The key turned in the lock. The sound was too loud in the two a.m. quiet. My muscles ached. A dull throb behind my eyes from the fluorescent lights at the office. I pushed the door open. Home.
He was on the floor. Cormac. He was half-crouched, his hands on her knee. Ivy. He worked his thumbs into the muscle, his head bent low. The light from the lamp caught the line of his jaw. He was focused. Tender.
He heard the click of the door. His head lifted. He looked at me, but his eyes were flat. No surprise. No guilt. Just a fact. I was home.
“Ivy was feeling down,” he said. The words hung in the still air. An explanation that wasn’t one. “I brought her over.”
I held my purse. The leather strap dug into my shoulder. I didn’t say anything. I walked toward the bedroom. Our bedroom. Each step was heavy.
“The guest room is ready for you.” His voice was sharp now. Detached. “Ivy isn’t comfortable alone.”
A knot formed in my throat. Hot and tight. I swallowed, but it stayed there. The hallway light was dim. I could feel the sting behind my eyes. She was in his arms now. I could see them in my periphery. Ivy, making herself small against his chest.
