Chapter 1 #2
I adopt a warmer expression, like I’m buying this bill of goods he’s selling. “So, you opened your washing machine to her. Let her share in a full spin cycle.”
“Exactly,” he says, a bigger smile lighting up his handsome face. What a stupidly handsome face. It tricked me.
But he’s not tricking me now. I’m feeling all kinds of Law & Order. “So the dog got the undies from the clean laundry then?” I ask, innocently, leading the witness.
Jasper’s smile is so damn bright. “Exactly. I did her laundry. And her underwear must have fallen into our laundry basket at the end,” he says, letting out a laugh.
Like, can you believe the laundry room shenanigans?
Right, right. Those panties had a mind of their own just jumping into our basket.
“Then I brought it back upstairs and the dog got it.”
I breathe in deeply. I can work with his song-and-dance routine. “So you’re a Good Samaritan,” I say, affecting my best thank god my guy isn’t a cheater grin before I sling an inquisitive, “Not a fabulist?”
He blinks, scrunching his brow. “What?”
“Here’s a hint. It doesn’t mean fabulous. It comes from the word fable, and it means you’re spinning stories.”
Jasper holds up his hands, lip trembling. “I swear she just needed to do her laundry. I was doing her a solid.”
“Doing her is right,” I say.
He shakes his head, whipping it back and forth. The denial is strong in this one. “I accidentally put it away with your stuff. So then Nacho just went into your drawer and got it out. You know what he’s like. He’s totally into underwear.”
“I do know what he’s like. I know exactly what he’s like,” I say, my anger masking all my hurt. I advance toward Jasper, crossing the living room and setting my sweetheart safely down in his cuddler cup. “And I know beyond a reasonable doubt that you’re a liar. Want to know how?”
“How?” He wobbles.
Deep breath. “Nacho only eats dirty underwear.”
Jasper’s face falls. He gulps visibly, and then the great backtracking begins.
“It only happened one time. You were running a signing at the bookstore. We watched a hockey game together. She’s a hockey fan too.
It won’t happen again.” He presses his palms together in prayer.
“Please forgive me. I just love you so much.”
A sob threatens to climb up my throat. It threatens to make me believe him. That it was a one-time thing, that it was no big deal, that it was a transgression.
But that sob comes from my broken heart, not my head.
When my eyes stray to the framed tickets behind him, to his precious hockey paraphernalia, my head takes over, saying hold my beer to my dumb heart.
“I’ll consider it,” I say carefully, evenly.
“But I need a few hours alone.” I push out my lower lip, letting it quiver. “Can you do that for me, baby?”
He nods immediately, clearly ready to grovel, giving me puppy-dog eyes. “I just don’t want you to move out. I mean, we’re doing such a great job, making rent together. Life plan and all, babe.”
Our life plan did not involve your dick in another woman and her panties in my dog’s belly.
By some miracle, I don’t say that, though I completely understand every impulse every woman throughout time has ever had to hurl vases, dishes, or mugs at a cheating ex.
But I’m not going to do that. I am going to hit him where it hurts.
Just like he hurt me right in the heart—through my dog.
“I get it. I’m just going to do some yoga,” I lie.
“Absolutely, babe. Anything you say. Thank you so much for considering forgiving me. It will never happen again.” With his tail tucked between his lying legs, he leaves.
The second the door shuts, I take a deep breath, let a few tears fall, then say fuck off to my feelings.
I spend the next hour calling reinforcements, devising a plan, packing all my clothes, grabbing my laptop, and snagging my books, candles, lotions and potions.
When I’m done, I yank open my closet for a final check and spot a bag with all the stupid jerseys and pucks I bought for him.
No way does he get this now. I don’t want it, but I am not leaving this behind for him to give to Delilah the hockey fan or for him to wear.
I grab the bag, something catching in my throat.
I’m crying the whole time, wiping my tears under my glasses with countless wads of tissues.
They’re tears of hurt, and they’re tears of rage too.
I gather up all of Nacho’s toys, food, and jackets, telling my darling that we’ll be staying with my friend Aubrey for a few days. He thumps his tail as Aubrey texts that she’s pulling up.
I do one final scan of the bedroom to make sure I took everything, when I spot something white and shiny under his bedside lamp. I walk over, inspecting the black bordered card.
Ohh.
It’s the VIP tickets he won to spend an evening with the star center of the San Francisco Sea Dogs and his crosstown rival, the top defenseman of the California Avengers.
With a wicked smile, I stuff them inside my bra and take off with everything that matters to me and the one thing that matters most to him.
* * *
At Aubrey’s home that night, we devour a pint of ice cream, and half a bottle of wine—fine, it’s a whole bottle. Nacho’s tucked next to me on the couch, a little drowsy still, his snout resting on my thigh. While I stroke his soft head, Aubrey sets down the pint and her spoon decisively.
“Wallow hour is over. Let’s see who you’re going to meet while Jasper cries in the corner.”
The image of him sobbing like a big baby over lost hockey tickets is a beautiful sight, so I grab my phone, then Google the names of the two players I’ll be meeting in two weeks.
And…oh. How about that? They aren’t too shabby.
“Check them out,” I say.
Chase Weston is the golden guy center, all warm brown eyes and panty-melting smile, of the Sea Dogs.
Ryker Samuels is the dark-haired, bearded, and broody-as-sin defenseman on the Avengers.
Aubrey whistles approvingly at their pics. “They’re snacks,” she says, then gives me a naughty look. “You have to wear something ridiculously sexy and take a ton of selfies to make your ex jealous.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”