Page 69 of The Press Secretary's Passion
“Is that all for you tonight?” she asks, and I panic. Is she judging me? I have no idea, but I don’t want her to judge me, so I grab a candy bar from the shelf below the counter and hand it to her.
“And this,” I say and then grab a cherry-flavored lip balm that looks fantastic too. “And this.”
She rings up my extra items and loads them into the plastic shopping bags with my little boxes.
“That will be one hundred and twenty-seven dollars and eighty-six cents,” she says, and I feel like my eyes bug out of my head.
Yeesh those little suckers are expensive. My impulse buys at the end couldn’t have been more than $2.50 combined. I just quietly pull my wallet from my purse and slide my credit card through the card reader.
“Thank you,” I say quietly when she hands me my bags and receipt.
I climb back in my car and feel like I’m going to be sick again, but this time, I know it’s just nerves. I drive past a little Japanese restaurant I love. A little teriyaki bento box and some vegetable tempura will hit the spot. What would really hit the spot is some damn sushi, but I know from talking to Grace and Cara during Grace’s pregnancy that it’s a pretty big no-no, which is a damn bummer, because so is wine. And until I have a yes or a no, both are off the table, because I would not do anything to risk our baby.
I pull my car into the parking lot and park. I grab my purse and toss it over my shoulder as I make my way up to the front of the building. I know I promised Ryan I wouldn’t go anywhere but home, and now I’ve made two stops, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Especially if I can give him good news when he hits my place later tonight.
The place is lit up brightly, and it illuminates the windows and the people inside. I’m halfway up the sidewalk in front of the restaurant when I stop in my tracks, and my breath seizes in my lungs.
No.
It can’t be. But then again, it is. It looks like mine weren’t the only promises broken tonight, because sitting at a booth right near the entrance to the restaurant is a beautiful blonde woman. She’s gorgeous. Her hair is bright and shining like she’s in a goddamn L’Oreal commercial. She has a wide smile, and you can tell, even from here, that her eyes twinkle when she smiles.
And she’s young. Not too young, but much younger than her companion. She’s probably five or six years younger than me, putting her right at about thirty years old, and by the look of it, the years have done nothing but enhance her beauty.
But it’s not the woman at the table who makes me realize that when I thought fate had finally smiled on me, that my lucky stars had finally found me, I should have known it was all a lie. Because the man she’s smiling so brightly at is none other than Ryan Black.
And then my heart smashes into a million pieces in a way that I know it will never be able to be put back together again.
Someone jostles me from behind. “Oh, excuse me,” they say. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I am.”
Because I’m the one who’s really sorry.
They walk past me and into the restaurant. I’m not hungry anymore in a way I’m not sure I’ll ever be hungry again. I turn on my heels, get back in my car, and drive myself home.
For the first time in ages, the street in front of my house is empty instead of a news van here or there. Finally, a break in my shitty luck, because what I need is to take these stupid tests into the house and take them.
I pull my car into my garage, grab my purse and my bags, and head into the house, closing the overhead door and locking it behind me. I set my stuff on the kitchen island countertop and pull a glass down from the cupboard. I fill it with water from the sink and drink it down. I fill it up and do it again while staring out at my backyard.
I laugh at nothing in a way that’s not funny while I sip my water. Growing up, my parents hated it when I would do things like drink water from the tap. They said it was common, and we weren’t common people. Although, judging by the last email I received from my mother, she’s changed her mind about whether or not I’m common. She referred to my romance with Ryan as common and said I was just a common whore. I’m trash and nothing but a disappointment. If only she could see me now.
I set my glass in the sink. I’ll deal with it later. I continue to look out the back window, and then it dawns on me. I know how he’s getting in the house. My hide-a-key rock is sitting right off the porch. And it glows a bright blue. How dumb could I be?
I hurry to the sliding glass door and fling it open. I rush out and grab the entire fake rock and rush back inside with it in my arms. I toss it under the kitchen sink, where he will never find it, and then I make sure every door and window is locked tight.
After I’m done with that chore, I am just done—period, end of. I grab my CVS bags off the counter, carry them upstairs to my bedroom, and drop them all on the bed. I change out of my work clothes and put on my frumpy sweats. I toss my hair up on top of my head and secure it with a rubber band, and then I grab the bags of pregnancy tests and carry them into the bathroom.
I upend the bags on the big marble counter and tear the top off a box. I pull out the instructions. It all looks easy enough. Open the test, pee on the stick, and then wait three minutes. So I take each and every test, and then I line them up in neat little rows like soldiers on my bathroom counter.
Cara always says “a watched pot never boils,” so I leave the room. I pop open the new pot of lip balm and swipe some on, and then I rip into my candy bar and decide to drown my feelings in chocolate and peanuts.
I lie back on the pillows on my bed and just begin to settle in when I hear a knock on the glass door in the kitchen, which is directly downstairs from my bedroom. The open stairwell goes a long way to hearing the noises, which makes all of Ryan’s past breaking-and-enterings more miracle and magic than they already were.
I know who it is. There’s no one else who would be down there at this hour, let alone in the backyard. I want to ignore him, but I shouldn’t. I need to just get this over with like a grown up. So I make my way down the stairs and see Ryan looking like his face is made of thunder. I have no idea what he could be pissed at me about.
I unlock the door and slide it open a tiny bit, barring his entrance from my home. If I thought he was mad before, he’s certifiably pissed now.
“What the fuck?” he asks.
