I’ve binged enough TV shows to think I knew what I was doing, keeping a distance and driving casually.
The second I saw the club’s familiar exterior, a wave of nausea rolledthrough me. It’d been a year since I’d been here, and there isn’t one thing about my life now that even remotely resembles my life then.
Because of John, everything changed.
I kept my head low and navigated to the back of the parking lot.
Which is where I am now.
A voice in my brain is shouting:What are you doing here?!But the insane part of my brain shushes that voice and puts duct tape over its mouth.
I have a clear view of the front entrance. It’s a ways away from the numerous expensive cars parked closer to the door. Without looking away, I slowly reach over and snag the cheese puffs.
Last year, I wore a simple but elegant navy blue gown, and I showed up early to tend to last-minute details.
Little did I know there was somethingelseon my husband’s agenda that I had apparently overlooked.
Blond hair. Silver sequins. Cleavage for days.
She was tossed into my world like a grenade with the pin pulled, and I’m still digging out shrapnel from the edges of my life.
I shake away the memory as John’s new black Porsche drives into the lot.
The nausea I was feeling is immediately replaced with anger. The hurt kind of anger that feels rage-y but helpless.
Of coursehe was still invited to the gala. He’s the one with the money. And the family name. I’m the outsider, no matter how many hours I dedicated to this charity or how many years I dedicated to him.
I look down and realize I’m death-gripping the bag of Cheetos, and my hand is covered with the orange dust. I unclench my fist and am gluttonously (and depressingly) pleased that there are still a few good ones left in the bag.
One by one I stick them in my mouth, still watching as the lights of John’s car turn off. I reach for the fountain Dr Pepper in the drink holder and take a drink.
And that’s when I see him—tall, broad, simultaneously attractive and nauseating in a well-fitting tuxedo. The one I picked out. The one I had dry-cleaned after every event just like this over the years.
Who’s handling his dry cleaning now?
He closes the door and pulls out his phone, types something on it, then sticks it back in his pocket. When the passenger side door doesn’t open, I think maybe he’s come alone, but then he walks around to the other side and opens the door, and as if I’m watching a movie in slow motion, I see a pair of Jimmy Choos step out onto the pavement.
John reaches for her hand, guiding her as she stands, their bodies only inches apart like two people emerging from a secret tryst in the coatroom.
Or behind a stairwell.
John clearly spared no expense on the forest-green formal gown with a slit that practically goes up to her armpit. This year, she looks the part. Not a department store sequin in sight.
I stifle a groan, reach for the box of Swiss Rolls, and absently wonder if I could accurately throw a brick from this distance.
I also try to remember how long it had been since John opened the car door for me.
Years and years, you dummy,the struggling voice of logic whispers through the duct tape.Can we get out of here now?
Shhh,another voice says.We’re busy.
I pull open the cellophane wrapper and stick one of the cakes in my mouth. I’ll eat this whole box before the end of the night, but desperate times call for desperate chocolate.
John leans in and kisses her cheek (gag), closes the door (jerk), then places a strong hand on the small of her back (homewrecker), ushering her out of the parking lot and toward the front door.
They smile and wave at Roxie and Garrett Cartwright like they’re old friends who vacation together. They all walk through the door, a happy little foursome, and it makes me want to vomit.
But my anger is just a front. Because what really strikes me is how easily replaceable I was. It’s like I never existed at all.
