Page 35 of Shame

Grace

Present day, sitting on the floor of her closet

I still havethat sketch of Luke. It’s not that great, but I framed it when we moved into our Forest Hill house, when I worked with an interior decorator to create the perfect entertaining home. She told me my art was best kept to the bedroom suite area, because it was so…extra.

Now, that extra work is all over my loft, because fuck being small.

I’m extra as hell.

But that first sketch is in a mirrored frame, designed to catch the light off the chandelier in my dressing room—one of the indulgentReal Housewives of Torontotype of things I kept when we moved. So it’s still hung over my jewelry case.

I miss that Luke. He was my favourite. Those first couple of years were…magical. I swipe away tears and take a big drink of a glass of wine that has found its way into my hand as I’ve stomped down memory lane.

I wonder if Luke ever misses those early days. That simple apartment we moved into when his parents threatened to disown him, the way we took Sam in over holidays, when he didn’t want to go home because his dad hated him.

The senior Lucas Preston hates both of his sons, because neither of them are biologically his. My understanding is that he and his wife came to a sort of understanding, and then she blew it out of the water when Sam came out looking not at all like either of his parents, and very clearly like a close family friend.

Fuck. Maybe I should have seen the infidelity train barrelling towards us years ago. When Luke went to work for the family firm, that mended their relationship…and small changes started to happen inmyrelationship that I didn’t pay enough attention to at the time.

I push to my feet and go in search of the bottle of wine I opened for a top up.

I fill it unfashionably high. It doesn’t matter, I’m drinking it fast tonight.

But the glass doesn’t chase away the weird thoughts that won’t get out of my head. The haunting, what-if thoughts. So I open my computer and open an incognito browser so I can search forherwithout leaving a trace, not that I think I’m leaving any kind of trail.

Not that it matters.

I’m just looking at publicly available information. Who posts what, who likes what…

I lose track of time, poking through her social media friends. Nobody I recognize. Nobody connected to Luke, either.

Time to pour another glass, because I’ve hit an obsessive wronged-wife treasure trove. All the men who likeherposts. I click on all of their profiles and try to figure out if they’re married.

Most are not.

Three are, and I scowl at the screen as I sip my second over-filled glass.

I pace away from the computer and order delivery. A banh mi sandwich from the place down the street. Ten minutes, they say.

I love the city.

Back to the computer, and one of those three married men has his page wide open to the internet.

And there are messages that she’s sent him that are clearly talking about private dinners in the last week. Well, she moves fast. Or maybe she has multiple lovers at once.

Maybe you’re drunk and drawing conclusions.

Maybe I don’t care.

This asshole is just like Luke. Maybe worse, because he’s doing it in public. My mouse hovers over his name.

Don’t do it, says the wiser part of my brain.

Fuck it, says my heart.Tell him off. What does it matter?

It doesn’t. The fear of God is good for him, maybe.

And before I can think better of it, I hit send on a snarky, judgement-laden message.

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