At least her breasts were mostly acceptable, if less pert than in her younger days. But the rest—the rest of her body—made Anne flinch.
What will Sadie think when she sees me like this?
The thought made Anne shiver with a combination of elation and worry. She wrapped her arms around her middle, holding herself close, and kept her gaze on the woman in the mirror who seemed increasingly strange again.
This is Sadie, she reminded herself.The way she looked at you last night wasn’t critical. She’d never judge you.Not like you judge yourself.
Anne would want to ignore the soft slope of her stomach, pretend it didn’t exist, but Sadie would go out of her way to touch it. She’d stroke the scar left by Anne’s first pregnancy with one reverent finger and saydo you have any idea how extraordinary this is? You made a miracle, and your body won’t ever let you forget it. She’d kiss the thinned skin on Anne’s thighs, whispering,Wait, sweetheart, just be patient forme, I need to love this part of you first, while Anne lay back on the bed, eroding into desperation.
And her breasts. She’d already learned how Sadie would treat her breasts.
Sadie would be so kind.
The woman in the mirror still clutched her own waist, and Anne could make out the pale splotches of color on her upper chest and neck, her tightened nipples. The visual markings of Anne’s need, apparently infinite.
No more of that for now. She needed a shower. Then breakfast. They could stop at the café down the road on their way home. Oatmeal. Or—her mouth watered at the thought—maybe even eggs over easy.
Sheets rustled in the next room as Sadie turned over, then sighed loudly in her sleep.
Anne smiled at herself and pulled back the shower curtain. Time to get ready, even if the sound of Sadie tugged her back. She wouldn’t walk over to the bed, wouldn’t slide under the sheets. Wouldn’t curl up close against Sadie’s warm body. Wouldn’t whisper into her soft hairI want to keep saying yes.
Chapter 12
Something was wrong.
At first, nothing could puncture the haze of Anne’s happiness. At breakfast, she wolfed down eggs over easy with a piece of whole wheat toast and only felt a tiny bit self-conscious about it. Their occasional conversation was punctuated by long, lovely silences, moments where Sadie gazed out the window while Anne skimmed a free copy of theHi-Desert Starand every headline bounced right off her attention.
But throughout the long drive home, Sadie prattled on and on and on, winding sentences about work or freeway closures or opinions on art that were about as substantive as cotton candy. Over two hours of nearly nonstop chatter, egregious even for a woman who typically spoke in paragraphs.
The sharp, trembling edge in Sadie’s rambles made Anne press for an explanation.
“I’mfine,” Sadie insisted, too quickly. Then, “Have I ever told you about the time David Lynch dropped by one of my parties? He brought an electronic keyboard with him, played one chord for ten minutes, then left without saying a word.”
For the rest of the car ride, Anne let Sadie talk, and tried to ignore the slow, steady rise of panic that began to trickle into her veins.
Back at the house, she’d barely pulled into the driveway before Sadie was out of the car, grabbing her overnight bag out of the back seat.
Anne got out, too. “Sadie, what—?”
“I’ve got to get to campus.” Sadie waved her house keys. “Class soon.”
“You don’t teach on Mondays.”
“Oh,” Sadie said vaguely, and waved a hand in the air. “Of course. Tuesdays and Thursdays this semester. I forgot. Listen, dollface, I’ll be over later, all right? Just have to take care of a few things first. Obligation calls.” She smiled. It looked like effort.
“I don’t—”
But Sadie was gone, dashing toward her house.
For several minutes, Anne stood alone on her driveway, feet locked to the stone pavers. The sick lurch of worry roiled through her stomach. Every cell inside her was a siren.
Her mouth filled with the thought of a crisp pinot grigio.
Without thinking about it, she took a few steps toward the house, then stopped in her tracks. No. Not now. She could have a drink later, if she wanted. When she wanted.
First, answers.
This is a bad idea, a little voice said as Anne made her way toward Sadie’s cottage.You should give her some space; she said she’d be over later. But that small protest was no match for the anxiety that stamped it back into submission.