Clandestine Cravings

The first time I saw my father-in-law without a shirt, I nearly dropped the tray of iced tea.

It was seven in the morning. The sun hadn't fully burned through the mist over the pool. I was supposed to be bringing refreshments to the cabana, something about Riko wanting to swim before the heat kicked in. Nobody told me he'd be standing at the edge of the water, hands on his hips, looking at the horizon like he owned it.

He did own it. He owned the horizon, the pool, the house, the company, probably half the goddamn city if rumors were true.

I stopped walking. The ice clinked against the glass. Riko turned.

"Marsha." His voice was deep, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world and knew you'd wait. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." I set the tray down on the wrought-iron table. "Revan left at four. Kept tossing after that."

He nodded slowly. His eyes stayed on me a beat too long. Not leering. Just watching. Like he was reading something written in invisible ink across my skin.

I'd been married to his son for five months. Revan was sweet. Revan was safe. Revan was twenty-six years old and still called his father for advice on which wine to order at dinner. I loved him. I did. But love and want had never been the same thing for me, and I was starting to realize that maybe they never would be.

"He'll be fine," Riko said. He pulled a towel off the lounger and wiped his chest. Thirty-seven years old and his body looked like it had been carved from something harder than flesh. Shoulders that could carry the weight of a company. Arms that looked like they'd know exactly how hard to hold. "The Singapore office just needs a firm hand for a few weeks. Revan has that. Niko too."

"Niko and Christy left together?"

"Same flight." He draped the towel over his shoulder. "Different problems. Same solution."

I watched him walk to the table. He moved like a man who'd never had to apologize for taking up space. He sat down across from me, reached for a glass of tea, and drank half of it in one long pull. His throat moved. I watched that too.

"You look nervous," he said.

"I'm not."

"You're picking at your cuticles."

I looked down at my hands. He was right. My thumb was working the skin around my nail like it owed me money. I forced my hands flat on my thighs.

"Sorry. Habit."

"Don't apologize for habits." He set the glass down. "Habits tell the truth. Words lie."

The air between us felt thick. Humid. The kind of heavy that makes you want to peel your skin off. I was wearing a thin cotton sundress, yellow with small white flowers. I'd thrown it on without thinking, the same one I wore to breakfast every morning. Now I felt exposed. Like the fabric was see-through and he could see every secret I'd never admitted out loud.

"Revan asked me to check on you," Riko said.

"Check on me?"

"Make sure you're comfortable. That you have everything you need while he's gone."

I almost laughed. Almost. Revan was a good husband. He remembered anniversaries and brought me coffee in bed and never left the toilet seat up. But he didn't know me. Not really. He knew the version of me that laughed at his jokes and let him hold my hand in public. He didn't know the parts I kept locked away.

"And what do I need?" I asked.

The question came out sharper than I intended. More like a challenge. I saw something flicker in Riko's eyes. Interest. Recognition. Like I'd just shown him a card I wasn't supposed to play.

"That depends," he said slowly, "on what you're willing to ask for."

My breath caught. I covered it by reaching for my own glass, taking a sip that was too small to mean anything.

"You're very direct," I said.

"At my age, being indirect is a waste of time."

"Thirty-seven isn't old."

"No. But it's old enough to know what you want."

He said it like a door opening. Like an invitation I could step through if I had the courage. I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat had closed up and my heart was doing something stupid in my chest.

Riko stood. He picked up his towel and slung it over his shoulder again. "Breakfast is at eight. I'll have the chef make your favorite."

"I didn't tell you my favorite."

"I asked Revan before he left." He smiled. It was a small thing, barely a curve at the corner of his mouth. But it changed his whole face. Made him look younger. Dangerous. "I like to be prepared."

He walked back toward the house. I watched him go. Watched the way his back muscles moved under his skin, the way his feet hit the stone path like he was claiming every step. The sliding door closed behind him and I was alone with the pool and the mist and the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears.

I sat there for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Long enough for the ice to melt and dilute the tea. Long enough for the sun to burn through the fog and turn the water into a sheet of molten gold.

I should have gone inside. Showered. Dressed for the day. Called Revan to tell him I loved him and missed him and everything was fine.

Instead I thought about the way Riko had said *what you're willing to ask for.*

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he was waiting for me to say it out loud.

I pressed my thighs together under the table. The fabric of my dress bunched against my skin. I was twenty-four years old, married to a man who adored me, living in a house that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. I had everything I was supposed to want.

But want had never been about having everything.

Want was about the one thing you weren't supposed to take.

I stood up. Picked up the tray. Walked back toward the house with wet grass clinging to my bare feet and a question burning in my chest like a brand.

*What am I willing to ask for?*

The sliding door hissed open. I stepped inside. The air conditioning hit my skin and I shivered. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Just me and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the sound of water running somewhere upstairs.

Riko was in the shower. I could hear it.

I set the tray in the sink and stood there with my hands gripping the edge of the counter. My reflection stared back at me from the window above the faucet. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A mouth that knew how to keep secrets.

I wondered if Christy was feeling the same thing right now. Somewhere over the Pacific, sitting next to Niko, thinking about the man who'd sent them both away on the same day.

I wondered if she'd noticed the way Riko looked at her during dinner last week. The way his hand had lingered on her shoulder when he passed behind her chair.

I wondered if she'd noticed because I'd noticed too.

And I wondered what happened to women like us when we stopped pretending we hadn't.