Page 14 of The Social Affair (New Hope 1)

He waits for me to exit the closet, and his eyes never leave mine as I walk across the room. I get into bed and eventually he climbs in on top of me. I swallow hard at the weight of his body on mine. He smooths my hair away from my face. “Do you love me?”

“Of course,” I tell him.

He stares into my eyes, and it’s like he can see right through me, to the depths of my soul. “I am so lucky,” he says, after a long, slow exhale. “To be going to dinner with you. To be married to you. To have you in my bed. This is what it’s all about, Josie. The sacrifice. This,” he says motioning to the small, ever-shrinking space between us. “This is what it’s all about.”

I nod and offer the most sincere smile I can muster.

He kisses the spot just between my eyes, and he’s so gentle. It kills me. “You will be the most beautiful woman there. Without a doubt. It pains me,” he says, wincing. “I will have to share you with everyone, which you know I hate doing. But when I look across the room and your eyes meet mine, I will know.”

I can see he wants me to ask. So I do. “You’ll know what?”

His lips trail lower and lower. I grip the sheets. “I will know the flush on your cheeks is because of me,” he says, and he pauses long enough to look up and smile from down below. “And that, my love, will be a gift to us both.”

I want to be angry, lying there, with his head between my legs. I want to hate him for asking me to do this here, now, after what just happened in the closet. But he doesn’t make it easy. “You are so beautiful when you give in,” he tells me as he moves inside of me.

A moan escapes my lips because he knows all the right places to touch, all the right things to say. He knows what to do to get the reaction he wants. That’s what he does. He sculpts things—people, faces, breasts, asses—he sculpts them to perfection. He’s perfected everything, even our lovemaking, down to an art, down to an exact science. That’s how he works. He’s learned how to get my body to respond every time, and without fail, it does. “Just let go, Jos—” he urges. He pushes on the edges of my instability. “You just have to let go.”

And so I do. I lie there, and I picture myself as a balloon tethered to something intangible. I watch myself come undone until I am floating free. Up, up, and away.

Chapter Eight

Izzy

I check Instalook for the hundredth time and this time there’s a new post from one-half of my favorite couple. Finally. It’s a picture of two dresses, and she wants me to choose. I like that she makes things interactive. I choose the green one but not just because it’ll look great on her. Smart people always choose green; I read that once. Plus, it would look amazing on me. I can see myself in that dress. I can feel the fabric on my skin. I close my eyes and imagine the way Grant Dunn will look at her from across the room in that dress. I imagine the way he would look at me. The way everyone would.

I stay there for a moment, letting my mind run wild. I follow Kelsey @liveyourbestlife224 on Instalook, and she says visualization is a key factor in getting what you want. I believe her; she should know—she’s practically posting in a different yoga pose on a different mountain top every other day. Not only is she flexible and fit, she makes them both look better by being high above the rest of us. Anyway, she seems good at getting what she wants. She doesn’t burn her fingertips raw making other people’s dreams come true. She doesn’t wipe countertops all day long and still break a sweat when the bills come due. Not her. She’s living her best life and mine too.

I start to feel the rage build, and I know it’s time to take a break. It takes a lot out of a person to imagine all the things they don’t have. I get up and go into the kitchen. Whiskers takes it as an invitation. He meows, rubs up on my legs and follows me around the tiny space. I don’t feed him. If I can’t have what I want, then neither can he. Cats don’t need to eat everyday, anyway. They’re natural hunters. I check the fridge. It’s pretty much empty, save for a carton of expired milk and a box of takeout that’s so old I can’t recall how long it’s been in there. I should just throw it away. But it seems like a lot of effort. And I have to save my energy. Focus on the things that matter. That’s what you do when you’re living your best life. I grab a can of Diet Coke. It’s all there is. I don’t even like Diet Coke. It was Josh’s, but he’s dead so he won’t mind.

I pop the tab, and Whiskers comes running. He jumps up on the couch next to me, and I shoo him away. He remembers that sound. “Fuck you, and your cat too,” I say into thin air. I don’t know if the dead can hear, but I hope so.

I need something to take my mind off of dead husbands, annoying cats, and empty apartments. I open Instalook again and read Josie’s comments. Most people chose the green dress. But that’s not what I’m looking for. I don’t care what they choose. I’m looking for something else. I see her and her enthusiastic responses. I see that she’s happy, abundant, living her best life. What I don’t see is where I might find her: where she’s wearing that perfect dress, with that perfect husband. This is irritating. I’m on edge. Now that I know more, but not what I want, I know too much. The dress she posted about is not only gorgeous and not at all my size, but also it came from Argentina, and the odds of me going there are pretty much slim to none.

It’s impulsive, but it comes to me. This grand idea. Within three seconds flat, I’m staring at photos of people cramming sea creatures down their throats. You can find pretty much anything on the internet. If you can imagine it, I bet you can find it. I know because there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people eating shellfish filling my screen. My head pounds, and nothing is clear. Well, one thing is clear: I have to do this. I should have been a little more brazen the last time, and I wouldn’t have lost. This time, I know better. And as @livingyourbestlife224 says: when you know better, you do better. Okay, maybe that was Maya Angelou. But still. I have to feel something. I spent all day waiting on people, whipping up their every whim (you wouldn’t believe the bullshit requests people come up with) and doing it with a smile. And what do I have to show for it? A meager, unlivable wage, and a guarantee that I get to do it all again tomorrow. I download the photos, ninety-eight of them to be exact, and then I consider my next move. I don’t have to send them. Sometimes it’s nice to know there’s a weapon to draw should you need it. What I need now is food. Creativity takes a lot out of a person. I set my laptop aside and go to the kitchen. This time I retrieve a can of tuna from the cabinet. I’m not supposed to eat it; it’s a part of Josh’s survival kit, reserved for the end of the world times, but what can I say? All of those happy people eating their seafood got to me.

Of course, Whiskers is all over it. Finally, just so I can eat my tuna and crackers in peace, I open the fridge and pour the expired milk into a bowl. “There,” I say, patting his head. I don’t think he’ll drink it. But he does.

After the tuna, I remember the bottle of champagne under the sink. Stacey gave it to me a few months ago when she went on one of those whole foods diets. Needless to say, she’s still overweight, and I still have the bottle. I don’t know why but this feels like something worth celebrating. If Grant and Josie Dunn get to have a good time, then so do I.

When I wake up in the morning, the bottle is empty, the cat has shit all over the apartment, and I’ve sent all ninety-eight very strange pictures of highly allergic people eating shellfish to Josie Dunn, posing as one of her followers, and the latter is the only reason I want to get off the couch. I have to make things right again.

Chapter Nine

Josie

The first thing I notice is how young she looks. Of course, she does. My breath catches as Tom scoots

from behind the door cautiously, and that’s when I see Winnie, her tail wagging. She’s ready to pounce. She’ll ruin the dress, I realize this, but in that moment, I’m just so surprised that I don’t immediately make a move to block her. Tom grabs the dog by the collar as his new bride looks on, adoration plastered across her face. I should be watching Winnie, but I’m not. She’s perfect, this girl. Perfect for Tom. Perfect all-around. “Grant…Josie,” Tom says, looking up, also panting, his face in full grin. “This is Mel.”

She extends her hand to me, and I take it in mine. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Her face lights up and her chest deflates. I can feel her relief through her fingertips. “It’s every bit as lovely as Tom told me it would be.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Grant offers, bringing her hand to his lips. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

She giggles. She actually fucking giggles. Like a schoolgirl. I shouldn’t be surprised; it isn’t so much a stretch.

“Come in,” Tom motions, ushering us through the foyer. “Make yourself at home.”

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