I debated turning on the lights—I was up now, my alarm was an hour away—but there was no reason to examine my shocked face in the bathroom mirror. When I was done, the sting of peppermint soap was clean and comforting in my nose. I paused with my fingertips against the chipped crystal doorknob, a relic from the 1890s.
I didn’t know what to do.
It wasn’t a choice ofifI’d confront him. It waswhen. I didn’t care about appearances the way Wells’s family did; I couldn’t be bothered to sacrifice the one life I had for the sake of maintaining the status quo.
But once I landed the first words, there would be no turning back.
I steeled myself. I’d go to work. Seethe. Plan my next steps. Call Natalie, see if I could stay with her a while. I’d figure outhow to disentangle our accounts, our mutual utility log-ins, our shared passwords. My pulse marched higher then: the wedding. I pressed my lips together to suppress a groan.
The amount of time, energy, and money we’d kicked toward the event over the last year-plus was like a part-time job. Wells (his mom) had wanted a winter wedding, so all our focus (well, mine) had been on this coming New Year’s Eve, less than six months away.
My mind splintered. I should probably consider hiring a lawyer, or at least googling if I needed one.You’ll be like Gwen Stefani after No Doubt dissolved, I imagined Natalie saying to me.Bright side: no divorce.
I turned the doorknob, resolved. Right now, I’d crawl back into bed beside the man I thought I’d grow old with, wait for my alarm, strategize or stew, and—
I smacked the bedroom light switch. The ridiculous chandelier above our bed (a converted one-bedroom brownstone, very New York) sent light sprawling in all corners of the room. “Wells, what the hell?”
“Olivia? What is it?” He bolted upright, panic trickling into his sleepy voice.
“You tell me.” I paced the foot of our bed.
He kicked the covers tangled around his legs. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
I stabbed my fingers along my collarbone. “Me? I’m great.” Instead of punching the wall, or smacking him, I raised my hands as high as I could and slammed them on the bed. Ajudge with dual gavels.
Wells stared at me.
“Why,” I said, my voice remarkably even, “would Cambrey Coyle be texting you at three in the morning, wondering if I was working, so she could come over here?”
Spots of color streaked Wells’s face. “I can expl—”
“Precisely whyis she sending you naked pictures?”
A List of Clichéd Excuses Wells Gave Me
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
I don’t know why she’d do that.
It only happened once.
I don’t know how many times it happened.
It’ll never happen again.
It didn’t mean anything to me.
I was drunk.
It hasn’t been going on that long.
I’m not in love with her.
I’ll never do it again.
As Wells proverbially rewrote the musical score toFatal Attraction, sensations ran through me in a way that was heightened and new, but not entirely unwelcome. Fury, sadness, betrayal, an ounce of something else I’d someday be able to name. But that was for another time, because after a lifetime of being a resourceful voice of reason, they all proved I was one thing. Alive.
“I’m telling you,” Wells was saying. “It meant nothing to me.”
