The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh
Twenty-Three
Saylor
I can’t believe I had to throw another party in order to speak to Ruston but I’m tired of watching and waiting. He has no intention of visiting me and I can’t exactly stroll across the park and knock on his door without people talking. In the last half hour alone I’ve heard several women gossiping about the dubious male visitors the married woman who lives at number fourteen gets during the daytime and I have no intention of being the next target.
I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m obsessing, thinking about him day and night when I shouldn’t be, scared he’ll let slip we know each other to Lloyd, and I need to make sure he doesn’t. Our paths rarely cross so this social situation is the only way I can think of to confront him.
I bide my time, mingling with everyone, answering solicitous questions like “How’s the morning sickness?” to “Have you made a birth plan yet?” I’m bored but my time will come and when the opportunity presents itself—he’s near the buffet table nibbling on cheese, I’m there on the pretext of filling a plate for Lloyd—I pounce.
“Hey,” I say in a soft voice, not wanting our conversation to be overheard.
Ruston glances up from the cheese platter and smiles, appearing genuinely happy to see me. I can’t work him out because any other guy would feel bad about how he treated me—many times—over the years, but he seems oblivious to the tension.
“Hey, new neighbor, fancy seeing you here.” He leans in closer and I hold my breath against the rush of pheromones his signature citrus body wash never fails to elicit. “Are you stalking me?”
“You wish,” I mutter, hating how he slips into flirtation mode without trying. “What are you doing here?”
“House-sitting for a friend. She’s a campaign manager for a senator and is on the road for six months.”
I zero in on one word, “she”, annoyed at myself for caring. I flounder for something to say, other than “I hate you for breaking my heart, I hate myself more for still caring.”
He smirks as the silence grows between us and points at my belly. “I guess congratulations are in order. I would’ve said something at the gender reveal but you seemed to have your hands full meeting everyone.”
“I wanted to talk to you too.”
His eyebrows rise. “About?”
Everything. Anything. But I can’t, not anymore. I’m married and expecting a baby. Unfortunately, confronting Ruston, getting the first awkward meeting out of the way, hasn’t helped. He still has a ridiculous hold over me, like we’re bound by invisible strings and all he has to do is jerk on them and I’ll dance for the puppet-master.
I know Ruston. If he suspects how anxious I am about revealing our past to Lloyd, he’ll do it to spite me. I need to lead into it, so I settle for a lame, “Just wanted to say hi,” and he nods, his stare too intense, as if he sees right through me.
“How are you settling in?”
“Fine,” I say, when talking to him like this is anything but.
“Good. This park is great for get-togethers like this.”
“Yeah, that’s why I moved here, for the family community.”
If he notices my emphasis on family, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He nods in agreement, content to stuff his face with wedges of Brie on crackers, and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, trying to establish some kind of truce with my new neighbor, when I know deep down he’s always been so much more.
He points at my ring finger, where the shiny gold band feels a tad tight; probably from a retention of fluid and not an imaginary constriction I feel being someone’s wife. “How long have you been married?”
“Nine months.”
“Your hubby’s a fast worker,” he says, glancing at my belly again. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“He is.”
He hesitates, before saying, “Does he know about us?”
“No.”
He winks. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
I don’t want to buy into his buddy-buddy act, like we’re co-conspirators in some elaborate ruse. He’s my past. I need to remember it.
Besides, I’m harboring a secret far worse than the two of us being ex-lovers.
“Thanks, I appreciate that.” I flash him a serene smile when I’m feeling anything but inside. “I hope we can be friends.”
“Friends, sure.”
Before I can react he clasps my hand between his, infusing me with warmth, making me remember when I shouldn’t.
I clamp down on the urge to yank my hand away and ease it out of his grip, turning and walking away before I say something I’ll regret.