The Last Applicant by Rebecca Hanover

Author:Rebecca Hanover [Hanover, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-10-23T16:00:00+00:00

PART THREE

AUDREY SINGER

Chapter 17

Tea. That’s absolutely the most fitting drink to serve immediately after a confrontation with your husband and his . . . whatever she is.

Sarah Price. I’m astounded by the sheer absurdity of it. By the audacity of it. And by his choice of woman. It’s not that I’m shocked, exactly. There’s absolutely something appealing about her. But if I’m honest with myself, no, I wouldn’t have expected this.

The situation—possibly.

Her—not at all.

“Chamomile or mint?” I ask her as the teakettle begins to howl. I can’t believe how calm I’m being, how blasé. But I must be, unless I want to abdicate my power, relinquish my ability to negotiate and have the upper hand. Weakness will not help me now.

Sarah’s still standing there in the half light, looking like a frightened doe. I suppose she is one. Much as I find this entire episode surprising . . . mind bending, really. For her, it’s likely worse.

“Let’s go sit,” Luke suggests, his eyes meeting mine across the kitchen island. I can interpret exactly what they say now, and I berate myself for not being able to read them earlier. All these months, wondering what was up with him. I was oblivious. Completely off my game.

Now, it’s clear what he is silently asking for: Forgiveness. Permission.

At least I know now what he wants.

I steel myself. I can give all that to him.

Five minutes later, we’re nestled uncomfortably on our worn-in couch, Luke and me. His muscular thigh presses into my knee as I cradle my favorite chipped mug. We are every bit the couple, the united front, even though I strongly suspect that there is much here I don’t know, that I haven’t been privy to.

I feel it, briefly: a flash of anger mixed with shame, and jealousy, plain and simple. Something has transpired between these two. I am not sure if I want to know what.

Sarah sinks into the leather swivel chair across from us. She’s set her tea down on the coffee table, undrunk, and hugs her knees to her chest, like a child trying to make herself as tiny as possible. I make note of the fact that my anger is directed solely at Luke, at the man beside me. My husband, the partner-in-crime who cooks me five-star meals and spoons me in bed. The man who vowed, once, to love, cherish, protect, and honor me. It is hard to sit here beside him and not hate him, at least momentarily. It’s hard not to feel rage. But not at her. She seems so innocent, so blameless. I can see, instantly, what it is about her that appeals to him. She’s so needy. I no longer think she is the calculating stalker I once believed her to be. Yes, her actions were questionable. But within a certain context . . . this very strange and unusual context . . .

I think of her now as a pawn, a victim, a target. She no longer seems dangerous, but like someone determined to do the best for her child.

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