The Pumpkin Spice Latte He Bought For Her (The Betrayed Wife’s Upgrade #8)

1. The Latte

Chapter One

THE LATTE

The first pumpkin spice latte of the season appears on a Tuesday morning when it’s already ninety-one degrees outside.

“Absolutely not,” I say when Bree turns her computer monitor toward me and shows me the coffee shop’s announcement.

The photo features whipped cream, caramel drizzle, cinnamon, and three tiny decorative pumpkins arranged around the cup like it’s October instead of the last week of August.

Bree presses one hand dramatically to her chest. “Melanie, fall is not a temperature. It’s a state of mind.”

“Your state of mind is going to get pumpkin-spiced heatstroke,” I say.

She laughs, and I smile despite myself because Bree is easy to like when she isn’t trying to convince the rest of us that sweaters and boots make sense in August.

She’s twenty-three, pretty in an effortless way that probably takes more effort than I realize, with long blond hair, glossy lips, and a bright energy that makes our sleepy little accounting office seem more lively than it actually is.

“I’m getting one at lunch,” she announces. “First one of the season.”

“Enjoy.”

“You don’t like pumpkin spice?”

“Not really.”

Her expression is so scandalized that I laugh.

“I like fall,” I clarify. “I like apple cider and cinnamon, cold mornings, and actual pumpkins. I just don’t need pumpkin flavor in my coffee.”

She shakes her head as if this is a character flaw, and I smile and return to the aging report on my screen.

I don’t think about pumpkin spice again until nearly noon, when the front door opens, and my husband walks in holding a small cardboard coffee carrier.

Owen doesn’t bring me coffee at work. He comes into the office because our building is on his delivery route, but those visits are usually quick: he scans packages, makes Bree sign for them, leans over my desk for a peck on the lips if nobody is talking to me, and leaves.

Sometimes he reminds me that we’re out of milk or asks if I want him to pick up dinner, but he hasn’t arrived carrying a surprise for me in longer than I can remember.

“You’re my favorite person,” I say, happiness jumping through me and a big smile spreading across my face.

He glances toward me, looking briefly confused, and then reaches into the drink carrier. “For the pumpkin-spice addict,” he says.

Bree spins around, and when Owen holds out the iced drink for her, her whole face lights up. “You remembered!”

Something catches beneath my ribs as Owen hands her the cup. His smile is as big as mine felt a moment ago. “Oat milk,” he says. “Extra cold foam.”

Bree takes the cup in both hands. “You’re the best.”

She smiles up at him, delighted, and for a second the two of them seem enclosed in a private little circle of familiarity even though they’re only ten feet from my desk.

I tell myself not to be ridiculous. Then I hear my own voice say, lightly, “Where’s mine?”

Owen looks over. “Yours?”

“My coffee.”

He glances at the empty carrier as though a missing cup might suddenly materialize if he checks twice. “I didn’t get you one.”

“I gathered that.”

Bree’s smile fades at the edges, but Owen only laughs. “I didn’t think you liked pumpkin spice,” he says.

“I don’t.”

“Well, there you go.” There’s no malice in his voice, and that somehow makes it worse.

Objectively, he hasn’t done anything terrible. He didn’t forget my birthday while buying another woman diamonds. He bought our receptionist a seasonal coffee because she had apparently mentioned wanting one.

Still, I hear myself say, “I do like coffee.”

There’s a pause, then Owen shrugs. “The shop was beside my last stop. Bree said the other day that she wanted one as soon as they came back, so I grabbed it.”

“Oh.”

No big deal. That’s what I’m supposed to understand. It was convenient. He happened to remember. He happened to stop. He happened to know she wanted oat milk and extra cold foam.

Bree takes a sip and closes her eyes. “Perfect.”

Owen looks pleased, and I realize I know that look.

He used to wear it when he brought me something he knew I’d like.

A blueberry muffin from the bakery near his old route or a magazine because an actor I liked was on the cover.

Once, years ago, a ridiculous ceramic owl from a roadside gift shop because I’d laughed at it through the window.

The owl still sits on the bookshelf in our living room, but I can’t remember the last time he brought me something for no reason at all.

Owen walks over, bends, and brushes his mouth against my cheek. “See you tonight.” His lips barely touch my skin, then he’s gone.

For a moment, neither Bree nor I say anything. She looks down at her drink and then back at me. “I’m sorry.”

I turn back to my computer. “For what?”

“I don’t know. That got a little weird.”

I touch a column on my spreadsheet, as if I’m already immersed in my work and don’t want to lose my place. “It’s a latte, Bree.”

She gives me a tentative smile, and I return it because I don’t want to be ridiculous over a six-dollar drink.

By lunch, I’ve mostly convinced myself I don’t care, and that it didn’t mean anything.

In the afternoon, I’m carrying a stack of payment reports to the shredding room downstairs when the elevator opens with Mark Benson inside.

Mark owns Benson Commercial Design, which occupies most of the third floor, and I know him in the way people know one another after sharing elevators, a moody vending machine, and a building whose heating and cooling system can apparently only choose between tropical greenhouse and meat locker.

He glances toward the ceramic pumpkin our building manager has placed on the little table opposite the elevator. “It’s August.”

“I’ve already filed a formal complaint,” I say.

“Good. What did management say?”

“They said seasonal joy can’t be constrained by arbitrary calendar rules.”

Mark nods slowly. “That sounds like Gary.”

“It was.”

Mark nods gravely toward the pumpkin. “Then we’re doomed.”

I laugh as he reaches for the top half of my stack of papers. “I’ve got them,” I say.

“I believe you.”

“Then why are you stealing them?”

“Because I’m going downstairs and you’re apparently taking the same elevator,” he says.

“That’s suspiciously logical.”

“I have my moments.” He presses the button for the first floor, then says, “I might start taking bets on when Gary will put up the Christmas tree. You want in?”

“I’ll need to think about that. Maybe I’ll split my money between Labor Day or the day after.”

He’s still chuckling as he deposits my papers next to the shredder downstairs. Before he turns to go, he gives me a small salute.

Later, during my drive home, I successfully classify the latte under Things I’m Not Going to Care About.

Half an hour later, I’m in my kitchen chopping peppers while Owen stands with the refrigerator door open.

“Where’s the hot sauce?”

“Door.”

He opens it wider. “Oh.” He finds the bottle, then glances at me. “You moved it.”

“It’s been in that same spot for four years.”

He laughs, crosses the kitchen, and kisses the top of my head. “Good thing I married you.”

The words are affectionate, and normally I’d lean into him or swat his hip with the dish towel. Instead, I think about oat milk and extra cold foam.

We eat chicken fajitas in front of the television because neither of us feels like sitting at the table. Halfway through an episode I’m barely watching, I ask, “How did you know Bree wanted oat milk?”

Owen looks over. “What?”

“Her latte.”

For a second he seems not to remember what I mean, and then he gives a short laugh. “You’re still thinking about that?”

“No.”

“Sounds like you are.”

“I asked a question.”

“She told me,” he says with a shrug.

“When?”

“I don’t know. Last week, maybe.”

“You guys talk that much?”

His expression changes, annoyance creeping in. “She’s the one who signs for deliveries, Mel.”

“I know.”

“What is this?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I just didn’t realize you and Bree were chatting about coffee orders.”

He puts his plate down. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“You’re jealous because I bought the receptionist a five-dollar coffee?”

“It was probably more like six.”

He stares at me. “That wasn’t my point.”

“I know.” I exhale and rub my forehead. “I don’t even know what my point is.”

“That’s because there isn’t one.” The words sting, although I’m not sure why. He seems to realize that, because his expression softens. “Melanie, it was a latte.”

“I know.”

“You don’t even like pumpkin spice.”

“I know that too.”

“So what exactly did I do wrong?”

I could tell him that he remembered what she wanted. That he made a special stop. That he knew how she took her drink and looked pleased when she smiled.

I could tell him he hasn’t done anything like that for me in so long that I forgot I missed it, but each individual sentence sounds small and needy, so I shake my head. “Nothing.”

He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “There’s my reasonable wife.”

The words rub me the wrong way, but I let that go too.

Later, in bed, Owen falls asleep almost immediately while I lie beside him listening to the ceiling fan.

I don’t particularly want a pumpkin spice latte, and that’s what makes the whole thing so difficult to explain, even to myself.

I like iced vanilla coffee with a little cream, and Owen knows that, or at least he used to.

What bothers me isn’t that another woman got the drink I wanted. It’s that she got the thought.

I try to remember the last time my husband was somewhere without me, noticed something ordinary, and thought, Melanie would like that. I can’t.

And somewhere in the darkness, a pumpkin-spiced cup of coffee begins to feel more important than it has any right to be.