Chapter 2

How often had I come in here to ask him a question or to tell him something? A million times. Or so it seemed. And he’d always looked up from whatever he was doing with his glasses perched on the end of his long, thin nose. “What is it, Dane?”

I could almost hear him.

Mechanically, I walked around the desk and sat in the oversize chair. It smelled like him. Masculine, fresh, and safe. Funny how safe had a smell, but if it did, it was Donald. I used to love this office, but now it reminded me of what I’d lost. Even before his heart attack.

Just two days before Donald’s death, I had been in here cleaning. My lover had kept lists for everything. He was very organized. He always left them sitting in the middle of the desk, face up or face down; it never mattered as long as they were within his reach. I’d read them because they amused me.

Talk to George.

E-mail Kathy.

Need paper towels and TP.

Check source for Dane.

Stuff like that. I wrote crime novels, had even gotten a couple published, and was working on another for my agent. Donald liked to help me with the research.

That day I found some old lists, but also a new one he’d recently added to the stack. I suppose it was an invasion of privacy of sorts, but I hadn’t thought we had any secrets. He might have known I read his lists—he’d never made much of an effort to hide them.

Talk with lawyer.

Drinks with George?

Contact University Review Board.

Talk to Dane about Chris and Bobby, relationship.

I had stared at the list, wondering what in God’s name the items on the list meant. As far I knew, Donald didn’t know anyone named Chris or Bobby. And the only thing I could think of that Donald would talk to his lawyer about was finances. Of course the most troubling thing on the list was Talk to Dane about Chris and Bobby, relationship.

I had tried to think what that could mean other than the obvious explanation, and I couldn’t come up with a single plausible reason he’d write that other than that Donald had been cheating on me. What did he want to talk to me about regarding our relationship, and what did it have to do with Chris and Bobby? But then I started to wonder if someone, even someone as organized as Donald, would really write breaking up with their boyfriend on their to-do list. Maybe it was something else he wanted to tell me about. Was it his relationship with me he wanted to talk about or his relationship with them?

But who were these people? Were they the hot young things Donald planned to replace me with? I was twenty-six, hardly old, but then when Donald and I met, I’d only been twenty, so maybe six years was all the difference in the world to him.

When Donald returned home from wherever he’d been that day, and of course I wondered if he’d been with these mysterious men, I waited for him to tell me. My stomach had been knotted with dread.

Donald pecked me on the lips, then pulled back and frowned. “What’s wrong? You’re pale.”

“Um.” I felt foolish, and he looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “H-how did your day go?”

“Good.” He continued to frown. “Maybe you should sit down.”

I nodded, swallowing. Here it would come, at last, I thought. “Okay. Where do you want me to sit?”

Donald shrugged. “I guess in a dining room chair. I don’t think it really matters, Dane.”

So I sat in the high-backed wooden chair closest to the kitchen, looking expectantly at him

“What?” he asked.

“Don’t you want to tell me something?” I ventured.

“Tell you something?”

Like, it’s over, Dane. I’ve replaced you.

“I thought that’s why you wanted me to sit down.”

He laughed. “No, Dane. I wanted you to sit because you look like you might faint. Do you want tea or something? Are you coming down with something?”

“No, I—No.” Why wouldn’t he just spit out? This waiting was killing me.

“All right, then I’m going into my office. Let me know if you need anything.” Donald kissed the top of my head and went down the hall to his office.

But he never said a word that day or the next. Doubt, horrible doubts, had filled my head for two solid days. I’d thought about bringing it up myself, but every time I went to say something to him about it, the words froze in my throat.

That night when we went to bed, Donald had made love to me like there was nothing wrong between us, and I was more confused than ever. Even the next day, though we didn’t have sex, he didn’t tell me it was over. Didn’t mention Chris, Bobby, or his lawyer. Nothing.