"I'll make it up to you," he says. "We'll do this another night. Somewhere even nicer.”
There is no making this up. I was stupid for believing this night would go any other way. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over this last year it’s that he’s unreliable at best. And something is very, very wrong in my marriage. Like stick a fork in it, it’s done kind of wrong.
"Go," I say. "Just go."
"Don’t be like this, Jules."
Like I’m the problem. "Go."
He hesitates for one more second, and I think maybe he'll sit back down. Maybe he'll choose me. Choose us. Choose our marriage. Instead, he sighs. “You need to stop making it seem like this is some weird competition between you and the teenage orphan who needs support. It's sick.”
Before I can snap back, he leans down and kisses the top of my head, a gesture so patronizing I want to scream. "You’ll get over it when you’re ready. I’d stay and argue, but I have to go. Have a good one," he says before he turns on his heel and leaves.
I gape at his retreating back for several seconds before I remember to school my expression since I’m in public.Have a good one?
I sit there in a kind of stunned silence for what feels like an eternity. Around me, couples laugh and talk and feed each other bites of tiramisu. The place screams romance. I stand out like a sore thumb. I finish my glass of champagne. Consider drinking the rest of the bottle, but quickly discount that because I need to drive. I’m angry and let down, but not reckless.
The waiter comes back. "Would you like to order?"
"No," I say. "Just the check, please."
He doesn't ask where my husband went. He's too professional for that. But I see the pity in his eyes and it makes me want to slide under the table and hide. He may have lost a kitchen bet about whether my date would show, but he’s definitely going back there with a story about how awkward things were at this table.
I pay for the champagne and the strawberries we didn't eat. I leave a two hundred percent tip because it's not the waiter's fault my husband doesn’t prioritize our marriage. I get in my car and sit there in the parking lot, watching couples walk into the restaurant, holding hands, laughing, believing in anniversaries and promises and forever.
I think about vows and marriage, about priorities. I think about how I'm wearing Asher's favorite perfume, and he didn't even notice. Then I drive home. The home that used to be ours but now belongs to Devon's drama and Asher's guilt and my growing understanding that this is not fixable.
The house is dark when I pull up. Asher's car is in the driveway. I can see a light on in the guest room—Devon's room. I should go inside and talk to Asher. Instead, I start the car and drive to my sister Jamie's.
She opens the door in her pajamas, takes one look at my face, and pulls me inside. "What did he do?"
Seeing her is a trigger. A reminder of why I’ve stayed this long. I open my mouth to answer and tell her what happened. Instead, I start crying. Not pretty crying. Ugly crying. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep down. I’m fucking exhausted.
"He bailed on dinner," I say. "He left me there. On our anniversary. He left me for her."
“Jesus Christ,” she gasps. “What is wrong with him?”
I’m crying too hard to answer. She wraps her arms around me and I sob into her shoulder, ruining her pajama top with mascara and tears. What a fucking anniversary.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry."
My sister has nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who’s sorry here. Because my decision to marry Asher Stevens is about to ruin us.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
JULIE
I never went home.I slept at Jamie’s place, the two of us side by side in her big comfy bed watching Murder She Wrote reruns. Now I’m standing in the back of our store wearing my sister's clothes and working on a batch of moisturizing body oil spray.
The double boiler is working, steam rising as the shea butter and coconut oil melt together into something smooth and golden. I add the sweet almond oil, watching the mixture blend, and the scent fills the small production room at the back of our shop. It's normally comforting. Today, it's not. Nothing is. Everything I'm doing is by rote and the disconnect I'm feeling isn't right. But this is my life now.
The sound of the back door opening causes me to tense. Shit. Next come the footsteps. Not my sister Jamie's light, quick steps. Heavier. Slower. It's a man, which only leaves one option. And I don't want to see him right now. But if I've learned nothing else about life lately it's that what you want is often not what you get.
My husband clears his throat as he enters the room, and I turn to face him. Asher stands in the doorway between the shopfloor and my production room, one hand braced against the frame. He's wearing his work clothes: a black suit with a white shirt and an emerald green tie, his hair still slightly damp.
"Julie," he says.
