Page 6 of Shame

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That resolveto be smart and strategic lasts an hour. I don’t find anything in his belongings, no secret love letters or obvious receipts that spell out the extent of his betrayal.

The silence of the apartment is suffocating, and the size of all that I don’t know about my husband’s affair looms large, filling the space.

Pressing against my skin.

You’re an idiot. A sucker. A fool.

I look at my phone, at the screenshots I texted myself before I confronted Luke.

A terrible need drives me to keep looking at them. Afraid of what I will find. Desperate to find it all the same.

And then I go to my computer. I put her phone number into the search engine and get nothing, but when I go to Facebook and paste it there, voila.

A profile image.

A name.

Caitlyn Jobst. A junior lawyer. Younger than me by the looks of it, because of course she is.

She’s beautiful. Lush and sexy, pouring out of dresses on the arms of handsome men. Every picture is almost exactly the same, like she knows the right angle to always look at the camera. Pettily I wonder if she hates being photographed from the other side, if she has a wonky smile or a double chin, but that’s not likely.

I can see why he was drawn to her. She looks just like the women in the porn he likes. Big boobs.

Have you ever thought about getting implants?I think of all the times his hands have covered my breasts and squeezed. Barely a handful, one bigger than the other. I’d always brush off the question, because no, seriously, never, but was that his way of saying he wanted me bigger?

Did he want me to look like her? Dark hair, flashing eyes, perfect makeup? Plumped up and pushed up in every way possible? Soft skin, no dry elbows, no scattering of prickle rash down the back of her arms?

No doughy middle, no pear-shaped hips with too much thigh and not enough length through the calves.

Of course he fucked her.

Of course he wanted that.

I went from being strategic and looking for information to arm myself to just hurting myself for no good fucking reason.

The tears fall again, fast and furious, and I shove the computer away. I want to crawl into a hole and die.

4

Luke

Cold,slick fear rolls through me as I force myself onto the elevator at my office. There’s a solid chance Grace won’t be home when I return, or she’ll have changed the locks.

My hands shake as I push the buttons, my head swimming with details I usually catalogue with cold efficiency. I need to buy myself some time. I need to repair the damage I’ve done and make some urgent changes.

When I arrive at our firm’s floor, I nod curtly to the receptionist, then head straight to my office. My assistant Cameron isn’t at his desk, which is for the best. I don’t want my messages first thing. I hear his voice filtering from down the hall, coming closer, so I quickly open my door and duck inside, then lock the door and close the blinds.

Fuck.

I slam my eyelids shut and press my back against the door.

This is embarrassing.

You own the fucking firm, you dipshit. Just tell them you’re taking a week off. You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone.

Except I do.

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