“Okay.” He said it so only she could hear. Winnie licked her lips and gave him her best smile. Samuel looked unsure for a moment, and then he skirted off to the front door where Winnie had set his duffel.
There was an electric current in the room. Winnie could see the excitement in her friends’ eyes. She blinked around the room, disbelieving. They were hoping, she realized, that her brother would disobey. This would give them something to talk about for weeks. They were poised all over the living room, on her chaise and couches, her glasses held in their hands. It hurt her stomach to think about them talking about her family, sending their group texts back and forth. She hated them in that moment, every single one of them. She wished she could tell them all to get out of her house.
Then Nigel sniggered from where he stood, shaking his head, and Winnie saw Dakota’s whole body go tense. Any regret etched on his face was suddenly gone, and then her hotheaded brother was straightening his spine and spreading his feet wider apart. Her brother reminded her of a young lion, and her husband reminded her of an old one looking for a fight. She groaned deep inside herself, but not on the outside—on the outside Winnie kept her composure. No one was going to gossip; she was going to shut this down right now.
“Dakota—GO!”
“Yeah?” He looked right at her, and Winnie’s heart cleaved in two. Things would never be the same with them.
“Fuck you, Nigel,” Dakota said, shoving past him and out of the room.
Relief eased the beat of her racing heart, but the worst was not over; she had to get Dakota out of the house in one piece, and, oh, God—was she really going to have to continue with this stupid dinner?
“You okay, Win?” Vicky put a hand on her shoulder.
Dakota came back a minute later, a duffel slung over his shoulder. He had his phone out and was concentrating hard on the screen as he headed for the front door.
“Dakota!” she called after him. He didn’t turn; he lifted one hand over his head to signal goodbye, and he was gone. Winnie heard the traffic outside, a buzz that suddenly got louder and then abruptly stopped when the door slammed closed.
“Maybe you should go after him,” Malay said. “What if he does something stupid? You don’t want to be blamed—”
Winnie didn’t need to ask Malay what she meant; Malay’s cousin Alfie killed himself when they were all in college—ate the barrel of his father’s gun. They had all known Alfie and were sad when he died, but Malay treated his death like a crutch for everything she did now.
“Shut up, just shut up,” she hissed at her. She was spitting mad at all of them, but Malay had opened her damn mouth first. Now she was going to hear it.
“He’s not Alfie, and Nigel had every right to be angry.”
Their shock pleased her. Winnie had never so much as raised her voice at one of them. As the people pleaser of the group, she fought to stay in everyone’s good graces; her favorite place to be was the favorite.
“You’ve all been under a lot of stress, you’re right. We shouldn’t be commenting.” Don nudged his wife, who looked like she’d sucked a lime without the tequila.
“Let’s have risotto!” Vicky pumped her fist into the air.
She was still holding her wineglass, Winnie noted—her true best friend. Where had that come from? Winnie rubbed her temples, chiding herself. Vicky wasn’t the enemy, no one was. This was just a sticky situation. She felt so, so tired.
* * *
Despite Winnie sticking up for her husband at the dinner party, they were currently not speaking. The minute their last guest left and the door closed behind them, he’d turned and given her a look. Winnie had felt battered by that look, betrayed. For once, she’d stopped caring what people thought of her and had been rude to her friends. She could barely wrap her mind around how he could be displeased with her; she’d done exactly what he always asked her to do, which was to be on his side.
“What was that for?” But he was already en route to the kitchen, so she’d posed her question to his back.
“I’m going to bed, Winnie.” He’d said it with so much finality she’d stopped dead in her tracks. She’d felt very small and stupid in that moment. She’d meant to say something to call him back, but she was in shock. And then he’d left her downstairs with the dishes and a million questions. That, she thought, is not my husband. The thought had scared her so much she’d marched upstairs after him if only to reassure herself. How much had he had to drink? She’d been too preoccupied with keeping face to count his drinks. Dinner parties were the one night she never got on him about drinking, though she liked to keep tabs.
She felt smashed and crashed. Her brother was never going to talk to her again. He was still holding a grudge against their sister Candace, and they’d fought years ago—Winnie couldn’t even remember about what. Not to mention the residual fallout with the rest of the family after he spun his own version of the story to the rest of the siblings. What had she been thinking anyway? Inviting all those people over when the emotional temperature in the house had a broken gauge. Hadn’t her husband always accused her of making rash decisions? She always did the wrong thing, made the wrong choice.
Nigel was coming out of the bathroom when she walked in, and for a moment she didn’t know what to do. She was nervous, she realized. Her toes curled and uncurled on the hardwood as Winnie stood a few feet inside their bedroom, watching as Nigel pulled off his T-shirt in the way that always made her stomach do a little flip—by grabbing it from behind his neck and pulling it over his head. She watched for the peacock, as she called it, the cowlick that always shot up when given the chance. When he was shirtless and walking toward her, Winnie forgot that she was supposed to be angry with him. For a moment she thought he was coming toward her to kiss her, like one of those romance novels she sometimes read, but at the last minute he breezed right past where she stood and out of the bedroom.
She followed on his heels, refusing to be so easily dismissed this time. He was back in the kitchen, opening the fridge and bending down to see inside. Winnie watched him pull out a Gatorade, snapping off the lid and taking a long drink. She had time to wonder when he’d shaved and if his Adam’s apple had always been that pronounced before he replaced the lid and headed for the door, the bottle held loosely in his hand. He was still acting like she wasn’t there, so she stepped into his path, blocking his way.
“We need to talk.” She folded her arms across her chest and immediately felt childish. To make matters worse, Nigel acknowledged the action with a little raise of his eyebrows. He tucked his bottom lip under his teeth and stared at her through half narrowed eyes. If Winnie had wondered if he was drunk, she had her answer.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve—”
“No, you never do know, do you?”