A couple of months from now this will be just a memory. Try not to let it stress you out so much.”
Sarah closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her forehead. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
But he didn’t sound as if he missed her. He sounded frustrated and irritated that he was even having to listen to her. “I’m sorry I’m upset,” she whispered, pressing two fingers against her temple, feeling dangerously close to crying. God, she was a mess. An absolute wreck.
“It’s fine.”
“At least we’ll see you soon. Just three days now.”
Boone hesitated. “Not three days, babe.”
“Yes. We fly out Friday—”
“Sarah, we’re not home Friday. The team’s on the road.”
“What?”
“We talked about this. Remember?”
“No, we didn’t. We never talked about this. I would know if we did—”
“Babe, I told you. I said I felt terrible that we were going to be leaving the day you guys fly in.”
“No, Boone. No. You never mentioned it. Not once—”
“I’m sorry, then. But I figured you had to know. You have the schedule. I’m sure you knew—”
“I didn’t.”
“—we will have just left that morning for Phoenix.”
Sarah didn’t speak for the longest time, tears clouding her vision, a lump clogging her throat. “How long are you going to be gone?”
“We’ll be back late on the fourteenth.”
Sarah closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to her bent knee. Ten more days. Ten more days before she’d see her guy.
“The kids miss you,” she said.
“And I miss my family.”
Bullshit, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. He didn’t miss them. He probably didn’t miss them at all because he probably had a whole other family when he was on the road like this. A wife and kids. A girlfriend. He might even travel with his girlfriend for all Sarah knew.
“Sarah.”
She shook her head, back and forth, back and forth, grinding her forehead against her knee. “I’m just . . . lonely,” she whispered when she trusted herself to speak.
“It’s only ten days, hon.”
Only ten. Piece of cake. “I’m . . . not . . . doing well, Boone,” she said huskily, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.
“This is a tough time, but you’re doing fine. You’re strong.”
He didn’t know. Because she didn’t tell him. She didn’t like telling him the truth, because she didn’t like thinking about it in the first place.