Never Ever You

Chapter 7

I skid to a halt at the front of Last One Standing ... or what used to be Last One Standing.

As I take in the sight of the charred front, my jaw drops. The gorgeous red brick is no longer. The large window at the front is cracked and streaked with smoke. Yellow caution tape and orange construction barricades surround the front. A sign plastered on the entrance reads CLOSED FOR REPAIRS . The pub must have caught on fire at some point last night ... but how?

Last night it was completely fine. What in the world could have happened in the last fifteen hours to have made it look this way?

I start to wonder if Milo had something to do with it, but even thinking that makes my stomach churn. I can’t stand Milo and how much of a jerk he is, but he’s not an arsonist.

People walk around me, muttering annoyed comments as I stand in the middle of the sidewalk and gawk. I finally come to my senses and step off to the side so I’m not in the way anymore, still confused and dazed. It must have been an accident in the kitchen or a freak electrical problem that caused this.

“Riley?”

The sound of Tristan speaking my name jolts me out of my stupor. I look over at him standing a half dozen feet from me. Relief washes over me at the sight of him. I start to smile, but then I freeze as I take him in.

Something about his appearance is off—different. For a moment I just look at him, trying to decipher what exactly it is. He’s wearing a suit I’ve seen a million times before—that light-gray one with a crisp white shirt. But something about it—something about him—is different. I can feel it, the hesitation inside me, seeping through my insides like a slow-moving wave.

I zero in on his hair. It’s not the way it was last night. Last night it was longer, on the shaggy side of short, his strawberry-blond waves curling around his ears. But now it looks like he’s had a fresh haircut. Did he just have it cut? Is that what he was off doing while Milo somehow got me in my car while I was sleeping and drove me out of London? Tristan didn’t mention anything about a haircut appointment yesterday ...

He blinks at me, and I notice something else. The strange look in his eyes. Like he’s stunned and confused to see me. It takes a few seconds, but I finally process it. He’s gazing at me like it’s been forever since he’s seen me—like he’s shocked to be looking at me right now.

“Riley, what are you doing here?” he asks.

I push aside the uncertainty and start to walk toward him. I’m just disoriented from this mind-fuck prank Milo somehow managed to pull on us. And he’s probably looking at me all mystified because I look like I dropped acid and got dressed in the dark.

I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight. “I’ve been looking for you all morning,” I say in a shaky whisper.

“You have?” He sounds so shocked.

I wait for him to say more, to say that he’s been looking for me, too, to explain what’s going on, to call me “Miss America.” But he doesn’t. He’s quiet.

I lean back and look at him, my hands gripping his shoulders. “Of course I’ve been looking for you. Look, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m pretty sure Milo has pulled some sort of prank on us, and when I woke up today and you weren’t there, I was out of my mind with panic and ...”

I trail off when I realize that Tristan’s arms are stiff and at his sides. And that’s when I realize: he didn’t hug me back. He hasn’t returned my touch, my embrace.

I drop my hands to my sides and step back. “I know I must look like a basket case right now.”

The corner of his mouth hooks up in a hesitant smile. “It’s okay. It’s just ... honestly, I’m a bit surprised to see you here.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah.” He chuckles, like he’s flustered. He rubs the back of his neck, and I pause. He does that only when he’s nervous. Uneasy. Uncomfortable.

He darts his eyes to the street and stares for a few seconds. I follow his gaze and see that he’s glancing at his Land Rover, which is parked at the end of the block.

He clears his throat as he looks back at me, his eyes shy. “Riley, the last thing in the world I expected was to see you here. Especially after what happened at the pub.”

We both look at the burned-out brick front.

“What happened?” I ask.

He frowns at me. And then he laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”

I shake my head. “Tristan, I’m serious. I have no idea what is going on, or why the pub burned down.”

His thick brows crash together as he studies me. Like he’s trying to decide whether he believes me.

That confused, dizzy feeling hits, and I close my eyes, my head aching as I try to figure out what the hell is going on ...

But then he grabs my hand in his, and the unsteady feeling stops instantly. I open my eyes, relieved to see that familiar tender look in his soft blue gaze.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re here now.”

I smile at him. “I’m here now,” I repeat.

He glances around us, almost like he’s trying to see if anyone is looking at us. His gaze lands on his car once more for a long moment before he turns back to me. He leans his face closer to mine. “There’s so much to talk about, so much to explain,” he says, his voice low and soft. “I’ve got something I need to do at the moment, but can you meet me in an hour? At the Landmark hotel in Hampstead?”

“Of course I’ll meet you there.” I say it without even thinking. Because that’s exactly what I want—I want to be with my husband, and I want to sort out this nightmare mess once and for all. I just don’t know why he wants to go to a random hotel in Hampstead to do it. He hates Hampstead.

He leans in and kisses my cheek before letting go of my hand and walking off toward his car. He climbs in the driver’s seat and speeds off. As I watch him drive away from me, that ease I felt fades away. I glance down at my disheveled state. I need to change. I want to look good the next time I see Tristan.

I run back home, willing my sore legs and lungs to keep up with the panicked urgency swirling inside me. If I make it home fast enough, I can grab a quick shower and swipe on a bit of makeup before I meet Tristan.

I make it to the front door, unlock it, and stumble into the entryway. When I walk into the living room and look up, my jaw falls open. There’s Milo, standing in front of the couch, staring at me.

“You’re home.”

The way the words fall from his mouth, breathy and laced with relief, stuns me silent. I’m still as he walks over to me and pulls me into his arms.

“I was so worried about you,” he mumbles into my hair. I’m about to shove him away, but his embrace tightens, causing me to still. He’s shaking.

“I was about to call you,” he says. “But I ... I didn’t want to push you. I know you need your space today of all days.”

Today of all days.

“What are you talking . . . ?”

And then he lowers his face to mine and tries to kiss me. For a split second my body goes rigid and unmoving, but then instinct takes over. I plant my hand on his face and shove him away from me so hard, he falls into the wall behind him. I’m shaking and panting, I’m so freaked out.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap at Milo.

He pushes himself up off the wall, a dazed frown on his face as he looks at me. He shakes his head. “Sorry, I guess I thought you’d be okay with that after everything we ...”

He trails off as his gaze focuses on me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, today of all days.”

Today of all days. Why does he keep saying that?

I’m about to ask him when the faint sound of a bell pulls my attention to the darkened hallway leading to the bedroom. A fluffy white ragdoll cat trots into the living room, right up to Milo’s socked feet.

He looks down at the cat with a slight smile on his face, bends down, and scoops the cat up. “Hey, sleepy girl.”

He scratches under the cat’s chin. She’s wearing a collar with a tiny gold bell on it. A loud purr echoes in the room.

“Looks like Coco missed us.”

“Us?” I sputter.

Milo either doesn’t hear me or ignores my confusion, because he doesn’t say a word. He walks over to the kitchen and sets the cat on the floor next to a silver dish. When he reaches for a treat bag on the counter, that’s when I notice the stark difference in the decor.

Gone is the trio of small black-and-white framed photos of landscapes on the far kitchen wall that have been there ever since I moved in with Tristan. Instead, there hangs a bright-red sign.

K EEP C ALM AND D RINK T EA

I slow-blink while staring at the massive white letters and the illustration of a steaming teacup at the top of the sign.

Seeing that change in the decor is like a starting pistol for my observation skills. That’s when I notice every single thing that’s different in this space. Instead of the cream-hued sofa, there’s a massive plush sectional with four fuzzy gray throw pillows on it. Like someone skinned a Muppet and made pillows out of it. The stone fireplace, which used to be painted stark white, is covered in dark Mediterranean-style tile. And the once-bare top of the fireplace is now cluttered with knickknacks. There’s a vase of flowers on one end, a tall candle and a Himalayan salt lamp on the other. A haphazard stack of books takes up the middle.

A blue-and-white chevron-pattern rug covers the entire living room floor, obscuring the dark hardwood Tristan loves so much. And there’s a karaoke machine next to the coffee table.

I must have been so exhausted, so throttled by adrenaline, when I walked in here this morning that I didn’t even notice the change in decor.

“You changed everything,” I mutter. “How did you do all this?” I shuffle my feet, pivoting slightly, and notice the neon-pink H ELLO , B ABES sign on the wall next to the dining table. Christ, that’s tacky as hell. Tristan is gonna be so pissed when he sees it.

Milo doesn’t answer. The only sound I hear is the soft pad of his footsteps. I look up right as he pulls me into another hug. My body tenses as I prep to push him away again, but then I look past his shoulder and my gaze catches on a glass vase of baby-pink peonies sitting in the middle of the table. My favorite flower. We never have flowers in the house. Tristan is allergic.

“Peonies?” I murmur in disbelief.

“I figured this day would be a little triggering. I thought the flowers would help,” he says softly before letting out a weak laugh. “I guess that was a pretty terrible idea, huh?”

A quiet moment passes. He huffs out a breath. “I just thought that since this was your wedding anniversary, and given how things ended ...”

Ended?

I lean away from Milo, but his hold on me remains. He cups my shoulders with his hands, his burnt-umber stare unblinking and focused and concerned all at once as he looks at me. Sunlight from the nearby window illuminates him from head to toe, and that’s when I notice just how smooth and even the skin on the left side of his face is—not a trace of discoloration or bruising or swelling from where Tristan punched him last night.

“I thought taking you out of the city today, being away from all the reminders you’re constantly surrounded by, would be a good idea. I was going to surprise you,” he says. “I was wrong. Clearly it was too much. I’m sorry.”

A dizzy spell hits and I start to wobble. I open my mouth to say something, anything, to gain some clarity about this impossible situation, but I can’t. I’m thrown completely off-kilter right now—I’ve been launched into a stratosphere of confusion. If this is all a joke, if this is a performance he’s putting on, he deserves an Oscar. Because he seems so sincere and honest, like he truly believes every single thing he’s saying to me. I’ve never, ever seen him like this. He’s normally joking and taking the piss out of whatever friends and relatives are in his vicinity. Not like this—not sweet and caring and concerned and gentle.

Witnessing this sudden contrast feels akin to being swirled around in a stand mixer. The harder I try and think about it, to try and make sense of this, the more disoriented I feel.

I finally manage to step out of his embrace. I hold up both hands at him so he doesn’t try to hug or touch me again. “Milo. I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest.”

“You can ask me anything.”

“How did you pull this off?” I gesture at the decor, the furniture, at Coco the cat, who’s now lying in a sunbeam near the dining table. “How is it that I’m here with you and not Tristan?”

His shoulders fall forward. A sad chuckle falls from his lips as he stares at the floor. When he looks back at me, there’s an edge of amusement to his smile despite his pained expression. He shrugs. “I’ve asked myself that question a million times. I still don’t know. I guess I got lucky.”

I grit my teeth so hard, my temples ache. Whatever Method acting he’s committed to in order to pull off this prank has gone too far. I’m done trying to reason with him. I’m done trying to figure it out. Now all I want is to get the hell away from Milo and go back to Tristan.

I spot my car keys lying on the coffee table. Fuming and frustrated, I grab them and dart out of the house. I start pressing the unlock button as I wave my arm around, hoping the car is parked close enough to pick up the signal. I hear a faint beeping noise around the corner. I run over and see my white Audi parked there. I hop in the driver’s seat and speed away.

A half hour later I’m stuck in stop-and-go traffic right on the edge of Hampstead. I huff out a breath and look in my rearview mirror to check the cars behind me. I fixate on my raccoon eyes. My grand plans for freshening up before seeing Tristan obviously didn’t work out because of Milo’s unexpected appearance in my home.

I dig through my purse for a face wipe and some makeup. I spend the next few minutes tidying up my face while inching forward in the traffic toward a roundabout. I may be dressed like a slob, but at least my face looks better. I’ve leaned over and am setting aside my purse on the passenger seat when I see a flash of black in the corner of my eye. It’s Tristan’s black Land Rover speeding into the lane ahead of me. He enters the roundabout and leaves it through the third exit.

I know he said to meet at the Landmark hotel, but curiosity and desperation take hold. I’m tired of being away from him. I need to know where he’s going.

I enter the roundabout and exit the way he did. I sit up straighter to keep an eye on his Land Rover, which is a few cars ahead. It’s a solid ten minutes of me tailing him before the cars between us disappear. We pass the hotel he mentioned meeting me at. He slows his car along a narrow street in the heart of Hampstead as I follow behind him. Well, this is a surprise. Tristan loathes coming to this neighborhood. Every time we’ve met a friend or family member for a drink or a meal here, he’s always called it a haven for annoying hipsters and artist types. I wonder what work errand he’s running here.

I tear my gaze away from his car in front of me and glance at the row of multicolored brick buildings lining this block. He turns left at a converted church at the corner, which houses a thrift store and gastropub, as far as I can tell, then slows to a halt in front of a white-brick house that stands two stories tall.

There’s only room along the street for him to park, so I ease to a stop about a block from him, grateful there are no cars coming along this quiet road at the moment. I contemplate pulling up to him and double-parking right next to his car so I can get his attention, but I stop myself. He doesn’t even know I’m following him. That might freak him out. So I stay back and wait for him to get out of the car. I’ll roll down my window and holler at him. He’s taking a while to get out of his car, and it’s long enough that one of the cars near me drives off, leaving a spot open for me to park. I pull my car along the curb and shut it off, hop out, then jog in his direction.

I’m a half block away when he finally climbs out of his car and walks up to the wrought iron gate that lines the small front lawn of this mystery house. I rack my brain for any memory of this place but come up empty. Nothing about this neighborhood or this house is familiar. I’m certain I’ve never been here.

I’m about to call out to him, but I stay quiet as he says hello to someone ahead of him. I look over to see who it is, but with the way he’s standing, he’s blocking my view of the person he’s talking to.

“Little man, did you miss me?” he says in a singsong voice.

I stop walking and watch Tristan as he closes the gate behind him and walks over to a blanket on the lawn in front of the house. I crane my neck to get a view of the person Tristan’s talking to, but I still can’t see from where I am.

Just then Tristan steps to the side, and I see someone sitting on the blanket, holding a baby. I can’t see their face, though, because of the way they’re holding the baby up toward Tristan. Tristan leans down and scoops up the baby. The baby laughs as Tristan sways back and forth while smiling and coddling him. He looks a few months shy of a year old. I stand there and stare, completely blown away at my husband cuddling this baby I’ve never seen before. He looks so ... comfortable holding him. Never in the three years that we’ve been together have I seen him handle a baby with such ease and confidence. Every time a relative or friend has brought a baby around him, he’s been pleasant and smiled at the little one, but he has never asked to hold them. And whenever anyone has insisted that he hold their baby, Tristan has been stiff and nervous.

“I’m scared I’ll drop them,” he’s joked before quickly handing them back to their parents.

But as I watch Tristan coo at and tickle this baby in his arms, there’s zero hesitation, zero discomfort. It’s like he’s done this a million times before.

How in the world did that change overnight too?

I squint to get a better look at the baby. He must be the child of a friend or relative ... but I know all the kids of our friends and family. This baby isn’t one of them.

And then I notice his hair color: strawberry blond. And his eyes. Blue. The same hair and eye color as Tristan. This must be one of his cousins’ kids. Why have I never seen him before?

I glance back down at the person sitting on the blanket in the grass to see if I recognize them, but they’re gone. I was so entranced at watching Tristan with this baby that I didn’t even notice that person walk off.

After a minute, Tristan heads through the front door of the house, closing it behind him. I hurry to follow him, halting just in front of the wrought iron gate.

I start to step forward but stop myself when I see movement through the large window off to the side of the front door. There’s Tristan standing in the kitchen, still holding the baby, smiling and chatting with someone I can’t see.

A woman appears and stands in front of him so that her back is to me. She’s short with a slight build; her blonde hair is in a messy bun. When he beams down at her, there’s a look in his eyes that has every muscle inside me tense. I know that look—it’s equal parts adoring and hungry. He looks at me like that.

When the woman pivots slightly and I see her face, my heart ceases beating.

Carly. His ex.

He leans forward and they kiss. I nearly choke. My jaw is on the ground, and I no longer know how to blink or breathe.

I watch as she reaches over and takes the baby from Tristan’s arms. Tristan smiles as he tickles that chunky belly. Even though there’s glass and brick separating us, I swear I hear the melodic sound of his laugh. He laughs, the baby laughs, Carly laughs. My eyes start to burn, but I can’t blink. All I can do is stare.

I don’t know how long I stand there, but it’s long enough to take stock of the baby’s physical features. I see now that he’s the spitting image of Tristan. That cleft chin. That straight Roman nose. That’s Tristan as a baby.

That’s Tristan and Carly’s baby.

My legs start to shake. The acid in my stomach churns.

Carly and the baby have disappeared to some other part of their house, this Hampstead house in this neighborhood that Tristan loathes. I’m still standing in their front yard like a stalker, still staring at them through their window, trying and failing to make sense of what the hell I’ve just seen.

This can’t be happening. But it is. I’m standing here, watching it with my own eyes ...

Tristan is with his ex—he has a baby with his ex.

Which means he’s been cheating on me. He fathered a baby with someone else behind my back.

Just then Tristan turns his head, meeting my gaze. It takes a second for the recognition to appear in his expression, to register that I’m standing in front of this house, watching him and his ex and their baby.

His smile drops. There’s a flash of panic in his eyes. A hard swallow moves down his throat before he darts for the front door.

I’m still standing in that same spot on the sidewalk, still paralyzed with disbelief as he walks up to me. He moves to touch my arm but seems to think better of it and keeps his hand at his side.

“Riley, you shouldn’t be here.”

I blink, my eyes burning with hot tears. They tumble down my cheeks. “Tristan. That’s your ex ... and your son ...” My voice breaks.

I expect an explanation, a desperate apology for cheating on me, for him to grovel. What I don’t expect is for him to frown and let out an exasperated sigh. Like he’s annoyed with me.

“This again?” he mutters.

He rolls his eyes and looks behind him in the direction of the house. Then he grabs me by the arm and walks me down the block.

“I told you to meet me at the hotel. Not here, Riley. Never here. You should know that after everything that’s happened.”

I yank my arm out of his hold and stop walking. “What the fuck does that even mean?” I snap.

Tristan’s worried gaze darts around us. He aims a placating smile to an elderly couple walking by before frowning at me. “What are you talking about? Riley, why did you even come to see me at my pub if you were going to do this? If you were going to get all huffy and upset like you always do?”

My jaw drops. He can’t be serious. He’s been cheating on me with his ex—he got her freaking pregnant behind my back, and he’s upset with me ?

“You fucking cheated on me, Tristan. With your ex. You had a baby with your ex behind my back.”

I wipe my tear- and snot-soaked face with the sleeve of my shirt. The whole time Tristan looks annoyed at me. No, “pissed” is a better word. Anger overtakes the pain coursing through me. The fucking nerve of him to be mad and irritated at me right now, in this moment, when I discover that he’s betrayed my trust in the worst, most heartbreaking way.

Closing his eyes, he pinches the bridge of his nose and is quiet for a few seconds. He looks at me. “Riley, I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing at here. Maybe you think it’s funny to run me through the wringer like this again, but I don’t. Not after what went down a year ago. I don’t have time for this anymore.”

A year ago.

My mouth hangs open. I’m so confused.

“What game?” I sputter.

“Is this your idea of a sick joke? We had this exact same conversation a year ago,” he mutters, his tone tired and annoyed.

“A year ago? A year ago we got married ...”

He stares at me, the look in his gaze cold. He huffs out an annoyed breath.

“Tristan, I had no idea about any of this until today,” I say.

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Very funny, Riley. I think we both know exactly what happened last year.”

A year ago . . . last year . . .

Tristan sounds like Milo now.

My brain feels like soup as I struggle to put this all together.

“What’s with all this ‘last year,’ ‘it was a year ago’ bullshit?” I finally blurt, my tone a hair under a shout. “Last night, everything was fine between us. Last night, we had our first wedding anniversary, you surprised me with my car, you punched Milo at Last One Standing in front of all your family and ...”

I trail off as I take in the expression on Tristan’s face. He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

He frowns, and then he shakes his head and takes a step back. “You know, when you showed up at my pub this morning, I thought it was a sign. You were over what went down between the two of us last year. And the way you were so happy to see me ... the way you hugged me ... I thought maybe, just maybe, you wanted to get together again for old times’ sake.”

He shakes his head at me, like he’s disappointed.

“Whatever this is? I don’t have time for it.” He glares at me. “And if you’re suddenly having trouble remembering what exactly happened between us last year, go ask Milo.”

I’m off-balance, dizzy, barely able to stay upright as Tristan turns around and walks back into the house. This can’t be happening ...

But I saw it happen. I saw Tristan with his ex. I saw him kiss her. I saw him happily greet her and their child like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He thinks Milo and I are together ...

But how? How the fuck is any of this happening? How did I fall asleep last night and wake up to my entire world flipped upside down ...?

A couple of teenage girls in school uniforms walk by me, chattering quickly in pitchy voices.

“So glad the Northern line is finally running again.”

“Ugh, I know! I was so sick of taking the bus.”

My brain sticks on the mention of the Northern line. I spin around and stop them as they walk past.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but did you say the Northern line is up and running again?” For the millionth time today, I’m confused. That tube line was down for repairs starting this winter. It’s not meant to be up and running until next year.

They look at me, clearly surprised that I stopped them.

One of them glances at me and says, “Uh, yeah, miss. It’s running.”

“But that’s not supposed to be up and running until 2025 ...”

The two of them exchange a look that’s something between confused and freaked out. “Um, it’s 2025, miss,” the other girl says. She holds up her phone and shows me the date. There it is, clear as crystal. Again.

February 14, 2025.

They walk off. And that’s when the realization starts to set in, when the dread embeds like a needle in the pit of my stomach.

The date on my phone isn’t wrong. It can’t be if that girl’s phone has the same date too.

Which means this life I’m currently living isn’t some elaborate prank that Milo has pulled off. Somehow, someway, this nightmare is real.