3. Brittney
— ? —
Brittney
I’m already dressed when I see his phone on the kitchen island. Unlocked. Careless. A text from Mikayla glowing on the screen:
I think the next meeting should be more private. At my apartment. I can’t really concentrate with your wife hovering.
Hovering. In my own home. That’s what she calls me existing in a space I’m supposed to belong in.
I take a photo. Evidence. My mind goes straight to the facts: when, where, how often. If everyone’s going to keep telling me I’m imagining it, I want proof I’m not.
“We need to talk.” My voice comes out harder than I expected. “About her.”
Shawn is already pouring coffee like it’s a normal Tuesday. “About who?”
I hold up my phone. The screenshot bright on the screen.
“She wants private meetings at her apartment because I’m ‘hovering.’ In my own home. What exactly is going on, Shawn?”
His face goes cold. Not angry - worse. Patient. Like I’m a child having a tantrum he’s decided to wait out.
“First of all, you went through my phone.”
“It was unlocked on the counter.”
“Second,” he holds up a hand when I try to continue, “Mikayla and I went to high school together. She’s helping with the Milan expansion. She probably just wants to work without the conference room noise.”
“The conference room noise. Right. That’s definitely what she meant by ‘your wife hovering.’”
“But you’ve decided she’s the villain, so everything she does is suspicious.”
“She was wearing your hoodie.”
“Because she was cold. From the car.” He says it slowly, like I’m missing something obvious. “I was being hospitable.”
“Hospitable.”
“Brittney.” He sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I love you. But this jealousy thing is getting exhausting.”
Exhausting. That’s the word he uses. Like my concerns are a workout he doesn’t have energy for.
“Ask anyone - my mother, the partners - and they’ll tell you you’re making something out of nothing.”
He believes it. That’s the thing. He’s perfected the art of not seeing what he doesn’t want to see, and he’s convinced himself that makes it true.
Everyone sees it.
That lands. It always does.
Because here’s the thing: when enough people tell you you’re overreacting, you start to wonder. Even when you know - you KNOW - something is wrong. That little voice creeps in: What if they’re right? What if you’re the problem? What if you’re making everything worse by not just letting it go?
I’ve spent my whole life being told I was “too much.” Too sensitive. Too intense. Too focused on things that didn’t matter, not focused enough on things that did.
After a while, you start to believe it.
“Maybe you’re right,” I hear myself say. “Maybe I’m just-”
I stop.
My mother’s voice in my head: If you ever start a sentence with “maybe I’m just crazy,” ask yourself who benefits from you believing that.
I look at my husband. My husband who hasn’t noticed my existence in months unless I was inconvenient.
Hm. Wonder who benefits.
“No.” I straighten. “I’m not doing this. Something is wrong. I know something is wrong. And you’re either blind to it or you’re choosing not to see it.”
He picks up his coffee. Already walking away before he finishes the conversation.
“I hear you. We’ll talk about it this weekend. I promise.”
He kisses my forehead. Squeezes my shoulder. All the right gestures.
But he’s already mentally somewhere else. Already gone.
The elevator dings and Elise arrives two hours early with Mikayla and a florist who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Brittney, darling, you’re in the way of the servers.” Elise’s hands land on my shoulders, steering me sideways like I’m furniture that needs repositioning. “Why don’t you check the wine temperature? Mikayla and I will finish the table.”
Mikayla smiles. The sweet one. The dangerous one.
“It’s almost sweet how much effort you put into these things.”
Then she picks up my place card - from Shawn’s right side, where I’ve sat at every family dinner for years - and walks it to the far end of the table.
Past his parents. Past his siblings. Past everyone who matters.
“There.” She sets it down next to the florist’s assistant. “Now there’s room for the actual conversation.”
I watch it happen.
That’s the part I hate most - the watching. The knowing I should say something, do something, but my brain is still processing the audacity and my mouth hasn’t caught up yet. By the time I unfreeze, the card is already placed, the moment already over, and I’ve missed my window.
Again.
I’m so tired of always being two seconds behind.
A server - young, maybe twenty - catches my eye. For just a second, there’s something like sympathy there. Then Mikayla snaps for water and the moment passes.
I make a mental note: the servers see everything. They always do.
When Shawn comes home I pull him into the pantry and shut the door.
“She moved me. Your mother is treating me like staff and you’re letting it happen.”
The pantry is too small for years of this. His cologne hits me - broke-years cologne, alley-years cologne - and my pulse jumps despite myself.
“You still wear that disaster cologne,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
His eyes snap to mine. Something flickers there - surprise, then a ghost of a smile.
“You picked it out. Back when we had nothing. Told me it made you want to do things that would scandalize my mother.”
“I was young and stupid.”
“You were right. About the scandalizing part, at least.”
For one second - just one - we’re back there. Broke and hopeful and unable to keep our hands off each other.
Then I remember where we are. Who we’ve become.
He sees the wall go back up. His smile fades.
He sighs. The tired one. Shadows under his eyes. Tension in his shoulders.
“It’s one lunch. Sit where they put you. For me. Please.”
For a second I almost feel sorry for him - caught between mother and wife. Then I remember: keeping everyone happy means keeping me quiet.
He’s made that choice so many times it’s reflex.
“For you.”
“Yes. For me. I don’t have the energy to fight about seating arrangements when Milan closes.”
He kisses me. Quick. Sweet. Like a kiss can put out a house fire.
Maybe it really is just a lunch. Maybe I’m making everything a war.
I sit where they put me.
Which I guess is the point all along.
During lunch, Elise touches her pearls again. Casual. Possessive.
I can’t stop looking at them.
“To new partnerships that actually elevate this family.” She raises her glass. Her eyes slide over me like I’m a stain on the tablecloth. Then, quieter, almost to herself: “This family will never be caught vulnerable again.”
There’s something hard in her voice. Something old. For just a moment, I wonder what happened to her - what turned her into this.
Then she looks directly at me.
“You have that look again, Brittney. That hopeful look. Like you’re still waiting for someone to tell you that you’re allowed to be here.” She pauses. Lets the silence sharpen. “After all this time. It’s almost impressive, really. The persistence of delusion.”
Mikayla laughs. Three cousins look away.
I count the seconds. One. Two. Three.
Shawn is studying his wine glass. Jaw tight. Knuckles white around the stem.
He’s uncomfortable. I can see it.
But uncomfortable isn’t the same as brave. And silence in the face of cruelty is its own kind of answer.
Four. Five. Six.
He doesn’t speak.
“The persistence of delusion.” I hear my own voice, surprisingly steady. “That’s interesting, Elise. I was just thinking the same thing about someone who’s been trying to break up her son’s marriage for years and still hasn’t managed it.”
The table goes silent.
Elise’s smile freezes.
“Careful, dear.”
“Or what? You’ll move my place card further away?” I stand. “I’ll save you the trouble.”
I leave the table. Leave the room. Leave Shawn sitting there with his mouth open and his mother’s hand on his arm, holding him in place.
He doesn’t follow.
Of course he doesn’t.