letting you stay here so you can clean up after me.” He didn’t stop rinsing the plates, but did let her load them into the dishwasher. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves before turning on the water, and light brown hair dusted his forearms.
She blinked, uncomfortable after catching herself staring at his arms. The plates clinked against one another as she used a little too much force to close the dishwasher.
“I know, but...” She didn’t want to finish that statement.
“But?”
But I’m here because we had a one-night stand and I got pregnant, and we were drunk when we got married and I now need help and you’re giving it to me and I don’t know how long I’ll need the help and I don’t know how long you’ll offer the help and I wish you’d let me clean up after dinner. Her insecurities nearly pushed her down as they flooded over her, but all she said was, “I’m happy to help out.”
He nodded before grabbing a sponge and leaving to wipe down the table. He wasn’t nodding because he knew she was happy to help out. She could feel in his intense hazel eyes that he knew what she had left unsaid. He knew she would act as maid in a poor attempt to make up for invading his life. He knew and he still went to clean the table.
She knew very little about her husband. Their night together had been his last day in Vegas, and their conversation over breakfast had been about the details of a divorce. The next day she’d received a phone call from a lawyer saying he represented Karl Milek and they would pursue a divorce according to Nevada laws. When could she come by his office? Did she have her own lawyer? No? Did she need time to find one?
Like all things in Nevada, getting out of the trappings of your sins was far more complicated than getting into them.
Karl’s efficiency had intrigued her enough that she’d done an internet search on him. After reading newspaper articles, exploring his office’s website and watching snippets of televised news stories, she’d felt as though she had a sense of who this man was. But now she realized every movement he made, everything he said, was carefully constructed to give the illusion of revelation without actually revealing anything. Not that any of that had been important to her at the time.
Then she’d gone home to an apartment emptied of anything of value and a note containing an apology from her father folded on the kitchen counter. When she had checked her bank account she’d found every penny she had carefully saved was gone. Then she had missed her period, and by that point it had been too late for Plan B. She hadn’t even had enough money for an abortion, if she had decided to go that route, anyway. Then she had been fired, and suddenly the most important thing in the world was that her husband seemed to be the kind of person who fixed problems.
Their marriage had been a problem, and he was going to fix that. Now her pregnancy was the problem, and his magical fix had smoothed away the practical, immediate problems of that, too. She didn’t want to have to rely on him, but she couldn’t predict what help she would need after the baby was born—or what he would be willing to provide.
Once the activity of cleaning up after dinner was done, they were left with nothing to do but face each other and feel awkward. At least, Vivian felt awkward. She had the sense that Karl could have a fox eating out his stomach under his shirt and his face wouldn’t reveal any pain. How drunk had he been to indulge himself in a feeling as human as lust? What else had been going on in his life that he’d allowed himself to get that drunk?
“Well—” she clapped her hands together “—I’m beat.” She was no such thing. Wired and punchy would be a more accurate description of how she felt right now. “Do you have a book I could read before I fall asleep?”
“I thought you said you were beat.”
She opened her mouth to respond but he’d already left the kitchen. He returned with Mr. Midshipman Hornblower, as well as Gerard Manley Hopkins: The Major Works and a military history of World War I.
“A selection,” he said, holding them out to her. Not a muscle had changed in his bland expression, but Vivian was pretty sure he was amused with himself for his offerings.
“Thank you.” She’d hoped for a mystery or thriller, but lying in bed with one of these books would help her fall right to sleep. “I’m sure I’ll learn something.”
* * *
KARL WOKE EARLY the next morning to a dark, silent apartment. Not even the ridiculous bird was making any noise. He pulled his boxers on and went into the kitchen to make coffee. When he didn’t hear any noise in his guest bedroom after the coffee grinder whirled, he cracked the door open to check on his guest. She was lying on her side, facing the door, the Keegan book on World War I flopped over her hand. The down comforter covered any rise and fall of her chest and he was about to check her pulse when she snorted and twitched before settling down again. Vivian wasn’t dead, and she hadn’t run off.
It looked like she’d made it halfway through the book before finally falling asleep. Despite its appearance, the Keegan book was unlikely to bore someone to sleep. He eased the door shut and went to get himself a cup of coffee. In the kitchen, he found a travel mug for Vivian to keep her coffee warm and poured her a cup, as well. Last night, before bed, he’d read a little about pregnancy—he was glad he’d had decaf in the freezer—and he remembered how grateful she’d been when he brought her coffee that one time in their Vegas hotel room. But when he went back into the guest bedroom to put the coffee on the nightstand, she still didn’t stir.
When he had awoken in the hotel room a month ago to find himself married, he’d assumed her deathlike sleep had been due to alcohol. She hadn’t seemed hungover—God knew he’d been too bleary-eyed and angry to notice if she had been—but she’d slept until he’d yelled her name and shaken her awake. This morning she seemed on course to do much the same. The bird stirred in its cage behind a cover, but Karl ignored it. Even if the bird was awake, he had no idea what to do with it unless it also wanted a cup of coffee.
It. The bird had a name. Luck, only not luck. Whatever was Chinese for luck. He still didn’t know if the bird was male or female.
And the bird was probably easier than a baby. Not that he hadn’t planned on having children. He had. One day. He’d just expected a little warning and time to read every baby book the Harold Washington Library had on its shelves before hearing the words, “I’m pregnant.”
He turned his attention back to the mother of his child. Though he believed she was telling the truth about who the father was, he’d still insist on a DNA test. He believed her, but he wasn’t stupid. Yet looking at her sleeping, the test felt like a formality. The mother of his child slept on her side and snorted in her sleep.
Karl was surprised how much her sleeping in his guest bed pleased him. He thought he’d been pleased when his divorce lawyer had confirmed she didn’t protest the divorce or the terms. That feeling was nothing like the warmth in his heart at seeing the contrast of her black hair against the primary colors of the duvet cover.
Before he left for the gym and office—both to work and to investigate his wife—Karl checked his laptop to make sure she wouldn’t find anything personal on it, and then he wrote her a note.
* * *
VIVIAN WOKE UP to sunlight, though the west-facing room wasn’t as bright as she’d expected with the lack of curtains. The gray clouds pressed as heavily on Chicago today as they had yesterday. The travel mug on the nightstand next to a note that said “decaf” was full of lukewarm, black coffee, which she drank anyway. At the sound
