“Ken does not take drugs.”

Christian snorts. “Baby, I bet there’s a lot of stuff your hubby does that you don’t know about.”

I don’t want to believe this, but my heart says it’s true. “Yeah, like losing his job and not telling me. Back in September.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That. I called his office to finally get an answer about why his paychecks aren’t being deposited, and the receptionist told me.”

“When’s he coming home?”

“I don’t think he is. He left last week after a fight, saying how he wanted to get out of this town. He was ranting. I’d never seen him act that way. I haven’t heard from him since. And then these guys show up without warning, telling me he called them—”

“About that,” Christian says. He rubs his hands over his bare arms. He has, at least, put on a T-shirt and jeans instead of standing around in his boxers. “It’s freezing out here. Come back inside with me.”

Hands on his hips, fingers pointing down, framing that dick that has gotten him so far in life. I hate how much he looks like my husband when he does that. And there’s that charming smile, too, the bad boy next door.

“What do you mean, ‘about that’?”

“I’m the one who called them. I told them I was Ken. Jewelann,” he interjects before I can speak. “I had to. I couldn’t deal with it backing up. You should thank me. Where’d they go, anyway?”

His foot squelches as he shifts his stance. We are standing on the literal failure of what is meant to keep my life’s shit contained. If that’s not an accurate representation of what’s been going on, I don’t know what is.

“I sent them away. I don’t have the money for it.”

He sighs. “Fine. I’ll pay for the tank pumping. Come back inside. You’re not even wearing a coat. Your hands are dirty. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He takes me by the elbow and leads me to my own house, where he runs the water in the sink. While I wash my hands, Christian helps himself to mugs from my cupboard. He puts the kettle on. Sets out milk and sugar. I study what he’s laid out, all very homey. Of all the times Christian has done something to make me cry, this one feels the most wholesome.

“Where do you keep your teabags?” Christian asks.

“I don’t have any.”

He stares. Shakes his head. Sits at the table. “Well, look at me trying to be the nice guy. See where it got me.”

What would it feel like to believe him? I let Christian take my hand and brush a kiss across the back of it, while he smiles at me all dewy-eyed and soft. As though we are lovers. In love.

“Does Ken know you’ve involved Eli in your business?” I ask him.

“I don’t think so. Your hubby doesn’t know very much about his son at all, does he?”