Page 51 of Shame

I wish I was only angry. Sadness is a bigger emotion. Takes up more space. Lasts a hell of a lot longer.

I fill the largest mug I own, a handmade thing Luke gave me one year for Christmas that has a chip in it, but I keep because it’s my favourite—and oh, the irony is not lost on me there—and take my time adding milk and sugar.

The last thing I want is my cheating husband to pimp me out to strangers out of some sense of obligation.

The way her muscles move beneath her curves is the most erotic thing I can picture.

What the fuck is that? He has no right to describe me like that. Not anymore.

I take a steadying breath, pick up my mug, and return to the living room. He hasn’t changed positions at all.

It’s such a strange idea to consider as I sit across from him, drinking tea out of a mug he gave me, in the loft I bought us to rebuild our lives after his firm almost imploded.

But maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to test this out. If we’re going to come to an end anyway, why not rip that bandaid off sooner than later?

“You’re serious,” I repeat for what feels like the tenth time.

“What’s the saying? If you love something, set it free.”

My heart pounds in my chest. “And what if I’m not ready to start dating?”

“It’s up to you. But if you ever want a reference letter for a—”

“Shut up.” I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of tea. Think about the shape of the mug in my hand, the sounds of Luke being in my apartment again.

And I imagine everything being different.

Different men, different mugs.

22

Grace

It takesme two weeks to realize that Luke is serious about this. We both get the all clear from the health clinic, which is a relief.

I don’t like the idea of him posting that ad about me, although I keep the printout of his letter in my bedside drawer. There’s something deeply kinky about it, and I can’t put my finger on it exactly—but the only place I would consider playing with something like that is The Wheelhouse, and with both Sam and Alex connected to that space, it’s a non-starter for using it to have some side fun outside of my marriage.

Even if it is officially sanctioned by my husband.

The idea of it makes me hot and achy, but…no.

I do likethe idea, though. But in reality, I’m not that kind of woman. I’m pretty sure.

And then something happens that drags me back into the muck, into the despair and the grossness of infidelity.

I get a phone call from a woman who tracked me down through the gallery.

“You don’t know me,” the woman says, her voice breaking. “But I think we both have a problem with Caitlyn Jobst.”

My stomach drops away, like an endless dark chasm has opened up inside me. I start shaking. “Yes, I know her. Sort of. I mean—”

“My husband just left me. I think they’ve been having an affair. And you had responded to some of his pictures last month…”

I remember now. “I was drunk,” I whisper. “And drunk and Facebook don’t really work well together. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It started something…I asked him about it. He didn’t know who you were, but he got shifty when I asked him about Caitlyn.”

“She had an affair with my husband, too. I know of one other affair as well. It’s her thing.”

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