Not going there. Not tonight.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly. Repeat.
I pressed a fist to my chest, trying to loosen it. I was okay. It’s not the end of the world.
After all, I still had my health.
And leftover wine waiting for me in the kitchen.
A minute later, I stood barefoot on the smooth, refinished floors, gripping the bottle of Pinot Grigio I’d opened the night before. The first gulp was sharp and bitter. It wasn’t the good stuff, and it was a day old, but at least it warmed my chest.
For about two seconds.
I took another longer drink.
The townhouse was so quiet I could hear the fridge humming, its low vibration almost taunting me.
It was easy to imagine a family living here during the Revolution. A woman, pacing these very rooms while her husband was away at sea. She’d have cooked over a wooden stove, fetched water from a well…
Living here, even when Leo wasn’t home, I’d never really felt alone.
But I was now.
I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the refrigerator door.
I hated him. But…part of me still loved him, too.
Why couldn’t it be simpler? Why couldn’t I just hate him and be done with it?
And why—God, why—did I also kind of hate myself?
I pulled my head away from the fridge and then slammed it forward again, making a thunking sound. Maybe a little pain might knock some sense into me.
I hate him. Thunk. I hate him. Thunk.
The echo bounced off the quiet kitchen walls, and although I was vaguely aware that this wasn’t helping anything, I couldn’t stop. It distracted me from the tight feeling threatening to seize my lungs.
Not sure how long I would have gone on if I hadn’t heard the intrusive buzzing from my phone in my room.
My stupid, traitorous heart jumped hopefully, like it did every time I received a call, and I straightened.
Could it be him?
No, it couldn’t be him. But what if it was? Calling to say all of this was a mistake. That he was sorry. That this thing with Kensi was just a momentary lapse in judgment caused by…
Caused by what, exactly?
Me?
Had I done something wrong? Could we work through this?
“No,” I muttered to myself. I knew better. Even if Leo begged me to forgive him, I couldn’t. He wasn’t the man I thought I’d loved.
I waited for the vibrating sound to stop, then grabbed the wine and headed back to the bedroom.
But then it started again, and the name on the screen wasn’t Leo’s. It was Ashley’s.
Ashley never called this late. My eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of the screen: 1:47 a.m.
