I nod, suddenly filled with curiosity about Kelly Fraser, LLP’s personal life. “Well, have a great rest of your week, Doc.”
I can’t get out of the office fast enough. I bet I could find my therapist on social media and then search her list of followers to find her beautiful and statuesque sister Katie. I could follow both of them under Mia’s account, and neither of them would be the wiser. I could be a fly on the wall of their lives and not have to worry about the weird patient-doctor confidentiality thing that I signed in my new client paperwork.
By the time I hit the elevator, I’m pulling up Instagram on my phone. Before I can get to the search bar, though, the app loads and takes me directly to my newsfeed, where I find Jesika’s latest post.
Dammit. Fucking shit.
It’s them. Together. The new, happily engaged couple sideby side. It’s the first time she’s shared Dean’s face—and it’s not even his full face, but it’s enough of his smile and beard lingering over her shoulder at some hipster eatery that I can confirm it’s my husband. My no-good, piece-of-shit spouse is wining and dining his new favorite toy, and I’m left to cry out my feelings on a therapist’s couch. Anger swirls in my stomach as I zoom in on the photo, looking for any details to identify their location. I notice then that she tagged her nonalcoholic—according to her caption—cocktail with the restaurant they’re at: Hominy. I know that place—a new and trendy West Hollywood joint creating modern dishes with a homestyle twist. She posted this in the last hour. Is it possible they’re still there? What would I do if I ran into them out in public? I suddenly find myself obsessed with the idea.
It’s then I realize that her post contains multiple photos. I swipe to the left on the first photo and then almost lose my lunch all over my sneakers.
It’s them. Naked. In bed.Together.
I can only see part of his face again, but I notice the freckles across his bare shoulder. The way she’s tucked into his arm, giant toothy grin on her face and that glittery, ostentatious engagement ring she’s wearing on her ring finger.
I hate them.
I hate them so much I can taste it rising in my throat like bile.
Dean has no idea what he did that day he chose to walk out on me. Has no idea the string of events he unleashed when he announced he wanted a divorce. And now, all I can think about is how my husband deserves to suffer for the pain his new life is inflicting on me.
Chapter Nine
New man. New baby. New city!
I cringe when Jesika’s latest Instagram pops up.
“New city?” I hum, mind instantly on fire with the possibilities. The photo shows Jesika, smiling ear to ear among stacks of moving boxes with floor-to-ceiling windows and a skyline view behind her.
Chicago.
I know it’s Chicago because that’s where Jesika is from. I vaguely remember a Chicago address listed on the model release forms we signed over a year ago. How in the world did she get Dean to move across the country? I save the photo to my phone, mostly so I can study that skyline and find out exactly where they’re living. The next thing I do, without even a second thought, is book a flight to Chicago. I’ve never been there, and I was always begging Dean to travel with me, but he was always too busy with work. Bitterness blooms within me before I take a few deep breaths and hit submit on the payment for my flight and then begin my search for a hotel.
I guess I’m leaving in the morning. I’m not sure what I’ll doonce I arrive, but I’ll figure it out on the fly. I just have the sense that I need to see them together once to confirm it’s real. To confirm that the man I married really is a piece of shit. Then I can move on. I’ll sign the divorce papers and give the cheating asshole what he wants. But giving him what he deserves sounds way more fun.
For the next hour, I pack some essentials for the trip and let my mind roll around ideas of revenge. I take a coffee break and do an internet search:how to get revenge on your ex.But the ideas are mostly silly and only make me laugh. I even think to send a text message to my therapist that I’ll be out of town a few days and we’ll have to skip our next session. She doesn’t answer me, and I wonder if her sister is still in town and how it’s going. It’s only been a few days since I last left her office. I haven’t hardly had time to think about healthy coping mechanisms, and then it hits me. Dean and Jesika in Chicago. I can’t just sit back and do nothing, right? Is he even allowed to leave the state of California when there are pending legal proceedings in play? I haven’t signed the divorce papers yet, and now, maybe I won’t.
Maybe the way to punish this man for all the pain he’s caused is to deny him what he now wants—a new family.
This thought carries me through all of my four-hour flight the following morning, and I hit the ground at O’Hare with a vague plan. I’m determined to find a way to split them up…so far my best idea is to get hired as Jesika’s assistant or housecleaner. If I can wiggle myself into Jesika’s life and make friends with her, maybe I can drive a wedge between them. In fact, I won’t stop until I do.
I slip into the idling taxicab and point the driver to a luxury hotel and spa on the east side of the city. I’m positive they’re staying nearby because I spent all night scrolling through photos of hotels and comparing the view of the city with Jesika’snew man, new baby, new citypost. I’m pretty sure I can see a slice ofLake Michigan in the distance and what looks like some of Millennium Park too. The neighborhood looks fancy, and if I’m going to have a chance at running into Jesika, I’m going to have to camp out nearby.
The cab driver drops me off in front of the Foundry Hotel, and even though it’s early afternoon, the February wind still carries a chill. As I step out of the cab, I feel a sense of relief. Is this what my therapist wanted for me? Setting goals and chasing my dreams feels good. On some level, I’m aware that maybe this isn’t the healthy coping mechanism she had in mind, but right now, the feeling is giving me life when nothing else has, so I’m embracing it.
With a sense of eagerness, I stroll into the lobby of the Foundry with newfound confidence. And Dean’s Amex card in my pocket. I found the matte black credit card among a stack of files he must have forgotten in the file cabinet. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked for it, but then, why would he, when he can just as easily call the company and have the card shut off and a new one mailed to him. Maybe it slipped his mind, or maybe he didn’t have a current mailing address, considering the chaos of the move to Chicago. I considered spending all of the available credit limit on it, but for the first time in my adult life, I can support myself, and so I booked the penthouse for the next two weeks at the Foundry using my own cash from the GoFundMe and Patreon page that I deposited into my account.
Walking up to the check-in desk, I feel like I’m on top of the world. And once I offer my name, Mia Starr, the employee’s face lights up.
“We’re so pleased to be your home away from home, Ms. Starr. I hope the trip wasn’t too arduous for you.” The woman smiles, her eyes glancing down to the large canary diamond on my finger and then back up to my eyes. “Ms. Starr has arrived,” she says as the concierge pauses at her shoulder.
“Welcome.” The elderly gentleman nods and then bends to retrieve something below the desk. They must have a wine fridge, because he’s uncorking a bottle of champagne and then pouring me a glass with a grin.
“Why thank you!” I take the bubbling glass from him and sip. “It’s lovely.”
“Only the best for our most cherished guests.” I feel utterly catered to, and it’s all the assurance I need for having spent nearly $14,000 for the next two weeks. The card I’m using is connected to an account Dean and I share, so he could log in and see what I’ve been up to, but something tells me he’s got his head too far up Jesika’s ass to even notice what I’m doing. A flashback of one of the troll comments from a stranger on my Instagram comes back to me. Maybe he’s not that busy, or maybe there’s a chance it wasn’t even him. I’m still not sure, and every time I log in to my account, a niggling sense of dread takes root in my stomach.
“Can I show you to your suite, Ms. Starr?” A bellboy dressed in all red is at my side with a friendly smile.
