It’s a trap. Tess has been pacing in Henry’s dark little apartment on the south side of the barn, lying in wait like a spider, and as soon as he comes in the door, she flips the kitchen light on, hoping that if she catches him off guard he’ll be honest with her. She thinks she deserves that much at least. “Out driving.” “You’re soaking wet, Henry. You’re dripping all over the goddamn floor.” “I went for a swim.” She laughs. “A swim. That’s perfect. Fucking perfect.” He looks down at the puddle he’s making on the linoleum floor. He looks so boyish, so guilty, that she almost feels sorry for him. Then she looks at the clock on the microwave: 3:30 in the morning. Where the hell does a man go at that hour? “Are you seeing someone, Henry?” “Jesus!” “Are you?” “No.” Is she jealous? Jesus. This is too much. Get the fuck over it, she tells herself. She remembers the feel of his hand on her back this evening. The thrilling jolt it had given her. How close she’d been to turning around.
