Skin and Secrets

INTRODUCTION - THE OTHER COUPLE

The hotel room smelled like jasmine and sin.

She lay tangled in white sheets, her dark hair spread across the pillow like ink spilled on snow. The city lights of Chicago blinked through the floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent to the small death she'd just died — and been resurrected from.

Derek traced his fingers down her spine.

"You're quiet," he said.

She turned her head, smiled lazily. "I'm counting."

"Counting what?"

"The number of times you made me forget my name." She reached back, pulled him closer. "I lost count at four."

He laughed — a low, warm sound and kissed her shoulder. "We should do this more often."

"We do it every chance we get."

"Not enough."

She rolled over to face him. Her eyes were the color of whiskey in the dim light. Beautiful. Familiar. Wrong.

But Derek didn't think about wrong right now. He thought about the way she said his name. The way her body fit against his. The way, for a few hours, he didn't feel like the younger brother who could never quite measure up.

"You're thinking about him," she said.

"I'm thinking about you."

"Liar."

He cupped her face. "I'm thinking about how you look right now. How you always look after satisfied. Like you've won something."

"Maybe I have."

He kissed her. Slow this time. Not hungry full.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, "What time is it?"

"Late. Or early. Depends on how you look at it."

"I need to check my phone."

She reached for the nightstand, her arm stretching across his chest. The phone screen lit up. A text message. She swiped it away before he could see who from.

"Work?" he asked.

"Something like that."

She set the phone down and curled back into him. Her fingers played with the chain around his neck — a simple silver cross, the one their mother had given both brothers. Derek never took it off. Adrian had lost his years ago.

"You ever think about just... leaving?" she asked.

"Leaving what?"

"Everything. The city. The expectations. The people who think they own you."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Where would we go?"

We. The word hung in the air.

She didn't answer. She just held him tighter.

Later, she stood at the window in his dress shirt, a glass of wine in her hand. The city sprawled beneath her, millions of people sleeping, none of them knowing what happened in this room.

Derek watched her from the bed. She was beautiful in a way that hurt not because of how she looked, but because of who she was.

You shouldn't be here, he told himself. You should never have started this.

But he'd started it. And he couldn't stop.

"Come back to bed," he said.

She turned. Her smile was soft, almost sad. "One more minute. I like the view."

"The view of Chicago?"

"The view of you. Watching me."

He sat up. The sheet fell away. He didn't care.

"What are we doing?" he asked.

She walked back to him, set the wine down, and straddled his lap. Her hands framed his face.

"We're being happy," she said. "For once. Just let us be happy."

He wanted to believe her.

An hour later, she was dressed. Black dress. heels she'd left by the door. Hair pinned up, the ink spilled back into order.

He stood at the door, shirt unbuttoned, watching her check her reflection in the mirror.

"Same time next week?" she asked.

"If we can."

"We can." She turned. Kissed him once — hard, certain. "I love you."

The words landed somewhere in his chest and stayed there.

"I love you too," he said.

She smiled , but it didn't reach her eyes. Then she opened the door and walked into the hallway, her heels clicking a rhythm he knew by heart.

Derek closed the door and leaned against it.

I love you too.

He meant it. That was the problem.

He pulled out his phone. A text from his brother, Adrian: You coming to the family dinner on Sunday? Vanessa will be there.

Derek stared at the message.

Vanessa.

The woman who had just walked out of his hotel room. The woman who had said I love you. The woman who was married to his brother.

He typed back: Wouldn't miss it.

Then he threw his phone on the bed and poured himself a drink.

In the taxi home, Vanessa Cross stared out the window at the neon blur of Chicago.

Her body still hummed. Her lips still tasted like Derek.

She should feel guilty. She felt alive.

Her phone buzzed. Adrian: Home tomorrow?

She typed back: Flight delayed. Tuesday.

A lie. She was flying back tonight. She just didn't want to sleep next to him.

She closed her eyes and replayed the evening Derek's hands, Derek's voice, Derek saying I love you.

Her husband hadn't said those words in two years.

He doesn't love me, she thought. Why should I love him?

But somewhere beneath the justification, a small voice whispered: Because you promised.

She silenced it with a deep breath.

The taxi stopped at her house ,her and Adrian's house and she paid the driver. The lights were off. Adrian wasn't home. He was probably still at the office, married to his work.

She let herself in, walked to the bedroom, and fell asleep on her side of the bed.

Alone.

Exactly where she wanted to be.