Chapter 3

Over the next week, Blake kept turning up in my life.

He'd happen by just as I was hauling in flower stock, hand me an umbrella on a rainy day, and when I went to the cemetery to visit my mother, he'd be on the same bus.

But every single time, someone was there to catch it on camera.

Jackson started canceling on me too. The reason was always work, yet somewhere in the corner of every photo there'd be a trace of Kay.

He was waiting for me to make a scene, to crack under the loneliness, so Blake could slip in through the gap.

But I wasn't the twenty-three-year-old Ann anymore.

Friday night, Jackson came to the flower shop.

He brought a white gown.

"The Deerfield Business Council gala is tomorrow night. You're coming with me."

Kay stood behind him, smiling. "Vivi, go on, try it on. Mr. Fox picked it out just for you."

I asked Jackson, "Kay's going too?"

His brow creased.

"She's handling the project presentation."

"And what am I handling?"

"You're my wife. You show up, that's enough."

I smiled.

Show up. Right. Only if I showed up could he prove he'd made it and still hadn't forgotten where he came from.

I picked up the gown.

Something flickered in Jackson's eyes. Surprise.

He'd probably expected me to refuse, to get jealous, to demand why Kay was the one talking projects with him.

"Vivi, are you keeping something from me lately?"

I looked up.

"What is it you want me to be keeping?"

After they left, Blake came.

His gaze landed on the gown.

"The council gala tomorrow night?"

"You know about that too?"

"The pro bono legal project got an invitation."

He paused.

"Jackson arranged it."

I looked at him.

"Blake, what is it you actually want?"

He didn't answer. He just took out a business card.

"If something happens tomorrow night, call this number."

I glanced at it.

"A lawyer?"

"My professor."

"Why are you helping me?"

Blake looked at me.

"Because no one should get to treat you like this."

It sounded true. It also sounded too much like a trap.

I pushed the card back at him.

"Don't make it all sound so nice. I've been fooled by nice words for seven years already."

Blake was quiet for a moment, then wrote the number on one of the shop's notepad slips.

"You don't have to believe me. But the number's real."

That night, when I got home, Jackson was sitting in the living room, waiting.

The unsigned licensing confirmation was still on the table.

He tossed a few photos down in front of me.

Blake holding an umbrella over me. Blake carrying flowers. Blake talking to me.

The angles were suggestive, but not one of them proved a thing.

Jackson stood up.

"Is this because I'm busy right now, because I don't have time for you, so you're looking somewhere else for a little comfort?"

I asked, "You think I need comforting?"

He came closer, his voice dropping low.

"Of course you do."

"Ann, what do you have these past years besides the flower shop?"

"No child, no work experience, no one who can actually stand behind you."

"Every scrap of dignity you have right now, you have because I allow it."

I looked at him. Seven years of marriage, and this was what it came down to.

Jackson picked up the license.

"Sign it."

"I'm not signing."

He stared at me.

"Ann, don't push me."

Before the gala the next evening, Blake sent a text.

"Don't drink anything tonight that leaves your hand."

I looked at that line and didn't reply.

Because I couldn't tell whether he was warning me, or leading me down a road he'd already laid out.