"What do you mean?"
He studies me for a beat, his face nearly surgical. "I mean, did he do or say something to you? Did he offend you?"
Oh. Okay. Take a breather.
"No, of course not. He's a good guy. Plus, he came a day before I left, so I barely saw him. I told you—we both changed, so we don't really connect anymore. I just want you to start asking me before you make plans, that's all." I take a deep breath, force a shaken smile. "We'll go. You wanted to try it. It'll be fun."
Before I can see his expression or faint right here, I'm already pushing my chair back, excusing myself for thebathroom, and slipping through ten tables that all seem to be having a wonderful time while I'm sprinting through my panic.
Bathroom. Head over the sink. Staring into it like it could tell me I'm less despicable than I am.
I'm lying to my husband, lying about Ben, lying becoming second nature. That's one step from hell. Thisfeelslike hell.
When did the world stop making sense?
Here I am, obsessing over the kiss, and Ben's planning drills with my husband after being so angry every time I mention him? Can he ever stop being a revelation?
I take one more breath and try to calm down.
You know what? Maybe this is good. If Richard suspected anything, he wouldn't plan a double date, right? And the kiss obviously didn't mean that much to Ben?
Goddamn it, I don't like that idea at all.
But I have to force myself to be okay with it.
This way I can apologize in person. We'll laugh, roll our eyes, sweep the whole thing under some metaphorical rug, and start over. Again.
Delusional? Absolutely. Immature? Definitely. But that imaginary conversation where Ben forgives me is the only thing keeping me tethered beforethe day.
?
On Sunday, when we show up at the club, Richard and I look like we waltzed out of some old money drama.
Correction: he does.
Further correction: heis.
"My mom was right. You're such a golden boy. Gilded down to your veins," I say, mostly to watch him soften for me, and maybe to remind myself that we're fine.
He obliges, leaning in to plant a peck on my lips.
He's in a white polo, soft blue sweater knotted over his shoulders like it's a chilly autumn day, not eighty degrees in the shade.
Me? I've gone full rebellion chic.
Had to sit through Richard's monologue in the car about how my outfit is "contextually appropriate because, and only because, we're going together."
This white fitted tank and ass-skimming skirt are proof I work for my body and I'm not afraid to show it.
No, it's not for Ben, not to make him regret ghosting me—I'm over it. Way, way over it.
The girl at the front desk clocks us—well, clocks Richard—and pulls that smile reserved for trust funds. How they can always smell it is beyond my knowledge.
"Hello." He gives her his classic charm smile. "Lawsons. Meeting the Bellinis."
And just like that my mind goes haywire. Seeing Ben after what happened, and in front of Richard, might be the most self-sabotaging thing I've done so far.
"Of course." The woman walks around the counter, looking at Richard like he's a painting she isn't allowed to touch. "The court is right this way, Mr. Lawson."
