I have always been fascinated by secrets. I grew up living a lie, so of course I see subterfuge everyplace I look. That child in my classroom who always wears long sleeves, even on warm days-totally being beaten by his stepdad. That elderly woman who works at the dry cleaner with her pinched face and bony shoulders-totally being abused by her big brute of a son who hangs out around back.
People lie. It’s as instinctive as breathing. We lie because we can’t help ourselves.
My husband lies. He looks me in the eye as he does it. As liars go, Jason is a class act.
I think I had known him six weeks before I figured out that beneath his restrained facade there lurked a deep ocean of bad voodoo. I noticed it in small things first. The way a drawl would sometimes creep into his voice, particularly at night when he was tired and not paying as much attention. Or the times he would say he got out of bed to watch TV, except when I turned on the TV in the morning, it would go straight to the Home & Garden channel, which I had watched last, and which Jason has no use for whatsoever.
Sometimes, I tried to tease the truth out of him: “Hey, you just said ‘coke.’ I thought only a true Southerner asked for a coke instead of a soda.”
“Must be hanging out with you too much,” he’d say, but I’d see a hint of wariness crease the corners of his eyes.
Or sometimes I tried to get straight to the point. “Tell me what happened to your family. Where are your parents, your siblings?”
He’d try to hedge. “Why does it matter? I have you now, and Clarissa. That’s the only family that matters.”
One night, when Ree was five months old, and sleeping well, I was feeling edgy and restless, the way a nineteen-year-old girl does when she’s sitting across from a dark, handsome man and she’s looking at his hands and thinking about how gently they can cradle a newborn baby. Then thinking, much more importantly, how they might feel on her naked breasts, I found myself approaching the matter much more directly.
“Truth or dare,” I said.
He finally looked up from the paperback he was reading. “What?”
“Truth or dare. You know, like the game. Surely when you were a teenager you played Truth or Dare.”
Jason stared at me, his dark eyes as fathomless as always. “I’m not a teenager.”
“I am.”
That seemed to finally get his attention. He closed the book, set it down. “What do you want, Sandra?”
“Truth or dare. Just pick. It’s not so hard. Truth or dare.” I sidled closer to him. I had bathed after putting Ree down for the night. Then I smoothed an orange-scented lotion all over my body. It was a subtle scent, light, clean, but I knew he caught it, because his nostrils flared, just a fraction, then he leaned away.
“Sandra…”
“Play with me, Jason. I’m your wife. It’s not too much to ask.”
He was going to do it. I could tell by the way he steeled his spine, squared his shoulders. He had been putting me off for months. Surely he realized at a certain point he’d have to acknowledge me somehow. It couldn’t all be about Ree.
“Dare,” he said at last.
“Kiss me,” I ordered. “For one minute.”
He hesitated. I thought he’d renege, and I braced myself for the rejection. But then he sighed, ever so softly. He leaned forward, puckered up, and touched his mouth to mine.
He was going to be chaste about it. I knew him well enough by then to anticipate. And I knew that if I tried to be aggressive or demanding, he would shut down. Jason never yelled. Jason never raised his hand in rage. He simply disappeared, someplace deep inside him where nothing I said or did seemed to reach him, until I could be standing right beside him, and I would still be alone.
My husband respected me. He treated me kindly. He showered me with compassion. He did his best to anticipate my every need.
Except when it came to sex. We had been together nearly a year now, and he had yet to lay a single hand on me. It was driving me crazy.
I didn’t open my mouth. I didn’t grab his shoulders, bury my fingers in his thick dark hair. I didn’t do anything that I longed to do. Instead, I fisted my hands at my sides, and ever so slowly, I kissed him back.
He gave me gentleness, so I returned his sweetness, my breath whispering across his closed lips. He gave me compassion, so I showered it upon the corner of his mouth, the full expanse of his bottom lip. He gave me respect, so I never once pushed the boundaries he had set. But I daresay I gave him the best damn kiss two closed-mouth people had ever shared.
When the minute was up, he drew back. But he was breathing harder now, and I could see something lurking in his eyes. Something dark, intense. It made me want to leap onto his lap, flatten him into the sofa, and fuck his brains out.
Instead, I whispered, “Truth or dare. Your turn. Ask me. Truth or dare.”
I could see the conflict. He wanted to say dare. He wanted me to touch him again. Or maybe take off my nice silky shirt. Or trail my hands across his hard chest.
“Truth,” he said huskily.
“Ask.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can’t help myself.”
“Sandy.” He closed his eyes, and for a moment, I could feel his pain.
“Truth or dare,” I demanded.
“Truth,” he nearly groaned.
“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
“What do you mean?”
“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done? Come on. Have you lied? Stolen? Seduced your best friend’s baby sister? Killed anyone? Tell me, Jason. I want to know who you are. We’re married, for God’s sake. Surely you owe me that much.”
He looked at me funny. “Sandra…”
“No. No whining, no negotiating. Just answer the question. Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yes.”
“What?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“Yes, I’ve killed someone,” Jason said. “But that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
Then my husband got off the sofa, took his paperback, and left me alone in the room.
Jason didn’t think he’d fallen asleep, but he must have, because shortly after one A.M., a sound roused him from the love seat. He jerked upright, registering a distant banging. The noise seemed to be coming from outside the house. He stood, crossing to the front windows, where he parted the curtains one inch and peered out.
Two uniformed officers had taken the lids off his trash cans. They were now in the process of moving the white kitchen bags from the refuse containers to the trunk of their police cruiser.
Shit, he thought, and nearly opened the front door to yell at them to stop. Then caught himself.
Rookie mistake. He’d taken his trash out from long habit, and in doing so, had effectively turned it over to the police. He searched through his mind, trying to anticipate how much such a mistake might cost him. He couldn’t think of anything, so he finally relaxed, shoulders coming down, expelling all his pent-up breath in one giant
