Chapter 2 #2
Her eyes widen. “Oh.”
Carter turns. All the color drains from his face. “Molly.”
The world narrows to that one word. My name in his mouth. My name said with irritation instead of shame.
“What happened?” I ask. My voice sounds small and distant.
Carter glances at the woman. “What do you mean?”
I stare at him. Then at his unfastened shirt. Then at the woman whose dress looks as if it has been dragged hurriedly back into place. A pressure builds in my chest, hot and suffocating.
“What happened?” I scream.
The woman flinches.
Carter’s expression hardens. “Keep your voice down.”
“You’re in my house with another woman!”
“Our house,” he corrects.
I almost laugh. Instead, a broken sound comes from my throat.
The blonde woman slips on one shoe, wobbling as she reaches for the back of the couch. “I should probably go.”
“Yes,” I say. “You should.”
Carter glares at me. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
I turn toward him so quickly that the room tilts. “Don’t talk to her like that?”
“You don’t need to be rude.”
“She’s standing in our living room half-naked!”
“Don’t call me half-naked,” the woman says.
“You aren’t wearing underwear!”
She jerks the hem of her dress lower. It barely moves.
Carter steps between us. “Molly, stop.”
I look at him. Really look at him.
His hair is messy. There’s a faint scratch on his neck and a pink lipstick stain near his collar. One side of his shirt hangs untucked.
He doesn’t look sorry. He looks annoyed that I’ve interrupted him.
“Who is she?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter.”
The woman’s mouth falls open. “Excuse me?”
“Brittany, please,” Carter mutters.
Brittany. She has a name. Of course she has a name.
She isn’t some abstract mistake. She’s a woman standing in the living room where Carter and I opened engagement presents. Her purse is on the coffee table beside the stack of wedding magazines I’ve spent months marking with sticky notes.
“How long?” I ask.
Carter exhales heavily. “Can we discuss this after Brittany leaves?”
“No. We can discuss it now.”
“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”
The words strike me so hard that I take a step back. “You didn’t tell me because you knew it was wrong.”
“No, I didn’t tell you because you overreact to everything.”
My fingernails dig into my palms. “I’m overreacting?”
“You came in here screaming.”
“You’re cheating on me!”
“There you go again.”
“Again?” My voice breaks. “What does that mean?”
He rolls his eyes. He actually rolls his eyes at me.
“It means you’re always turning things into a crisis. The car breaks down, you call me like the world is ending. You come home and see someone here, and instead of asking calmly, you start screaming.”
“I did ask what happened.”
“You screamed it.”
“Because your pants are unfastened!”
Brittany clears her throat. “Carter told me you two were basically over.”
I look at her. Her expression shifts from defensive to uncertain.
“We’re getting married next week,” I say.
She turns to Carter. “You said the wedding was off.”
“It might be if she keeps acting like this.”
My breath catches.
Brittany stares at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you suddenly care,” he says.
“I wouldn’t have come here if I knew you were still marrying her.”
“I told you it was complicated.”
“You told me she was obsessive and wouldn’t accept the breakup.”
I wait for Carter to deny it. He doesn’t.
Something inside me cracks. “Is that what you’ve been telling people?” I whisper.
He drags a hand through his hair. “I needed you to give me space.”
“We live together.”
“Exactly.”
“And we’re supposed to be married in seven days.”
“You keep saying that like I forgot.”
“It seems like you did.”
“I didn’t forget.” He buttons his shirt with quick, angry movements. “I just needed to have some fun before I’m tied down for the rest of my life.”
“Tied down?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Carter. I don’t.”
“Everyone does this before they get married.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Men do.”
I feel sick.
Brittany shoves the second foot into her shoe. “I’m leaving.”
“Good,” I say.
Carter turns on me. “Stop being a bitch.”
The room goes completely silent. I’ve never heard him call me that before. He’s called me sensitive. Needy. Dramatic. Naive. He likes to laugh while he says those things, as though they’re affectionate jokes and I’m the difficult one if I don’t find them funny.
But this isn’t a joke.
Brittany shakes her head at him. “Don’t talk to her that way.”
“This doesn’t concern you anymore.”
“Apparently, it never did.”
She walks past me, smelling of heavy perfume and alcohol. At the hallway entrance, she stops.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I don’t know whether she means it. I don’t know whether it matters.
I say nothing.
The front door opens and closes. Then I’m alone with the man I’m supposed to marry. Carter finishes buttoning his shirt.
“You embarrassed me,” he says.
I stare at him in disbelief. “I embarrassed you?”
“You didn’t need to make a scene in front of her.”
“You brought her into our house.”
“I didn’t think you’d be home.”
The admission knocks the air out of me.
“That’s your explanation?”
“I thought your car was at the shop.”
“It is.”
“You didn’t tell me Jessica was driving you.”
“I didn’t realize I needed to warn you before coming home.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t think I do.”
“If I knew you were coming home, this wouldn’t have happened here.”
I swallow against the ache in my throat. “It still would have happened.”
He shrugs. That shrug hurts more than the lipstick on his shirt. It hurts more than the pink shoes at the door or the lies he told Brittany. It tells me this isn’t the first time. Maybe not with her, but with someone. Maybe several someones.
“How many?” I ask.
“What?”
“How many women?”
He looks toward the window. “Don’t do this.”
“How many?”
“I haven’t kept count.”
The words slice through me. I grip the back of a chair because my knees no longer feel steady.
“Since we’ve been together?”
“I don’t know.”
“Since we got engaged?”
“Molly—”
“Since we moved into this house?”
“Why does it matter?”
A sob catches in my chest, but I force it down.
He walks toward me, and I back away. “Don’t touch me.”
“See? This is what I’m talking about. You’re making everything bigger than it needs to be.”
“You cheated on me.”
“I got it out of my system.”
“Before the wedding?”
“Exactly.” His expression changes, becoming almost reasonable. “It’s better that it happened now.”
“Better?”
“Would you rather I do it after we’re married?”
“I’d rather you not do it at all!”
He sighs as though I’m an exhausting child.
“You’re not being realistic.”
“I thought you loved me.”
“I do love you.”
“No, you don’t.”
His jaw hardens. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”
“A man who loves me wouldn’t do this.”
“You don’t know anything about men. You barely dated before me.”
I flinch. He knows how self-conscious I am about my lack of experience. He was my first serious boyfriend. My first adult relationship. The first man I ever trusted enough to imagine building a life with.
He knows that.
He’s using it against me.
“Maybe I didn’t know anything about you,” I say.
“You know I’m not perfect.”
“This isn’t leaving the cap off the toothpaste, Carter.”
His mouth twists. “It wouldn’t have happened if you paid more attention to me.”
There it is. The blame. I should have expected it.
“You said you understood how busy I was with the end of the school year.”
“There’s always an excuse.”
“I’m a kindergarten teacher. The children need me.”
“I need things too.”
“You could have talked to me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Every time I asked you to loosen up. Every time I suggested you wear something sexy instead of dressing like somebody’s grandmother.”
I look down at the pale blue cardigan over my dress. Suddenly, I’m aware of every button. Every inch of fabric. My sensible flat shoes and the faint smear of green marker on my wrist.
Brittany looked nothing like me. Maybe that was the point.
“I liked the way you dressed when we met,” he continues. “It was sweet. But I assumed you’d make more effort after we got engaged.”
“To become someone else?”
“To stop acting like a kindergarten teacher every second of the day.”
“I am a kindergarten teacher.”
“You know what I mean.”
I’m beginning to hate those words.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“You aren’t spontaneous. You don’t want to go out. You don’t want to try anything new. You’re always tired, and when you aren’t working, you’re talking about work.”
“So you cheated on me.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Several mistakes, apparently.”
“Fine. Several.” He spreads his hands. “But I’m still willing to marry you.”
For a moment, I honestly believe I’ve misunderstood him. “You’re willing?”
“Yes.”