Chapter 26
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
JULIE
I'm wearing the dress. You know the one.
Every woman has one. The little black number that makes you feel like you could stop traffic or start wars or at least make your husband forget his own name for a few blessed seconds.
It's Valentino and I love it. The neckline dips just low enough to be interesting.
The hem stops just high enough to be dangerous.
My hair is pinned up the way Asher likes it, that deliberately messy updo that took fifteen minutes and ten bobby pins to look like I just twisted it up without thinking.
I'm wearing a pair of Louboutins that are sexy as hell and I'm also wearing his favorite perfume. I’m even wearing my engagement ring, though I normally don’t because it’s not me and it makes me uncomfortable.
But this is me, trying to be the ideal wife. Probably for the last time.
The table is perfect. White tablecloth without a single imperfection.
Candlelight doing that thing where it makes everything look soft and romantic.
There's a bottle of expensive champagne sweating in an ice bucket, waiting to be poured.
A small plate of chocolate-covered strawberries sits between the empty champagne flutes.
The entire scene screams class and romance.
Too bad I’m alone.
It’s a beautiful restaurant. Upscale Italian, the kind of place where the waiters have accents that may or may not be real and the pasta costs more than my weekly grocery spend.
Soft lighting. Intimate booths. The kind of place where marriage proposals happen, where anniversaries are celebrated, where people come to remember why they fell in love in the first place.
I check my phone. Again. He's twenty-three minutes late. I wish I was surprised. I'm not. At all. Asher says he loves me. I used to believe that. Things have changed. And now the things that used to say love read like something else entirely. Like maybe I attached value to things I shouldn't have.
History shows a different map. A truer one.
A series of stops and starts, paths taken, words said and things done that all add up to show a fuller narrative than what I took as truth back then.
And since Devon moved in and everything went sideways, I see things differently. The map has a different shape.
At first, I understood. A big, out of the blue loss like that is the kind of trauma that breaks people. I understood why she was stand-offish and why my husband felt obligated to be there for her, even though she was a virtual stranger to us both.
But now is not then. And this is not okay. He’s chosen his stepsister over me, time and time again. Anytime I say anything along those lines, Asher goes on the attack. The things he says are hateful and vile.
I doubt myself a lot now, and I hate it because it takes me straight back to childhood, watching my father walk out on my mother, my sister Jamie, and me without a backward glance. He wanted a family, but not one that included us.
I used to scroll through his wife's social media to see the photos of my father with my half-siblings, Michael junior and Morgan. We’ve never met. I have no idea if they even know my sister and I exist.
He’s still married to their mom, which means he gave that family the version of himself he couldn't be bothered to give Jamie and me. And I understand the message clearly: we were the problem. We were the family he needed to escape from. We were his regret.
It infuriates me that after completing years of therapy and finally finding a way to deal with that, I'm right back to suspecting that I'm someone's regret. That nothing about me makes my husband happy.
The waiter approaches for the third time, his smile professionally sympathetic. "Would you like to order an appetizer while you wait?"
"No, thank you. He'll be here soon."
The waiter nods like he believes me. I don’t think he does, though.
Hell, I don't believe me. I take a sip of water and try not to think about how I spent two hours getting ready for this. How I closed the shop early, leaving Jamie to handle the last-minute orders. Tonight was supposed to be special. Our second anniversary. We promised we’d always remember to celebrate the milestones.
Seems like only one of us is keeping that promise right now. I'm about to text him that I'm leaving when the door opens and there he is.
He's wearing the dark blue suit that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. His blonde hair is perfectly mussed, as always. I notice a few women and several men at tables around me have stopped what they’re doing to watch him. His eyes scan the restaurant and when they land on me, I wait.
He smiles and strides through the room to me. "Sorry I'm late, got held up at work," he says, sliding into the seat across from me. "You look great. The dress is perfect."
"You like it?"
"Like it? I'm going to have a hard time making it through dinner without dragging you out of here."
I laugh, but the sound comes out wrong—forced, brittle at the edges. He won't touch me. I'd bet my engagement ring on it.
The waiter materializes with perfect timing. I bet he’s surprised that my husband is actually here. If there was a wager back in the kitchen that I was being stood up, he lost.
"Good evening, sir. Would you like to start with the champagne?"
"Absolutely," Asher says. He's still looking at me.
The waiter pops the cork with a flourish and pours two glasses. The bubbles rise like tiny prayers. We lift our glasses and Asher's eyes are warm. For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to hope. He made it to dinner, and that’s something.
"To us," he says.
"To us."
We drink. The champagne is perfect—crisp and cold and expensive. His phone rings. It's not a normal ring. It's the specific ringtone he set for Devon. I watch his face change. He’s gone in a blink, his eyes are no longer warm.
"Hold on," he says, not looking at me. "I need to?—"
"Don't."
The word comes out sharper than I intended, but I’m sick of sugar coating. He looks surprised by the force of my statement.
"It's our anniversary," I say, trying to keep my voice level. "Whatever it is, it can wait."
"Julie…"
The phone keeps ringing. That goddamn tone. I want to throw the phone across the room. "Please," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How desperate. "Just for dinner. One fucking night. Please."
He looks torn. Actually torn. Like this is a difficult decision. Like choosing between his wife on our anniversary and his stepsister's latest crisis is somehow a fucking dilemma.
The ringing stops. I exhale. "Thank you," I say.
He nods, but he's not looking at me anymore. His jaw is clenched and he’s looking at his phone, face down on the table between us like a live grenade.
The waiter comes back. "Are you ready to order?"
"No. Give us a few more minutes," Asher snaps.
Great. He’s treating the waiter like an asshole.
I’m not surprised when the poor man nods and backs away like he’s hoping our table will dissolve while he’s gone.
We need to move on from the phone. "So, how was your day?
" I ask, because that's what you do. You make conversation. You pretend everything is normal.
Asher gives me an exasperated look. "I run one of the biggest cyber companies in the world, so busy. Yours?"
Oh yay, he’s shifted into prick mode. This night just keeps getting better. "Good. We got an order from a high end boutique in New York City. Jamie's excited."
"Oh, yeah, right, that's nice. Sounds fun."
He's not listening. It’s obvious. He's somewhere else in his head.
So much for the reset. The phone rings again.
This time he doesn't hesitate. He picks it up, looks at the screen, and I see it—the decision being made in real time.
I watch my husband choose. "Be just a moment," he says, standing up.
"Asher—"
But he's already walking away, phone pressed to his ear, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone he used to reserve for me. And now I’m alone.
Again. I can see him through the window.
He's outside on the sidewalk, pacing. His free hand is running through his hair.
He looks worried. Focused. Present in a way he hasn't been present with me in months.
The waiter approaches. "Is everything all right?"
"Sure," I lie. "Everything's great."
I can see Asher through the window and I can see the way he’s completely absorbed in whatever Devon is saying. I can already tell that this isn’t going to end well. He comes back inside. I’m no psychic but I know what he's going to say before he says it.
"I’m going home." His tone is firm, indicating the decision is final.
"It's our anniversary."
"I get that, Julie. But the reality is it’s just a date on the calendar. There’s nothing wrong with delaying the celebration. Especially when she's really struggling. I can't just?—"
"You can't just leave her," I finish.
“Exactly.” He smiles like he’s relieved I’m seeing reason.
"But you can leave me."
The smile drops. "Jesus, Julie. Stop being a shrew and grow the fuck up,” he hisses.
A shrew. Guess it's a step up from cunt? Or maybe just below it. Wonderful. "Don’t talk to me like that. I’m allowed to feel the way I do about all of this.”
He looks at me and I see it: annoyance. With me. He's already made his choice. This conversation is mere formality and one that he’s frustrated with.
"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.