Chapter 19
A little over one year ago
I’m locked in a stall, trying not to clear my throat or breathe too loudly.
“I cannot believe she actually had the nerve to show up here.” I hear the water turn on in the women’s bathroom of the country
club.
I know that voice.
And I often learn about the pertinent gossip this way. Perks of being a fly on the wall.
“And did you see what she’s wearing? Ugh. Does she know this is a fundraiser for the children’s hospital? She looks like she’s auditioning to be a Vegas showgirl.”
That’s Roxie Cartwright. I can almost picture her face, pumped full of Botox, permanently showing the same expression.
I know exactly who she’s talking about.
The young blonde wearing a silver sequin miniskirt and matching tank top—skirt too high and top too low—had definitely made
an impression.
“What do you expect from a woman who doesn’t think twice about sleeping with a married man?” Lainey Russell, wife of my husband
John’s business partner Bill.
“But here? Of all the places—” The water comes on. “When Claire is the one who planned this whole event?”
Wait.
Wait. What?
Did she say “Claire”?
“It’s like she’s doing it on purpose.”
“Maybe she doesn’t think anyone else knows about her and John.”
My heart stops.
My stomach bottoms out.
My fingertips go numb.
What did they just say?
Are Roxie and Lainey talking about me?
My heart races at such a clip, an Olympic sprinter wouldn’t be able to catch it. My hand reflexively goes to my mouth as I
stifle a gasp.
“Shouldn’t we tell her?” Lainey says. “John’s so brazen about it. You’d think she’d at least notice, but at this point I think
she’s the only one who doesn’t know.”
“I’m not getting involved,” Roxie says, and I can hear her rip a towel out of the dispenser. “Besides, she’ll find out soon
enough.”
Seconds later, I hear the door of the bathroom open, then shut, and then I’m wrapped in the fluorescent hum of the quiet bathroom.
This . . . can’t be right.
There must be a mistake.
I gingerly undo the lock on the stall and slowly walk out, making sure there’s no one else there.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and suddenly a pit caves in my stomach.
I fear there is a fool looking back at me.
Numbly, I wash my hands and then head back out to the dining room, where the auction portion of the evening is about to begin.
But before I can get inside, something sparkly catches my eye in the corner under the stairs.
Silver sequins.
I walk toward the low whisper of quiet voices, careful not to make any noise, and then I see him. My husband—one arm pressed into the brown brick wall, the other on the hiked-up thigh of the blonde.
They’re half kissing, half talking. She’s giggling into the nape of his neck, and I can’t seem to make myself look away.
I’m frozen, my feet a pair of cinder blocks, wanting to run and hide, to hit the rewind button and pretend none of this is
happening, but I can’t move.
And then I hear a woman’s voice behind me. “Oh, Claire, there you are—” She stops short and my world shifts into slow motion.
John turns and meets my eyes. The blonde’s smile fades, but only for a second. The woman behind me puts a hand on my arm.
It’s Marcie, the other mom who helped organize this fundraiser. She must see what I see because she wraps an arm around my
shoulder and gives me a little tug as John moves out of the shadows and into the lobby area where I’m standing.
“Claire, babe, it’s not what it looks like—”
I blurt, “Not what it looks like? Not what it looks like? What does it look like, John?”
“Hey, let’s talk this out. I can explain—”
But he can’t explain away what I’ve just seen. There is no excuse, no reason, no acceptable explanation for any of it. And
we both know it.
The world as I knew it is over, and everything about my life is about to change.
Whether I want it to or not.
My pulse kicks up another notch into what I can only assume is turbo speed, and I let Marcie lead me over to the corner of
the ballroom. I’m supposed to be on the stage, starting the auction. I’m the one who is announcing each item, taking the bids,
raising thousands of dollars for the children’s hospital. A cause I care deeply about.
It suddenly doesn’t seem to matter much.
Nothing matters much.
I feel like I’m walking in a haze.
“We can find someone else to go up there,” Marcie says.
Then . . . cold clarity.
I face her, certain she’s been talking to me for a lot longer than I’ve been listening. I shake my head, grit my teeth, and
press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “No. This is my responsibility. I can do it.”
“Claire . . .”
“No. I made a commitment,” I say, voice faltering ever so slightly. “And unlike some people, that means something to me.”
I see John walk into the back of the ballroom, and behind him, the showgirl.
“How old do you think she is?” I ask out loud to nobody in particular.
Marcie follows my gaze. “Twenty-seven.”
I turn away and wince, but when I meet Marcie’s eyes, I realize—she knew about this too.
“You don’t have to go up there,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
I’m not fine.
But I grab the handheld microphone and walk up onto the stage. My legs are wobbly, and I’m thankful I wore sensible shoes. No, my simple black dress with cap sleeves and full coverage can’t compete with silver sequins and a very short skirt,
but at least I’m less likely to fall down.
At the sight of me, the room goes still. I look around the sea of faces, all poised to pledge money to a very worthy cause.
John’s coworkers and their wives are here. The other members of the school board are here. The entire teaching and administrative
staff are here.
And they’re all looking at me.
I’ve known these people most of my adult life.
Some of them since the day John started working at his father’s advertising agency.
The goal was always for him to become the CEO, and he’d done it.
Last year, when his father retired, he handed the keys of his advertising kingdom over to John.
They’d had a reception to celebrate. I’d stood by John’s side, smiling and shaking hands and making small talk like a dutiful wife.
Anything else had never crossed my mind.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I start to sweat, my breathing more shallow by the second. How long have I been standing here?
In the back, I see the blonde take a step toward John, whose eyes are fixed on me. But I know he’s not watching because he’s
worried about me—he’s watching because he’s worried I’ll make a scene.
John is very big on public perception.
I’ve always respected that he has a reputation to maintain. But in this moment, standing here in front of friends and coworkers—I
simply don’t care.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say into the microphone. “Before we begin tonight, I’d like to draw your attention to the back of
the room where my husband is standing with the woman he’s sleeping with.”
A collective gasp echoes through the room.
“Oh, don’t pretend to be surprised,” I say. “I overheard Roxie Cartwright and Lainey Russell in the bathroom and it’s pretty
obvious that this affair is one of those well-known secrets. At least it is to all of you. Apparently, I’m the only one who
had no idea.” I laugh wryly, then mutter quietly, “The wife is always the last to know.”
A low murmur makes its way around the room, and I look at the faces of the people I thought were my friends. Obviously, there
is no way they all knew about John’s affair, but I’m not thinking clearly enough to make that distinction.
John starts moving toward me. “Claire, honey, maybe put down the microphone? Let’s talk about this somewhere else? Somewhere more private?” He’s speaking to me like I’m a toddler, and it makes my blood go cold.
“Like under the stairs? Where I just caught you?”
He looks around, shrugs and smiles, visibly uncomfortable.
“I devoted twenty-three years to this man,” I say. “Twenty. Three. Gave up everything to make sure he had the life—and the wife—he wanted. And this is how things end up? Tossed aside for some discount Barbie who, by the looks of it, hasn’t even hit
puberty yet.”
“Claire!” John is standing on the floor right in front of me, wearing a look that used to mean something to me.
“Is she old enough to drink from the bar?” I say into the mic, causing a little feedback.
“Knock it off,” he says through gritted teeth.
I take a step closer to the edge of the stage, hold the mic so it’s touching my chin, and glare right back. “How long has
this been going on?”
“Claire, you’re acting like a child.”
“How. Long. John.” I say this into the microphone, and the sound of my own voice booms through the speakers.
“Come outside and we’ll talk about this.” He reaches up and tries to put a hand on my leg.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl, voice quavering.
All I see is red. Hurt and anger are now driving the car.
“I gave you everything.” Tears spring to my eyes. “Everything, John.”
John sighs. Behind him, I can see a whole table of beautifully dressed people, eyes averted like they’re witnessing something
they shouldn’t be.
And they are.
The demise of my marriage.
Behind them, I see multiple phones pointed in my direction. “You’re filming this?” I shout, throwing down the microphone, making it thump and whine loudly through the speakers. I start making my way
down the steps, not in control and not knowing what I’m doing. “Is this entertaining to you?!”
John lunges for the microphone, nodding to Mr. Burrows, the hospital rep, who meets me at the edge of the stage and puts an
arm around me to stop me from making my way into the crowd.
He turns me toward Marcie, who’s standing helplessly off to the side.
I hear John’s voice in the mic.
“Well, hey, everyone, uh . . .” He fumbles a bit. “Let’s take a brief couple minutes and then see if we can get this night
back on track, shall we?”
Back on track?
I break. The anger and hurt are too much, and I can actually feel my mind snap, and I can’t hold in the emotion.
I fold, crumpling into Mr. Burrows’s arms, sobbing.
I can’t think. I can’t see, and the world as I knew it lay in pieces at my feet.
Once the whole story is out there, I can’t take it back.
The emotions are as fresh now as they were then, and the tears on my face are proof.
Miles is now the only person I’ve ever told it to. Obviously, lots of people were there to witness this disaster, but I don’t
talk about it. Ever.
Until now, apparently.
At first, he doesn’t say anything, like he’s trying to process all the things he didn’t expect me to say. And I go quiet.
All out of words. All out of tears.
He shifts, angling his body toward me, and for seconds that feel like hours, he just looks at me. But more than that . . . he sees me. And while maybe it should be uncomfortable or unnerving, it’s not. It’s quiet. And raw. And honest.
And safe.
He reaches over and swipes his thumb across my cheek, letting his hand rest on the back of my neck, seemingly unbothered by
my show of emotion.
“You’ve never been with a man who deserved you, have you, Claire?” he says quietly.
I close my eyes and another tear escapes.
Miles wipes it away, and when I open my eyes, he says, “I’m starting to wonder if there’s anyone out there who does.”
I’m hyper-focused on the way his hand is cradling my cheek, the way his thumb moves lightly along my face, the way he’s looking
at me—not like a friend.
Then, at the perfect time, he breaks the sadness. “I mean, you play pickleball like a newborn giraffe, but hey, we can’t all
be winners.”
I laugh through the tears.
He smiles and pulls his hand back. “Can I see your phone real quick?”
I frown, knowing what he’s going to do—but I unlock it and hand it over.
He taps a few buttons, then spins the phone around and shows me.
He’s pulled up the text thread to John, and he’s added the photo that I lingered on before.
The one where I look happy.
Miles then holds up a finger—wait one second—and types out a message.
He spins the phone around to me again.
Haven’t had time to brainstorm. Probably won’t get to it. Sorry!
He moves it ever so slightly toward me, shaking it a little.
I hesitate, then reach over and tap the button to send it.
I cover my mouth to try to hide a smile, because even though it shouldn’t, sometimes being just a little bit petty feels really,
really good.
I have never, ever had feelings for someone who was “off-limits” to me. Unless you count Jimmy Ballard in the ninth grade.
He was off-limits because he was dating Noelle Fisher, the prettiest girl in school, but in typical male fashion, that didn’t
stop him from flirting with me. Maybe it was that crush on Jimmy that taught me that off-limits boys are off-limits for a
reason.
This is my written reminder to myself that Miles is off-limits.
Miles is off-limits! You hear that, Claire?!
I am not a hormonal teenager. (I am a hormonal, perimenopausal adult woman, which I’m starting to think might have some similarities,
but seriously, I know better.)
But tonight, when he said those words—“You’ve never been with a man who deserved you”—it set off this chain reaction inside
me. The kind of emotional domino effect there’s no coming back from. The kind that feels like a hangover the next morning.
And I don’t want to get all caught up in something that can never happen.
I don’t want to get caught up at all. If I’m honest, I’m not looking to be swept off my feet. I’m just looking for someone
stable.
Actually, maybe that’s not true. John was stable. Until he wasn’t. Maybe what I really want is someone who is so in love with me, the thought of cheating would never cross his mind.
Someone who maybe loves me just a little more than I love him.
Gosh, is that terrible to admit?
I deserve to be loved, right? Without the threat of betrayal.
But if I could keep that love from making me lose my mind, that would be best. Because I can’t risk everything again—and I
can’t change myself to suit a man. Not when I’m so close to figuring out who I am.
I want a partner. I want to believe real love exists. But I also want to protect my heart at all costs.
Where do all these contradictions leave me?