I hate to say that he looks good, but he does. Heart-stoppingly good.
He’s no Bishop, but then Bishop is a decade younger and has the flush of a reckless youth on his cheeks. Dean isdignified where Bishop is mischievous. There’s no question any warm-blooded woman would pick Bishop out of a lineup of most attractive men, but there’s something about my Dean. The salt-and-pepper at his temples and the laugh lines bracketing his lips are just two of my favorite things about him. He’s handsome in his own way, and I hate that seeing him before me right now makes me miss him. He’s someone else’s now, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still my husband. At least on paper.
After a minute of digging through my bag and pretending not to look his way, I switch tactics and move my laptop bag to obscure my face. And then I chance a glance at him. He’s facing away from me, and he’s dressed in the same dark khakis I bought him for his birthday last year. I can tell it’s them because they’re scuffed at the hems where they drag along the sidewalk—they needed hemming, but I never got around to dropping them off before they began to fray.
He turns to the side then, cocking his hip against the counter as he watches the barista make his espresso. He’s also wearing a new navy polo shirt. It’s Lacoste, I can tell by the tiny, embroidered alligator above his heart. I wonder if it’s a gift from Jesika.
And then my husband turns, and I swear he almost catches sight of me.
I hold my breath, afraid to look any closer as I pretend to fiddle with the hook on my bag. My anxiety is through the roof, heart slamming against my rib cage as I will the barista to work faster. Dean cocks a hip against the counter and crosses his arms as he waits. He’s turned partially away from me, so I take a few long moments to let my gaze wander over him. Was it him fucking Jesika with frenzied passion against the window of their new apartment? I can’t imagine him being so…impassioned. But I’m one hundred percent positive it was Jesika against the window, so there’s no question she was fucking my husband.
The urge to go to him is strong, and for the first time, I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. I’m torturing myself, without a doubt. If Dean caught sight of me, he’d probably take out a personal protection order and force me to stay a minimum of three hundred feet away from him and everyone in his life.
Dean turns with his coffee order then, eyes skipping across the room before he makes his way to the exit. As he leaves, he takes a quick left, and I imagine him walking back down Michigan Avenue to deliver Jesika her latte. If she’s drinking coffee, she must be feeling better. I think about sending her a message just to check up on her, but then she might find me a little too eager to be her friend. I pack up my things and exit the café a minute later, thankful that my husband is so self-involved he didn’t pause to do a scan of the tables and find me sitting there, watching him.
Seeing Dean has left me feeling on edge. The mix of emotions bubbling up inside me is almost overwhelming, and I pause after a few steps to take a breath and compose myself, or else I risk breaking down into tears on the street. I hate him for making me feel this way, hate Bishop for taking advantage of me so blatantly, but then, I’m taking advantage of him too, so how mad can I be? By the time I’m unlocking the door to my hotel room, my nerves are fried, and the last thing I need is a confrontation with Bishop.
“Hey, stranger!” His voice is laced with positivity, and it makes me resent him even more. I imagine the day when I have the key changed to the room and I never have to see Bishop again. He’s annoying, but he’s useful if I can point him in the right direction.
I notice he’s wearing a fresh change of clothes and new sneakers. He must be dropping by his place when he goes out, wherever that is. I imagine him selling ounces of marijuana to kids on the street before stopping home to grab a change ofclothes and coming back to my penthouse. I’m about to tell him how he needs to find somewhere else to stay all day, but my phone buzzes at that moment. I glance at the screen to find a message from Jesika.
It’s a selfie in bed. She’s sipping out of a to-go cup from the Roastery, not a lick of makeup but with a big smile on her pale face.
Wanna hang out tonight?
I owe you a night out, but I don’t think I’m ready to be out in public yet. How about Netflix and a sleepover here? The fiancé is going out of town for business for a few nights, and I’m a little scared to stay in this big place by myself.
I don’t reply to her wall of text. As I wait, three dots blink across the screen, indicating she’s still typing.
You can pick the movie!
I smile, thinking how genuinely sweet she is. Dean really did pick a good one. I reply quickly.Sure, can’t wait!
A moment later, Jesika has sent me her address. I was right. Their apartment is in the building right across the street from me. I cringe when I realize it definitely was them having sex against the window that night. A sick sense of satisfaction swells inside me as the next message arrives.
5-5-5-1 is the code to open the garage. See you around 7?
Perfect!I reply.Can I bring anything?
Nope. We’ll order takeout once you get here. Looking forward to girl time!
I pause, thumbs hovering over my screen. I need to make sure Dean isn’t going to be there when I arrive, but I don’t know how to ask the question without feeling weird. I press my lips together as I think, before finally settling on:What time is your fiancé leaving tonight?
Jesika doesn’t answer for a minute before the text comes that Dean will be long gone by the time I arrive. I breathe a sigh ofrelief. I suddenly feel one step closer to realizing my plan. I don’t know what the plan is yet exactly, but I know it will reveal itself the closer I come to integrating myself into Jesika and Dean’s new life.
Revenge is best executed one small step at a time. The only risk lies in rushing the plan before it’s ready.
Chapter Eighteen
“Chicago looks good on you. You’re positively glowing, Shae.” My therapist’s smile is genuine.
“Thanks. It’s good to see you.” I usually dread seeing her, but this time, I’m not lying. She’s a warm and caring face in a slew of strangers in this chilly city. “You look great.”
Okay, I might have been lying about that last part.
She looks every part the aging, dowdy-dressed professional woman she is, but even her predictably boring style is comforting right now. Kelly has been in my life for far more years than I care to remember, she’s seen me through college, career moves, breakups, and now a divorce.
My parents, instead of spending quality time with me, sat me on the sofa of any therapist that would listen. The first diagnosed me with ADHD and anxiety, the second with obsessive compulsive and bipolar disorder, the third with PTSD and depression, and after an involuntary stay at a hospital at the age of seventeen for an attempt to take my own life, I found Kelly.
