Chapter 7
seven
Sienna texts me at two-fourteen on Saturday afternoon.
He booked the room.
I am standing at the grocery store, holding hamburger buns.
My husband is booking a hotel room while I buy food for the people who come to draft imaginary football players.
That feels appropriately stupid.
Go.
Sienna responds.
I don’t know if I can do this.
I set the buns into the cart.
You already did the hard part. This time, keep your clothes on.
She does not answer.
I continue shopping.
Chips. Salsa.
Beer. Bourbon.
Two bottles of wine Brooke likes because apparently revenge still requires hospitality.
At two twenty-seven, Grant calls.
“Hey.”
His voice is too casual.
“Hey…”
“Small problem.”
I roll my eyes. “What happened?”
“Brooke called.”
I stop beside a display of paper plates. “And?”
“Evan’s back.”
Ah, yes.
The same ex.
The same emergency.
The same lie wearing a different shirt.
“He’s in town again?” I ask.
“Apparently.”
“How unlucky.”
“She’s scared.”
“Did she call the police?” I ask.
“You know how Brooke is.”
I do.
That is becoming the problem.
“So what are you doing?”
“I’m going over there,” Grant says with a well-rehearsed sigh.
“The party starts in less than five hours.”
“I know. I’ll be back.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s Brooke.”
He says her name like loyalty.
I hear the invoice.
Eight hundred dollars.
“Go,” I say.
Grant exhales.
Relief.
“Thank you.”
“Stay as long as she needs,” I say.
“Really?”
“Of course.” I place a second bag of chips into the cart. “We take care of our friends.”
The silence on his end lasts half a second too long.
“Yeah,” he says.
He ends the call.
My phone rings again before I reach the checkout.
Brooke.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Tessa,” she says, her voice shaking.
Poor acting…
“Grant told me,” I say. “I’m so sorry. Where is Evan now?”
“Outside somewhere.”
I look through the grocery store windows at the bright afternoon. “Right now?”
“He was. He left when Grant said he was coming.”
“How convenient.”
“What?” Brooke asks.
“Nothing. Are you safe?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Think.
Brooke performs fear the way Grant performs fatherhood.
Loud enough for witnesses.
“Do you want me to come over?” I ask.
“No.”
“I can be there in ten minutes.”
“No, really. You have the party.”
“You’re more important than some dumb fantasy sports party.”
There’s a pause.
She’s nervous.
I smile.
“Tessa, no,” Brooke says. “Grant is handling it.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Brooke?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For always being there when Grant needs you.”
She laughs and then falls eerily silent.
The call ends.
I stand beside the frozen pizza and feel something inside me settle.
Not break.
Settle.
There are moments when betrayal still looks temporary.
A misunderstanding.
A terrible choice made once.
Then someone repeats it.
That is when pain becomes permission.
I check out.
By the time I reach the car, Sienna has sent three pictures.
The hotel exterior. The room number.
Grant entering the lobby in the gray suit.
I save all three.
Then she sends a screenshot of a conversation.
Grant: Here. Where are you?
Sienna: Parking.
Grant: Hurry. I told Tessa I’m helping Brooke. WORTH EVERY DOLLAR.
I stare at the sentence.
He is not talking about Sienna. He’s talking about Brooke.
I forward the screenshot to my private email.
Then I open the company account.
The payment has not been sent yet.
I wait.
Three minutes.
Five.
At two fifty-two, the notification appears.
BELLI CONSULTING - $800
Right on schedule.
My best friend lies.
My husband pays.
The company records the transaction.
It is almost elegant.
I screenshot it.
Then I messaged Sienna.
Leave.
Her reply is instant.
He hasn’t even come upstairs yet.
I don’t care.
Leave anyway.
She replies.
He’ll know something’s wrong.
I nod.
Let him wonder.
A full minute goes by.
Then…
Done.
I put my phone away and drive home.
Grant arrives at four forty.
He smells like hotel soap and frustration.
“You’re back early,” I say.
He drops his keys to the table. “Evan left.”
“And Brooke?”
“She’s okay.”
“Good.”
Grant opens the refrigerator. “You get beer?”
“Top shelf.” He pulls one out. “You seem tense.”
“Work stuff.”
“On a Saturday?”
He takes a drink. “Things don’t stop because it’s the weekend.”
Apparently neither do affairs.
“Did Sienna need something?”
The bottle stops halfway to his mouth.
I keep arranging vegetables on a tray.
“Sienna?”
“She emailed me about the Brighton files.”
His face shifts. “When?”
“Earlier.”
“What did she say?”
“That she might stop by tonight.”
Grant lowers the beer. “Why?”
“She wants to talk.”
“About what?”
“I guess we’ll find out.”
He watches me.
I place another carrot beside the dip.
“You invited her?” Grant asks.
“She works with you.”
“That doesn’t mean she belongs here.”
I look up. “But Brooke does?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Grant opens his mouth. Then closes it. “Forget it.”
“I usually do,” I whisper.
He walks away, beer in hand.
At six twenty-eight, the doorbell rings.
Reid stands on the porch holding two foil trays.
He is wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt that fit him too well to be useful.
His hair is still damp.
His forearms are bare.
For one second, I forget what I am doing.
Then he looks at my face.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He does not believe me.
He does not say that.
“What’s in the trays?” I ask.
“Pulled pork.”
“You cooked?”
“No. I intimidated it.”
I smile.
Reid steps inside.
His shoulder brushes the doorframe.
Grant is in the living room arguing with the television.
Reid looks toward the sound.
Then back at me. “Kids gone?”
“Yes,” I say. “Dropped them off a short while ago.”
“Good.”
He carries the trays into the kitchen without asking where they go.
I show him the counter.
He sets them down, removes the foil, and starts looking for serving utensils.
“You know where everything is,” I say.
“I pay attention.”
The words land so hard against my body.
Reid glances at me.
He knows.
So much.
“What do you need?”
“You already came,” I say.
“That isn’t an answer.”
I lean against the counter. “Stay close.”
“To you?” His focus is as focused as ever.
“Yes,” I say.
He nods. “Done.”
The simplicity of it nearly undoes me.
No questions.
No performance.
No promise he cannot keep.
Just done.
The front door opens.
Trevor and Marcus arrive laughing.
Brooke follows behind them in a hot pink dress.
Of course that’s her attire.
She sees Reid standing beside me.
Her smile tightens.
Then she looks at Grant.
Grant looks at her.
A glance passes between them.
Quick. Private.
Paid for.
Brooke walks into my kitchen and kisses my cheek.
“You look hot as fire,” I say.
“So do you,” she says.
A cheap, useless compliment.
“Need?”
“No,” I say, calmly.
Brooke blinks.
I smile. “Tonight, you’re a guest.”
She relaxes a little.
That is what she thinks she is.
A guest.
Not evidence.
At six fifty-nine, the doorbell rings again.
Grant freezes in the middle of opening a bottle.
Brooke turns toward the hallway.
Reid looks at me.
I set down my wine and I walk to the door.
Sienna stands on the porch wearing red.
She looks terrified.
Perfect.
I open the door wider.
“Come in,” I say.
Behind me, the entire house goes quiet.
Grant wanted a room full of people.
I give him witnesses.