Page 16 of Daring You

4

Astor

Present Day

When I finda neon green woman’s thong hidden in the toilet tank, I decide to call it finished.

I squeeze the wet underwear in a fit of contained rage, droplets splattering to the bathroom floor. Then, when I realize what I’m holding and where it’s been, I storm out of the bathroom, into our walk-in closet, and fling it at my fiancé’s coveted Tom Ford, or Gucci, or whatever-the-fuck male designer’s row of freshly laundered suits he’d just had delivered.

Then I wash my hands.

Crumple against the kitchen cabinets under the sink.

And weep.

My skirt’s hiked up past my thighs, my ankles are lopsided in my three-inch stilettos, and I’m all too aware of how pathetic I look, how askew I’ve made myself, all in the name of keeping up appearances.

Mike doesn’t love me.

I’m not sure when I figured it out, but it wasn’t when I discovered another woman’s lingerie in my plumbing. It was long before, maybe when I first noticed the red-tinted smudges on his shirt collars, and then the hot pink ones. These women with perfect pouts and sexy stains who were touching my fiancé in all the ways I did. They ran their fingers through the same hair. Traced the same lines of muscle on his stomach. Licked his skin and moaned, spread their legs for him, just like me.

Maybe even on the same night.

It makes me wonder why I’ve stayed so long, but I can think of myriad of reasons that kept me in this apartment well after the excuses dried up. Mike is my law school sweetheart. We connect in all the right ways. Mentally, financially, physically. We’re terrific as co-counselors, amazing as opponents, and awesome in bed. He challenges my arguments and craves my legs. He eats my terrible cooking and edits my appeal briefs with a salient eye. He cares about my career, wants me to succeed, and supports all my late nights and pre-dawn mornings, all while I do the same for him. We’re a team. We’re partners.

We’re perfect where it counts.

So why does he cheat on me? Why aren’t I enough?

These thoughts. These errant, driven, asshole insecurities won’t get out of my head as I’m curled up in our kitchen, wondering why it took me so long to realize Mike and I don’t work in the most essential way.

I don’t need love. I gave that up a long time ago. What I need is loyalty, and Mike burying evidence all throughout our apartment while this underwear-free woman scampers out of our home before I jangle keys into our lock is…is…

He thinks I’m stupid.

Mike Ascott believes I’m dumb enough to let him to get away with this shit long after we’re married.

I look up when I hear the elevator doors open in the hallway. Steel myself when I recognize the footsteps headed toward our front door.

Mike can’t see me like this.

Sniffing hard through my nose, I fix my heels, run my hands down my hair, and stand, shimmying all the wrinkles out of my skirt.

Mike opens the door. “Hi, babe.”

He smiles in that sleight-of-hand way he has, quick and deadly and completely missing my swollen eyes, the wetness on my cheeks. “Missed you at the meeting.”

“What meeting?” I spin toward the sink, needing a few more deep, private breaths to collect myself.

There’s the barest catch to his step as he sets his briefcase down, then loosens his tie. “The partners called us into the conference room. I thought you were on the email.”

The steel I’m looking for travels to my stare, and I face him. “I should’ve been.”

“Maybe you were and the email was buried in your inbox. You should check.”

“What did the partners have to say?” I ask instead.

Mike clears his throat. “Well, they’re looking at their top junior associates.”

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