One
Vicky
“Change of plans, Vicky. I’ll be home by ten. Why don’t you eat, take a bath, and we can…”
Alex trails off suggestively, and despite myself, I react to his words. His voice. The tone he uses.
I bite at my lip, switching my phone to my other ear, and eye my three suitcases lined up in the hallway.
“Still there?” he prompts when I don’t reply.
“Uh…” I close my eyes in a silent wince. “…sure.” Just like that, I’ve agreed.
“Great.” That one word pulls at me, low. His smooth, rounded voice, a little deeper with the promise of lust. I hate that it works its magic, even now. “Then I’ll see you in two hours.”
The line clicks dead.
I let my phone fall from my ear and sit on the staircase, the third step up, the marble hard and coldthrough my slacks. Still staring at the suitcases.
He’d promised he’d be home by seven. Our Beef Wellington lies half-cooked and abandoned in the oven, the smells no longer filling the air. I’d turned it off when he’d called to tell me it would be eight, not seven.
That was when I’d packed—which I should’ve done weeks ago.
And now ten, not eight, my suitcases ready by the door.
Neither of the times we’d spoken had he said those three little words I’d hoped I’d hear, but was secretly reconciled that I wouldn’t:Happy Birthday, Vicky.
Twenty-eight today, and he still can’t show up.
This would be a good moment to tell myself I’m not weak. Maybe to reassure myself that this time will be different. To allow, for two hours at least, hope to rekindle.
But I’m not sure I can.
And now I have to go and take a bath. Get naked. Get wet. Anticipate him.
That used to work. Damn him if it still doesn’t. Even though I fully expect him not to be here when he says he will.
It doesn’t help that I can’t remember the last time we had sex. Four weeks? Five?
In the beginning, it had been all the time. Every day, if not twice a day. In every room of this stupidly large Westchester house. Alex’s house. But the gloss had worn off fast, and his solution? To propose.
Like an idiot, I’d said yes.
I’d been in love with him, after all. Still am, damn it.
I twiddle my engagement ring on my finger, a habit I’d developed only too quickly. It’s seven months old, the shine not yet rubbed off. The stone catches the light from the chandelier, mesmerizing, and if I look close, there’ll be little rainbows. It’s an indecently large rock.
With a sigh, I push myself up, eyeing the suitcases. I can’t bring myself to unpack, not when I’ll have to just put it all back in again, two hours from now. Or worse, be caught in the midst of it when he finally comes homethreehours from now.
If at all. This late, he usually sleeps in his Manhattan apartment instead of driving back here. He probably will again; if I’m honest, I’m a little surprised he’s still talking about coming home. It’s not like he’sremembered.
Against the remote chance I’m wrong, I shove my cases in the bottom of the hall closet, manhandle his golf clubs in front, and let the coats drape over them. It might pass a cursory inspection if he’s in a rush when he comes in. I won’t hold my breath.
Then I pull his Brioni overcoat off its hanger and throw it over the top, taking a sadistic pleasure in badly treating that much cashmere.
That done, I close the closet doors, lean my head against them, and scoff. At myself.
Why the hell aren’t I just leaving?
