Excerpt of Unspoken by Kelly Rimmer

CHAPTER ONE

Paul

I’ve been developing a single software application since I was seventeen years old. In recent years, I’ve worked with some of the best developers on earth, but it’s still my software. The sum of my life’s work is seventy-four million lines of code which, in lay¬man’s terms, enables people to use the internet in a safe and efficient manner. I don’t know all of that code by heart of course, but if you were to give me any portion of it, I could tell you what it does and why and how.

Code is knowable. Understandable. Infallibly ra¬tional. Opening my compiler is like wrapping my¬self in a warm blanket on a cold day. Code is safe and familiar, and I am completely at home and com¬pletely in control in that sphere, which is pretty much the polar opposite to my feelings about other hu¬mans. People are unfortunately illogical creatures, and today, people are ruining my day.

Well, one person specifically.

“Hello, Isabel,” I say to my almost-ex-wife. Her sudden appearance is as unfortunate as it is unex¬pected. Whenever we find ourselves in the same room these days, the tension is untenable, but it’s certain to be even worse today, because this room happens to be in the very vacation home we spent most of the last year squabbling over as we negoti¬ated the separation of our assets.

“You said that I could keep this house—” Isabel starts to say, but I really don’t like to be reminded that if the divorce was a cruel game, there’s a clear winner, and it’s not me.

That’s why I cut her off with a curt “my name is still on the title for four more days.”

Her nostrils flare. She makes a furious sound in the back of her throat, then closes her eyes and ex¬hales shakily. Isabel is trying to keep her temper in check.

I lived with Isabel Rose Winton for four years, one month and eleven days. She likes almond milk in her coffee because she thinks it’s healthier, but she masks the taste with so much sugar, she may as well drink a soda. She sleeps curled up in a little ball, as if she’s afraid to take up space in her own bed. She resents her mother and adores her father and brothers. She loves New York with a passion, and she has an astounding ability to pluck threads from a city of 8.5 million people to weave them into a close-knit village around herself. Isabel makes friends everywhere she goes. She never forgets a name and people always remember her, too, even after meeting her just once. Everyone adores her.

Well, almost everyone. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of the woman these days.

“You’re supposed to be on retreat with your team this weekend.” Isabel flashes me a look, but it passes too quickly. I don’t have time to interpret it.

“How do you even know about my retreat?” I ask, but then I sigh and we both say at the exact same time, “Jess.”

Jessica Cohen has been my friend since college and she’s been my business partner almost as long. Isabel and Jess are friends, too, and they still see each other all the time. But Jess popping up in this conversation makes me uneasy, because she’s the reason I’m at Greenport today. And Jess does so love to meddle…

I’m distracted just thinking about this, and that’s when I make a critical error: I forget that there’s a reason I’ve been standing at a supremely uncom¬fortable sixty-degree angle, with my lower half hid¬den behind the wall which houses the stairwell, my top half leaning into the living room where Isabel is sitting. As soon as I shift position into something like a more standard posture, I see Isabel’s gaze run down my body. The scowl on her face intensifies, and mortifyingly, I feel myself blushing.

“Why are you naked?” Isabel demands.

That’s not why I’m blushing; after more than four years together, I’m certain Isabel is at least as famil¬iar with my junk as I am. And my current state of undress is actually easily explained. I arrived here ninety-four minutes ago, immediately went for a very long run and then took a very long shower. Everything was fine until I reached for a towel and discovered that Isabel’s scent was all over the soft cotton.

That made no sense, because my assistant Vanessa was supposed to arrange for the cleaning service to refresh the house before my arrival here today. I was headed downstairs to see if Vanessa had at least managed to stock the fridge with food and booze when I heard the sound of footsteps in the living room. It seemed a safe assumption that if someone had broken into the house while I was in the shower, it wouldn’t be someone who was already well acquainted with my nether regions, so I was careful to stick only my head around the corner to investigate.

That was when I found Isabel herself, sitting proudly on the sofa as if it was her throne, firing death glares in my direction.

Which, for the record, she is definitely still doing. I might not be super skilled at reading body language, but even I know a stink eye when I see one. And this particular stink eye is focused with laser-like intent on the fourth finger of my left hand.

That is why I’m blushing, because what she can see there is not nearly as easily explained as a casual spot of midday nudity.

“Why on earth would you put your wedding ring back on now?” she asks me stiffly.

The thing is, I never really took it off; I’d just slide it into my pocket if I knew I was going to see her. It wasn’t all that difficult to hide the fact that I’m still wearing the ring—I’ve only seen her in person ten times since she walked out of our Chelsea brownstone ten months ago. Once at our one and only attempt at marriage counseling. Once at Jess’s legendary and, this year, somewhat awkward New Year’s Eve party. Once at the engagement party for our friends Marcus and Abby.

And seven times at mediation sessions, each one more heated than the last.

Isabel obviously noticed I wasn’t wearing the ring during those encounters, although it seems she missed the way I constantly rubbed the empty space on my finger, endlessly aware of its absence, just as I’m endlessly aware of her absence in our home in Manhattan. I’d inevitably have felt her missing in this house today. If she wasn’t here, that is.

I’ve tried to stop wearing the ring and I find I just can’t break the habit, although if anything is going to cure me, the mortification of this moment might just do the trick.