Like she belonged.
Christopher stood behind her.
His hands were around her waist.
The same way he held me in bed.
There it was.
The habit.
Borrowed intimacy.
Gwen saw me.
Her smile vanished.
She immediately stepped behind Christopher.
“Oh.”
Then in a small voice.
“I’m sorry.”
She clutched his arm.
“I’m scared she’s going to get angry.”
Christopher turned toward me.
His expression hardened.
Not guilty.
Protective.
Of her.
Then he said.
“Lorelei.”
I looked at him.
“This is Gwen.”
As if we were being introduced at a dinner party.
Gwen lifted a plate.
Pancakes.
Blueberries.
She stepped toward me.
“I made breakfast.”
I walked down one more step.
I had not touched her.
I was still several feet away.
Then Gwen dropped the plate.
And threw herself backward.
Not slipped.
Threw.
Her hip struck the floor.
She cried out.
Christopher moved instantly.
“Gwen!”
He rushed toward her.
She covered her face.
Then started crying.
Christopher looked at me.
Fury.
“Lorelei!”
“I told you not to hurt her!”
I stared at him.
“I didn’t touch her.”
“She fell when you came at her.”
“I was walking downstairs.”
Gwen sobbed.
“She looked like she was going to hit me.”
I looked at Christopher.
“Look at me.”
He froze.
“Look at me and tell me you believe I pushed her.”
His eyes met mine.
For a second, something appeared.
Doubt.
Then Gwen grabbed his shirt.
“Christopher.”
Her voice trembled.
He looked down at her.
Then back at me.
The doubt disappeared.
“Gwen is delicate.”
“You can’t behave like this.”
I laughed softly.
Not joy.
Recognition.
My marriage was dead.
Not dying.
Not damaged.
Dead.
And suddenly, I was free to act accordingly.
I looked toward the small camera above the kitchen doorway.
Christopher followed my gaze.
His face changed.
He had forgotten.
