Chapter 17
It's been two weeks since I got back, and I've become unnervingly good at dodging reflective surfaces. Kettle, elevator doors, even the stupid back of a spoon.
Anything that might catch the woman who did the thing—kissed a man who wasn't her husband.
Not just kissed—begged him to drive me into seeing red.
Yesterday, I let my neck breathe for the first time without concealer, but I still curl my nails into my palms so hard I might bruise them just thinking about it.
Maybe I'd want that. I don't even know who I am anymore, and it's all because of Ben.
No, I'm not blaming him, but let's be honest, he's always had that effect on me.
And the worst thing is that after he touched me, something cracked, and I don't know if I can be rewired back.
Why did I cheat on Richard? I can't explain it. I love him and care about him. He's steady, rational, infuriatingly normal. That's why I picked him, right?
And yet, every choice I've made, not only the past three, but for the whole eight years, suddenly feel like a misstep.
The morning after the kiss, I spun some fast-baked excuse about needing to get home early to Mara and Paul and vanished before Ben returned.
I took the first flight, heart so heavy the airline should've charged me for excess baggage, but before that, I sent him a coward's apology from gate B11.
His reply? Radio silence.
And I deserve it for being an asshole who plays with people's feelings.
Richard's been a ghost at home, swallowed by work, but when he shows up, it's back to our usual routine—the dinner, the how-was-your-day.
When he pries about the trip, I always dodge it because I'm not sure how much I want to burn into ashes.
He might smell that I got too close to the fire, though. He's been distant and snarky.
When he saw me glued to my screen, he asked about my work, and I vaguely mentioned the love-triangle plot. He looked at me like I should do way better with my free time. So, I lied—shocker, I know—called it "just an idea."
Truth? I'm halfway through weaponizing Tessa's undignified heart.
My editor calls it searing, says I've never written like this before. I'd take it as a compliment if I knew where her desire ends and mine begins.
Now I'm on a call with Lucy.
She's buried in preps for her exhibition, but humors my pitch about spilling to Richard, crunching something to it—probably popcorn for the suspense.
"You think Richard will be fine with that ego shatter? Girl, you're asking a shark for swimming lessons. On your period," she jokes darkly.
I roll my eyes. "He's not a monster."
"I'm all for you divorcing him, but—"
"But he should know."
"Do. Not. Tell. Him," she says, teeth sharp even over the phone.
I roll my eyes again and sigh loudly. "Alright. I won't tell him."
"Good. Anyway, thought you were done with the Da Vinci's fuckboy?"
"He's not a fuckboy," I groan, tipping my head back in my office chair. And honestly? I doubt a toy would've been better.
"I know. You're still into him," she teases while eating.
"I'm not."
"Oh my god, you're so into him, you're practically vibrating through the phone," she shrieks. "How was it after all this time?"
"Eeeh... Good."
"Good?! Come on, you're a writer." A pause. "Were there violins? Did a small Italian cherub with Ben's face descend from the heavens singing 'That's Amore'?"
She actually sings it, full blast, straight into my ear.
I groan, tempted to reach through the phone and smack her. "You're the most annoying person I've ever loved."
"I know you've replayed it more times than that Bridgerton sex scene you swear you don't rewatch," she says, smug.
"I don't—and I don't!"
Both lies, but Ben's kiss? Intrusive. It plays in my mind fifty times a day, and every grounding trick my therapist taught me is useless against him.
"Sure you don't," Lucy mocks. "So? Tongue poetry of jaw domination?"
Flash—Ben's finger gently brushing the hollow of my lip.
Flash—his mouth sucking on my skin till I cried.
I grip the handle of my chair and breathe through the spiral.
I'm not good at sharing things that matter and hate that they tend to lose their magic when they leave my mouth, but this will eat me alive if I keep it locked there.
"Hell, Lu, I always knew he wasn't going to be vanilla, but it was incredible. For once, my head shut up. I was in my... feels."
"Feels?" she cackles. A little cruel, a little fond. "Cutie."
I laugh too, nails scratching the table. "Yeah. Right. Cutie."
A breath as I clear my throat.
"It was soft and claiming at the same time, just like I'd want it. Passionate. Liberating. I felt like myself. More alive."
Her clicking stops mid-beat. "Fuck. That's straight-up addict talk, you know that, right?"
"No..." The word comes out in a horrified gasp. I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Damn it. Yeah. You're right."
"Do you want more?"
The line goes mute.
"Helloooo? You better spill baby, I've got someone very hot in here, posing for me. Naked."
"Say hi to Micah."
"Maybe it's not him?"
"Bullshit."
"Stop stalling. Do you want more?"
I watch the window in the bright hour and see his silhouette in it, walking toward me, like when he was here.
That's the worst part: how he's managed to sneak back into all the corners of my life, even the ones I thought would be forever private to him.
"What does it matter if I want more?" I snap. "We're both married. Doesn't matter what he said about his marriage. At some point, my brain's going to rewire back to sanity, right?"
"I wouldn't be so sure about that."
I flick the edge of the table with my nail so hard it hurts. Because the truth hurts.
"Yeah, whatever," I hiss. "Doesn't matter now. It's too late. As you said. I just have to stop my thoughts while I can."
Lu snorts. "Okay, but tell me, genius—how?"
"I thought about it. I'm going to suggest Richard takes the project back in Seattle." I look up and—
"Shhhit!" I slam backward into the chair hard enough to make it roll and bump the wall. My pulse trips over itself. "Richard!"
"What?" Lu sounds caught off-guard. "You okay?"
Richard's standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, summoned by name like the devil himself.
How else could he have gotten so close without a sound? And how much did he hear?
"Uh. Lu? Richard's here," I stammer.
"Shit. Shit. Did he hear you?" she whispers urgently.
"I don't know. I'll call you back."
"Don't swim with sharks," she warns, sharp as a whip, and hangs up.
Forcing a smile, I stand up with the grace of someone hiding guilt in heels, and smooth my skirt with hands that aren't very steady.
When I cross the office and lean in to kiss him, he lets me, but doesn't kiss back.
"You're home early. You never come home before five."
"Had a business lunch nearby. Thought I'd surprise you," he says, his tone far too dry for the words.
I force a smile anyway. "When did you come?"
"Just now," he says, and walks into the kitchen while I follow him.
There, on the counter, is a bouquet of my Friday roses.
Richard's been buying them for me every week since we started dating, like clockwork. One of the sweet gestures that I love about him.
Only there's no grin today, no ritual flourish, just the abandoned flowers as he makes it to the open living room.
"Thank you, darling. How was your day?" I ask, reaching for a vase and watching the side of his face that looks pissed.
He's on the sofa, flipping through the news.
"Still working with Piper," he sighs. "Miserable bastard. Sucks the life out of me."
Oh. So maybe it isn't me but his work.
I put the vase on the table and sink onto the sofa next to him, rest my chin on his shoulder and try not to think about how strange his bone feels against mine. Too angular.
"I can believe that. That guy's a monster in a suit. Can't you back off?"
"No. I'm too deep. I already invested, and he's got leverage."
"What leverage?"
He studies me, like he's considering telling me, but I know he won't. He never does. Partly because I "wouldn't understand his world," which is true, and partly because he thinks he's protecting me and real men don't unload their burdens, which isn't true at all.
"There must be something you can do."
"Leave that up to me. I'm good at carrying the world on my shoulders." He turns off the TV, blows a long breath and peels off his jacket. Then he crosses to the window where our wedding photo hangs in its gilded frame.
Me in my mermaid-lace dress, him in his black House of Bijan suit—both of us wearing that kind of smile that says we chose each other and only each other for the rest of our lives.
My throat tightens as I stare at it.
He glances at his Rolex, and a faint smile spreads across his face.
"I don't have anything for the next three hours. Let's go grab some coffee. It's been a while since we went on a proper date."
I blink, not sure how I feel about it at first—my chest is a little too aware, my stomach beyond guilty, but in the end, I give him a small, polite smile.
"Sure."
?
So, I may have not so accidentally chosen my most boring dress: grey, knitted, long skirt, sleeves down to my wrists, everything tucked away. Not the girl who had been bouncing and burning in Nevada.
Partly because Richard would be pleased since he picked this dress, approving nod and all, and partly because I don't want him lusting over me.
I know the choreography of a "first date after a long time." Coffee, small talk, shared smiles, touching hands and then suddenly pressed into the guy's mattress, sharing gasps.
I've got stuff to figure out before we get to that point.
We slide into our favorite bistro like a rhythm long paused and for a moment I almost believe in ordinary. Beef Wellington for Richard, fig and goat cheese salad for me.
Back when we were dating, this was ritual. Now... I don't even know what it is now.
At least Richard's finally smiling.