Chapter 30
CHAPTER
THIRTY
JULIE
Devon is already waiting on the front porch when I pull up, which surprises me.
She's never ready early for anything. She's wearing black leggings and an oversized cream sweater that probably costs as much as my shop brings in per hour. Her blonde hair falls in perfect waves over her shoulders. She’s literally glowing, like she has not a care in the world and this is the happiest day ever.
She also looks like she stepped out of a Pinterest board called effortlessly beautiful princess vibes.
She slides into the passenger seat without a word, bringing with her a cloud of expensive vanilla gourmand perfume. I hate it because it's too much. The word that comes to mind is cloying. I wouldn’t have said it was possible, but she’s ruining vanilla for me.
"Thanks for the ride," she says, but her tone suggests she's doing me a favor by letting me drive her.
I’d rather be having a fucking root canal than spending time with this girl. Asher doesn't see it, but now more than ever, I do. She's no good. "Not a problem."
I pull out of the driveway and head toward the therapist's office across town. The silence in the car is awkward. I can feel her beside me, a presence that takes up more space than her small frame should allow.
I try to focus on the road, but I'm very aware of every movement she makes. The way she pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. The way she sighs, a sound that seems designed to communicate her displeasure with existing in the same space as me. Sorry, princess. I fucking exist.
"How are you feeling about the appointment?" I ask, because that's what a supportive person would ask.
She doesn't look up from her phone. "Fine."
I stop a little too hard at the red light, mostly because I feel like it. "That's good. Therapy can be really helpful."
"Mm hmm."
I grip the steering wheel tighter. This girl has a master's degree in dismissiveness.
Every response is designed to shut down conversation while still maintaining plausible deniability.
If I complained to Asher, he'd say she's just quiet, just processing, just grieving.
Truth bomb. I'm not sure anymore that she was ever grieving.
I don't think she's capable of real emotion.
"So," she says, still not looking at me. "About the other night. Your anniversary dinner.”
“What about it?”
She's twisting her hair around and around her finger. "I know Asher felt really bad about having to leave."
The light turns green. I press the gas pedal harder than necessary. "These things happen," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
"I told him he didn't have to come home. I told him I would be fine." She finally looks at me, her blue eyes wide and innocent. "But he insisted. He's just so protective of me, you know? He wants to be there for me anytime I need him."
She's just stabbed me with an invisible knife and now she's turning it by telling me that Asher chose to leave. That she gave him permission to stay, but he came home anyway. "He cares about you a lot," I manage.
"He does. So much." She smiles. "He's the only family I have."
Oh yay, a second knife wound. A reminder that she's the orphan, the victim, the one who deserves sympathy and support. And I'm just the wife who gets in the way.
She goes back to her phone, her plump lips curled in what might be satisfaction or might be annoyance. It's hard to tell with her.
So much about Devon exists in a space of maybe, maybe not.
She never says anything truly cruel. There’s no gotcha moment. She never does anything you could point to and everyone would agree that it was pure shit. A jury would never convict because there’s never quite enough evidence to nail her.
"Your shop keeps you really busy," she says after a moment.
"Yes. I love it."
Real talk? Without that shop, this last nine months would’ve broken me like a bad habit.
"That's sweet." She pauses, still scrolling. "It must be nice to have something to focus on. You know, instead of just sitting around thinking about things."
I want to slam on the brakes. I want to pull over and demand to know what the fuck that's supposed to mean.
But I don't. Because I think that's what she wants.
She wants me to react, to lose my composure, to give her ammunition to take back to Asher.
Look how unstable she is. Look how she yelled at me for no reason when I was just making conversation.
"It is nice," I say instead. "Having a purpose is important. I never wanted to just sit at home."
Like she does, I mean. She was too traumatized to finish her senior year in person, so she's completing her credits online. Over the course of the last nine months I've learned that Devon has zero close girlfriends, which I know now is a major red flag. She doesn't have a lot of friends, period.
When I questioned this she told me she was too mature for high school people. I wouldn't say maturity was one of her problems. Not at all.
"I've been thinking about getting a job, actually," she says. "Something to pass the time, you know?"
"That's nice."
"Yeah. Asher said maybe I could work at your shop." She says it casually, like she's commenting on the weather. "You know, help out. Learn the business."
No. Absolutely fucking not. But I can't say that. I can't say that the thought of having her in my space, in the one place that's mine, makes me want to slap the shit out of her. "It's a pretty small operation” I say carefully.
"Oh, I know. That's what makes it so cute."
Cute. There's that word again. The one she uses to make everything I do sound small and insignificant and vaguely pathetic. I know I need to say something but I’m so annoyed right now, I can’t.
She laughs. “God, Julie. Your face. Of course I wouldn’t work at your shop. As if I would ever work retail. When Asher suggested he realized his mistake and started laughing before the sentence was even fully out of his mouth.”
Fucking bitch. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye and laugh. “Thank God for that. I would have hated to fire you. You don’t strike me as a worker.”
Take that, princess. I can tell by the way she stiffens that she got the insult.
Good. Tit for tat. I should do this more often.
Stop letting her use me as a goddamn punching bag.
Thankfully we're getting close to the therapist's office now.
Just a few more minutes and I can drop her off and get some time to myself.
"You know," Devon says, and there's something different in her voice now. Something sharper. "I really appreciate you doing this. Taking me to therapy. I know it's probably not how you wanted to spend your afternoon."
"It's fine."
"I just want you to know that I see how hard this is for you. Having me in your house."
This is a trap. I can feel it. "You've been through a lot," I say. "We want to support you."
"That's really sweet." She smiles. But it looks fake as hell. "Asher swears you understand. He says you're really good at putting other people first."
That's me. A mix between a martyr and an idiot.
I have to bite back a snappy retort. Luckily we've arrived.
I pull into the parking lot of the therapist's office, a professional building that must cost a fortune to rent space in because the hourly rate for this therapist is eight hundred dollars. The price makes me a little nauseous.
"Well," I say. "Here we are."
"Here we are," she echoes. But she doesn't move to get out of the car. She's just sitting there, twisting her hair, looking at me with those wide blue eyes.
"Aren't you going to like, walk me in?"
Why the hell is she asking for this? I want to say no but the path of least resistance dictates that I just get it over with. So she doesn't narc me out to my husband later and say I was rude. "Sure."
We get out of the car and walk toward the building. Devon walks slightly ahead of me, her blonde hair swinging with each step. I follow, feeling like I'm in her shadow, like some fucking ogre or something.
The office is on the second floor. We take the stairs—Devon's choice, she says exercise is important and gives me a side eye, like my size eight ass is worrisome.
I bite my tongue as I trail behind her, watching her small hips sway as she walks.
Everything about her is a show. Even the way she climbs stairs.
The waiting room is exactly what you'd expect at a concierge therapist's office.
High end upholstered chairs, deep, plush carpeting, the faint scent of lemon and cedar, and deep gray walls decorated with what are clearly original works of art.
An impeccably coiffed woman is seated behind a desk to the left of the door. She smiles at Devon.
"Hi, Devon. Dr. Reeves will be ready for you both in just a few minutes. Would you like me to make you anything to drink?"
You. Both.
My stomach drops. "What?" I say.
The receptionist looks confused. "Would you like something to drink?"
"No, you said—" I turn to Devon. "What did she mean by 'you both'?"
Devon's expression is perfectly innocent. "I'm not sure."
But she is sure. I can see it in the smug look she gives me before she looks away. Before I can press her, the door to the inner office opens. A woman steps out, and I have to actively stop myself from staring.
Dr. Reeves is young. She's stunning, like she just walked out of a copy of Vogue. Her long dark hair is pulled back in a high, sleek ponytail, her face is obscenely perfect, definitely with the help of plastic surgery, and the red lipstick she’s wearing looks like it was applied with surgical precision.
She's wearing a slim black pencil skirt and a crisp white silk shirt styled like menswear, unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive but without being unprofessional. The red Christian Louboutin heels that match her lipstick so perfectly it has to be intentional.
Her jewelry catches the light as she moves. Gargantuan diamonds at her ears, a Cartier Love bracelet on one wrist. Her nails are a perfect French manicure, her fingers long and elegant. I feel less than, and hate that I do.
"Devon," she says warmly, and her voice is smooth and cultured. "Come on in, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The familiarity in her tone makes my skin prickle. Then she looks at me, and her expression shifts. Cooler. Assessing. She takes me in from head to toe in seconds. "So you’re Julie," she says. "It was so nice of you to arrange to be here today.”
"I'm just dropping Devon off," I say.
“No, Julie.” Dr. Reeves tilts her head, her smile never wavering. "We're doing a family session today. I think it will be really beneficial for everyone."
My heart starts pounding. "I didn't—no one told me?—"
"It's fine," Devon says quickly, touching my arm. "Dr. Reeves just thought it would be good for us to all talk together. You know, as a family."
I look at Devon. The smug look has been tucked away. Now she's doing that thing where she makes her eyes go wide and vulnerable, like fucking Bambi.
"Come on in," Dr. Reeves says, gesturing toward the office. "We can all chat.”
I follow them through the door, my legs moving on autopilot, and that's when I see him.
And my entire being seizes up. Asher is sitting in one of four leather chairs arranged in a semicircle.
He's holding an espresso cup, and when he sees me, he sets it down on the small table beside him. His expression is supposed to be apologetic, but he’s failing.
"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
"I wanted to be here," he says, standing up.
"You said you had a meeting."
"I moved it."
The lie is so obvious it's almost insulting. The truth comes at me like a cannonball. His car wasn't in the parking lot. Which means he parked somewhere else so I wouldn't see it. So I wouldn't know. This was planned. All of it. A fucking ambush.
And I was a lamb to the goddamn slaughter.