Page 1 of Ella Gets the D
Chapter 1
Ella
Iremember when he bought this house.Our house. That day, the glare from the sun seared the back of my neck, which struggled to crane up the ivory brick facade. Sweat dripped from my brow onto my one-year-old squirming in my arms while I chased after my three-year-old, who was determined to break an Olympic record for sprinting down the sidewalk. I was tired but couldn’t get the stupid grin pasted on my face to fade.
Six bedrooms.
Six bathrooms.
A corner lot executive home, perfect for an executive and his family.
For three years, I scrubbed every floor, washed every sheet, and prepared every meal in appreciation of a house that was mine in every sense except in name. It became routine, like the birthday parties, swim lessons, and PTA fundraisers that eat through the weekend before you turn around and restart the clock on Monday.
That’s the funny thing about routines. It’s not hard to spot something out of place.
Take these black pumps at the foot of the staircase. They’re fierce but look three sizes smaller than the size ten I wear.
And those moans ping-ponging off the walls? Not mine, either.
The likelihood that a robber—with expensive taste in shoes—waited for the perfect opportunity this Saturday morning to break in and pleasure themselves for the hell of it is slim to none.
I don’t need routine to tell me my husband is upstairs exploring someone’s insides with his unfaithful dick.
Today is April Fool’s Day, and it looks like the joke is on me.
“God, Charles!Yes.” The knock of our upholstered headboard against the wall quickens.
What the hell am I supposed to do? Run upstairs with a kitchen knife? Sneak out and pretend I don’t hear him rearranging someone else’s guts?
I just changed those sheets.
I’ve seen this scenario play out in hundreds of Lifetime movies. Wealthy husband cheats on wife. This happened to three women at my son’s elementary school this year alone.
And it looks like I’m joining the club.
“Oh! Ohh!”
He’s close. A few more pumps and—
“Arghhh!”
Jack Sparrow got his booty.
Fight or flight, Ella.
I should feel something. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal.Something. My mind registers the indiscretion—I hear it, for crying out loud—but I’m numb. My fingers wrap around the refrigerator door handle. I pull out the uncorked wine and drink straight from the bottle.
Shock.
That’s what this is. Sadness will come any minute now. Except it never does.
Huh.
Jade-green eyes I once fell in love with widen when Charles turns the corner. His steps falter. “Ella. You’re home.”
I tip the bottle at him. “Quite the perceptive one you are.”
He scans around for our kids.They’re not here to see you for the bastard you are, dear husband. It’s bad enough Jackson heard “Daddy hurting Mommy.” How do you explain the birds and the bees to a curious six-year-old, or that his father got caught pollinating another flower?
