Page 116 of Ella Gets the D
Julian swallows hard, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
“What is it, Julie?”
“Me and Camila.” Come again? “A blog posted photos of our lunch at the District Bakehouse.”
“Did they write an exposé on her swallowing olives after rejection?” I shrug. “Not exactly newsworthy.” The smile playing at my lips and trying to pull one from him dies when his gaze snaps to me.
Whatever it is can’t be that bad.
Can it?
That’s what I tell myself…until I pull the phone from his fingertips and stare into hazel eyes I haven’t seen in a year. Nausea floods the adrenaline shooting through my system. Now I want to pack up my kids and run away for real.
Just when I thought my divorce wouldn’t bend me over more than it already has, irony spreads my cheeks and tells me to take a deep breath.
Camila, my husband’s mistress, is Julian’s ex.
It’s a struggle to suck in air and regain control, to push through the dizziness dotting the corners of my eyes. I’m on edge, desperately trying to cling to something—anything—to make sense of the senseless. The DMV is small, but holy shit.
Julian gently reaches for me to soothe what he must assume is my insecurity at seeing him with his ex-fiancée. If only. “Don’t give this your tears, sweetheart.” His thumbs brush away the streams falling to my cheeks.
“Camila”—I sniff—“is Charles’s mistress. Did you know?” I say the last part so low, I don’t think Julian heard it until he blinks rapidly.
Hurt slices through him in deep strokes.
The woman he once loved slept with my husband.
“Are you—” He shakes off the question. I don’t need to remind him about her descending the stairs with guilty eyes and a just-fucked glow—the latter I’ve worn often since ditching my ex for hers.
We sit in lonely silence, inches from each other but worlds apart. “I’ll never get away from this, will I?” My whisper is a shaky breath layered with the burden of pretending to be fine when I’m not.
I bury myself into Julian at his kiss to my shoulder. He drops his chin with a heavy sigh and tightens the grip around my waist. “Tell me what to do, El.” The timbre in his voice is sad but firm.
“I love you.” The words are smothered on his lips. Time sprints by in a haze until I pull us apart. “I have to go.” I’ll be okay, I always am, but I need to lick my wounds and process.
It takes a few seconds, but he scoots away. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I’ll call soon.” My smile is faint but it holds. I leave him in the back of the car with his head bowed.
Otis is already out of the car with my suitcase and a wry smile wedged between his salt-and-pepper whiskers. “Here you go, Ms. Greene.”
“Thank you, O.” He nods with a side glance to the townhouse, which makes me smile. “Want to help me with my bag?”
“Sure—yes.” Otis runs a hand over his freshly cut gray hair and smooths down his navy fitted shirt under his open gray coat. The man is giving Shaft today with his outfit and a side of bashfulness too adorable for words.
I pull out a manila folder addressed to me from the mailbox next to the front door.
Otis sniffs the scent flowing into the entryway and looks around as if the cook herself will manifest.
“Want to say hi?” Mama is a woman of many talents, but her cornbread is top tier.
“I want to”—his eyes fall to me—“but I should get Mr. Brooke home.”Someone is shy.The sheepish tone in his voice lowers. “Take care, and keep your head up, Ms. Greene. It will blow over soon enough.”
I smile. “Thank you, O. Have a good day.”
Mama grins when I enter the kitchen. “Hi, sweetie! Was that Julian?”
“Otis. He helped me with my suitcase but had to get Julian home.”
