Isla lay in bed with her hand resting on Oscar’s naked sternum, one leg draped across his thighs, like she was claiming him. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep. She suspected he was doing the same thing. He hadn’t moved in a long time, but his breaths weren’t deep or slow enough. She knew his rhythms.
When he agreed so readily to the partner swap, she had been furious. Her once-devoted husband had tried to trade her away, even after she stuck by him through his years of gloomy bitterness. But now she felt an eerie calm. Dom’s death hadn’t been part of the plan, but after the shock wore off, the rage had started to trickle away, too. She closed her eyes, searching for it, and found nothing. Perhaps it had always been Dom she was angry with, not her husband.
Her desire for Cole had dissipated as well. It wasn’t just seeing the handcuffs spill out of his bag, though she had found that off-putting. It was the way he’d turned bright red and stammered, giving Isla a glimpse of how he would someday look and sound as an old man. Her crush on him had instantly become a fond memory rather than a painful regret. And then, once she’d dismissed Cole, she’d realised that Oscar wasn’t so unattractive after all. At worst he was a droopy houseplant who would become beautiful again with a sprinkle of water. The weight of his body next to her was a comfort.
But was it too late to salvage things, after everything she’d done?
She hugged him closer. She wished she could stop time, and live in this moment forever.
‘I love you, Oscar,’ she breathed in his ear.
He didn’t react. Maybe he really was asleep.
The long day was catching up to her, the sound of the rain making her drowsy. She yawned, her mind starting to wander, her thoughts becoming ethereal, dreams filtering through the cracks. Her limbs grew heavy. When she was balanced on the edge of sleep, about to tip over, Oscar moved.
Isla was immediately alert, but didn’t open her eyes. She kept her arms and legs slack as he slowly manoeuvred himself out from under them, then climbed out of bed. Where was he going? The toilet, perhaps? No—she could hear the rattling of his belt, the rustling of his coat. He was getting dressed. Was it time for his shift on watch already?
Isla remained still as Oscar slipped out the door and closed it behind him. Then she looked at the clock, glowing red on the bedside table. It was only 9.44 p.m. Where was he going?
She lay there, thinking. Then she rolled out of bed and started pulling her own clothes on.