Chapter 8
DES
The martinis are over-chilled, the glass rims frosted perfectly, the twist of lemon curled with surgical precision.
I’ve done everything right—except relax.
Jeremy watches me with mild amusement as I adjust the cocktail napkins again and glance at my phone again. It’s been over an hour since I called Tanner, and still…nothing.
Not a single text. Not even a “lol.”
“You always this fidgety before a drink?” Jeremy asks, propping a sockless ankle on his knee. He’s somewhere in his late twenties. He does something with computers. And he’s some version of preppy cute.
We’d been messaging on Milkman, allegedly a gay dating app that’s really a gay hookup app. Things had petered out a few weeks ago, but the stress of today compelled me to reopen the app. He messaged wut up? and that was enough for me.
Sex is nature’s mood stabilizer.
Jeremy should be exactly my type. Tall, symmetrical face, good shoes, ready to get it on. He slipped out of his clothes within fifteen minutes of arriving, claiming that he thinks better in just his underwear. My cock should be raging to get inside him, but right now, he might as well be a lamp.
“I’m not fidgety,” I lie, scrolling my messages for the fifth time in the last two minutes.
Jeremy leans back on my sofa, the one that cost more than my first car. “You’re checking your phone like you’re waiting for lab results.” He sits back up. “Wait, are you waiting for lab results? When was the last time you got tested?”
“Recently, and I’m all good on that front.”
“Me, too,” he says, not wanting to be left out.
I hand him one of the martinis. My hand brushes the screen of my phone, and I catch sight of the last message I sent.
Des: Stan wants to come over and have dinner with us and the kids.
I swallow a sip of lemon-infused vodka and try not to feel nauseous.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Jeremy asks, watching me with that slightly predatory look people get when they sense drama.
“No.” Another lie.
“Well, you’re acting like someone whose ex just posted a tell-all on TikTok.”
I press the martini glass to my temple. “It’s nothing.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. We were supposed to have a secret wedding, and then his kids would have medical coverage until he got a new job in a few weeks.
But now my entire company knows we’re married, and my boss is dead set on meeting my new “family.” If Stan finds out any of this is a lie, I can not only kiss creative director goodbye, I can kiss my job at Petty/Marsh or any future job in the ad industry goodbye.
I’d become an anecdote laughed about over happy hours for generations to come. Did you hear about that ad guy who lied about having a family so he could get a promotion?
All it would take is one of Tanner’s kids accidentally saying something they shouldn’t, or Tanner and I messing up our timeline. Fifteen years of building a career would vanish overnight.
“You seem so stressed.” Jeremy holds out my martini to my lips. “Drink your juice, Shelby.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
I refresh my messages, hoping for a reply. “I’m waiting to hear from my husband.”
Jeremy chokes on his drink. “I’m sorry. Your what?”
Fuck.
“My friend,” I stammer out.
“No. You said husband. As in husband.”
I take Jeremy’s hand, trying to get back to my suave self. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m not a homewrecker. Oh God.” He looks around my apartment. “Is this like your secret residence where you take all your side pieces so your family doesn’t find out? Do you and your coworkers own this apartment together and take turns bringing your mistresses here for illicit sex?”
I don’t know what kind of expression I’m making, but it sends him leaning forward, curious.
“It’s…complicated,” I mutter, staring down at the lemon twist floating like a smug little snake in my drink.
“So you’re not married then?”
“No!” I bite my lip. “Well, technically, I am.”
“Technically?” His mouth opens so wide I regret that I’m not going to get a blowjob from him now.
“We’re not really husbands.”
“This is so messed up.” Jeremy picks up my phone before I can stop him. “Oh my God, Tanner? You mean this husband?”
“Hey—” I reach for the phone, but he’s already reading.
He scrolls through our messages, disgust wiping across his beautiful cheekbones. “Des: Your husband demands tacos tonight. This is nonnegotiable. Tanner: Already thawing the beef, my love. Shall I pick up limes too?” Jeremy throws the phone back at me. “Nope. Doesn’t sound like a husband at all.”
I feel my face getting redder as this hole I’m unintentionally digging gets deeper. “That’s a joke between us.”
“What kind of idiot do you take me for?” Jeremy throws a martini full of very expensive vodka in my face. “I’m not wasting my 8 percent body fat and deep throating abilities where it’s not appreciated.”
Jeremy grabs his shoes and clothes and launches himself to the door, a tornado of admittedly justified anger.
“Jeremy, stop. Please! I’m sorry. This is all a big misunderstanding.”
“You can find someone else to explain it to.” He yanks open the door and marches down the hall. He jams his hand against the elevator down button. “Asshole!”
And of course, like the devil summoned by my panic, the elevator doors open and out steps Kyle.
Kyle’s eyes go from the pantless, fuming twink to me standing behind him. He’s holding a bottle of wine and a smug expression. “Well, well, well.”
I freeze. Jeremy pushes past me and Kyle, and disappears into the elevator.
Kyle watches him go, then turns to me, one eyebrow lifted like he was hoping for a scandal and just got served one on a silver platter.
“You live here, Des?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, willing the normal color to return to my face.
“My friend Hiram lives here. We rowed crew together in college. Anyway, he’s throwing a little thing tonight. Small world.”
“Too small,” I mutter.
“Who was that half-naked man leaving your apartment?”
“That was a friend of mine. He was helping me with something…and he thinks best when he’s in his underwear.”
“Don’t we all.” Kyle’s Grinch-like grin stretches up to his beady eyes.
I turn and walk back to my apartment. I can feel Kyle’s dull spirit behind me.
“Are you following me?”
“Hiram lives here.” Kyle points to the apartment two doors down from mine. I vaguely remember Hiram from when he moved into the building. He seems nice. Don’t understand why he’d willingly have Kyle as a friend. “Is this your apartment?”
Kyle steps around me and peers into my place. “I heard you had an amazing bachelor pad. Where are the little ones?”
“They’re at home,” I grumble.
“This isn’t their home, too? Typically, when you get married, you move in with your spouse and his kids. And typically, you don’t have naked guys running out of your apartment.” Kyle crosses his arms and has a grin the size of Times Square on his face. “That is, unless you’re not actually married.”
My spine stiffens. “Actually, I was about to go home.”
“Mmhmm.” Kyle smiles like he smells blood.
“I’m in the process of selling this place.”
“Right.” Kyle nods, taking it all in. “Well, enjoy your night. Hope you and the husband can sync calendars soon.”
He disappears into Hiram’s apartment, and I race into mine.
I close the door, lean against it, and sigh so hard it feels like my lungs deflate.
I stare around my spotless condo—the ambient lighting, the curated art prints, the cold, hard edges of everything—and realize that not a single thing in here feels like home right now.
A few hours later, I’m on Tanner’s front steps with two roller suitcases and a duffel bag.
The lights are on. I can hear music coming from inside, something poppy and chaotic from a kids show. I take a deep breath.
This is it.
This is what the plan demands.
If Stan wants a married man with a family, then I have to be that man. I can’t just phone it in from my luxury condo like some sleazy consultant. I have to show up. Be present. Be believable.
And, somehow, not ruin Tanner’s life in the process.
I knock.
A few seconds later, Tanner opens the door.
He’s wearing an old hoodie and jeans, and there’s a splotch of spaghetti sauce on his shoulder. I may be stepping into the middle of chaos, but for once, it feels like a chaos that might actually keep me grounded.
“Des?”
“Honey.” I sigh. “I’m home.”