The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 447

Mia's POV

I sigh.

Kyle is still standing there. Six feet away in the flickering alley light. His jacket around my shoulders. The fabric still warm from his body.

"Come upstairs," I say.

He blinks. "What?"

"Come upstairs. See the kids. Then go home." I pull the jacket tighter. "I'm too tired to do this dance in an alley at eleven at night."

"Mia—"

"I'm not asking you to stay. I'm just—" I stop. Start again. "They'll want to know you were here. Alexander will ask tomorrow if you came by. He always asks."

Kyle's throat works. "Okay."

We go back inside. The stairwell smells like someone's cooking—garlic and something fried. The fluorescent lights buzz. One flickers on the third floor landing.

My keys jangle when I unlock the door. Too loud in the quiet hallway.

Gas lifts her head when we come in. Sees Kyle. Her tail thumps once against the floor. Then she settles back down.

The apartment is dim. Just the small lamp in the living room. The one I always leave on. The shade is crooked. Has been crooked for three months. I keep meaning to fix it.

"They're asleep," I say quietly.

He nods. Moves toward the hallway. His steps are careful. Testing each floorboard before putting weight on it.

I stay in the living room. Listening.

The door to the boys' room opens. The hinges squeak. They always squeak. I've oiled them twice but they still squeak.

I can picture him standing there. Looking at them in the dark. Alexander probably has one leg out of the covers. He always kicks them off. Ethan sleeps on his side. Curled tight. Hands tucked under his chin.

A floorboard creaks. Kyle moving closer to the beds.

Then the door closes. Soft click.

Madison's room next. Her door doesn't squeak. It's newer. We installed it when she moved in. The contractor got it right.

The door opens again.

Kyle appears in the hallway. His face is doing something complicated. Not crying. But close.

"Okay?" I ask.

He nods. Doesn't trust his voice.

"You can sit if you want. I need to clean up."

There are dishes in the sink from dinner. Not many. Just the kids' plates. Three plastic bowls from their ice cream. My coffee mug from this morning.

Kyle follows me to the kitchen. "Let me help."

"You don't have to—"

"Let me help."

I shrug. Hand him a dish towel. "You dry."

We work in silence. I wash. He dries. It's automatic. Muscle memory from before. From when we did this every night in our old kitchen.

His phone buzzes.

He ignores it.

It buzzes again.

"Answer it," I say. "I don't mind."

He pulls it out. Looks at the screen. "I need to take this."

"Okay."

He answers. "Yes." His voice changes. CEO Kyle. "I told you to move it to the Singapore account. The conversion rate is better right now."

I keep washing dishes. Tuning him out.

Except I can't tune him out. Because he's not moving away. He's right here. Drying a bowl with one hand. Phone pressed to his ear with the other.

"No. The derivatives are too volatile. We need to hedge against the yuan fluctuation." He sets down the bowl. Picks up a plate. "Spread it across three currencies. Yen, euro, and keep thirty percent liquid."

I glance at him. He's completely serious. Discussing millions of dollars. While drying my kids' dinosaur plates.

"The futures market opens in six hours. I want confirmation before then." He's drying the same plate. Going in circles. "And tell Morrison if he can't handle the Tokyo portfolio, I'll find someone who can."

He hangs up.

Sets down the plate.

Picks up another one.

I start laughing.

I don't mean to. It just comes out. This exhausted, slightly hysterical laugh.

Kyle looks at me. "What?"

"You. Doing dishes. Talking about derivatives and currency hedges." I shake my head. "It's absurd."

"It's time-sensitive—"

"It's absurd." I hand him another bowl. "You're standing in my kitchen at eleven-thirty at night. Drying plastic bowls. Managing international portfolios."

His mouth twitches. "I can multitask."

"Apparently."

"Slowly is better than not at all."

He nods. Sets down the towel. "Where do you want me?"

"What?"

"You said I could sit. Where?"

I gesture toward the living room. "Couch is fine."

We move to the couch. I take the far end. He takes the other end. Three feet between us.

The lamp with the crooked shade makes shadows on the wall.

"Tell me about them," Kyle says suddenly.

"The kids?"

"Yeah. Tell me—" He stops. Starts again. "Tell me what I missed."

My throat gets tight. "That's a lot."

"I know."

I pull my feet up onto the couch. Tuck them under me. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Anything." He's looking at me. Really looking. "The things you remember. The moments that—" He gestures vaguely. "The moments that mattered."

I'm quiet for a long time. Thinking.

"Ethan learned to read before Alexander," I say finally. "He was three. Just figured it out. I found him one morning in the kitchen. Reading the cereal box. Out loud. Perfectly."

Kyle leans forward slightly. Listening.

"Alexander was so mad. He cried for an hour. Because Ethan could do something he couldn't." I smile remembering. "So I told Alexander that everyone learns things at different times. That he was better at other things."

"Like what?"

"Like making friends. Like reading people. Like—" I stop. "Like being happy. Alexander is better at being happy."

Kyle's face does something. "That's a good thing to be good at."

"Yeah."

The heating system kicks on. The vents rattle. They always rattle.

"Wait here," I say.

I get up. Go to the closet. Pull down the box from the top shelf. The one with all the photos. The videos on my phone backed up on a hard drive.

I bring it back to the couch. Sit closer this time. Just a foot away.

"These are—" I open the box. "These are things."