The garage door opened at 7:12.
I had a dress on. High neck. Sleeves. The bite on my throat sat under concealer that would fail if he kissed me there. The marks on my breasts were a map under the fabric. Trent stood at the fridge with a beer he was not drinking, scrolling his phone like a son waiting on a parent.
Grant came in with the carry-on and the tired smile.
“There’s my girl.”
He kissed my mouth at the dining table. Wine already poured. His hands on my waist, kind, familiar, two minutes of marriage compressed into a greeting. I kissed him back. I tasted airport. I did not look at Trent.
“You look good,” Grant said. “Rested. Dallas was a machine.”
“I missed you,” I said, and it was not entirely a lie. I had missed the shape of a husband in the house. I had not missed the bathro
