Page 70 of The Devil Gets His Due

And he looks good.

He looks really, really good.

I’d forgotten he had some bachelor thing for Colin tonight. Apparently, there’s tension over the fact that Mandy won’t set a date, and they’re trying to cheer Colin up. I’d like to suggest that cheering Colin up with lap dances and girls jumping out of a cake isn’t going to help the situation, but I guess I’d sound a little jealous.

“I didn’t realize you were leaving so early,” I tell him. There’s a plaintive note to my voice, one I wish wasn’t there.

He glances at the clock. “It’s seven-thirty, Keeley, and we’re meeting for dinner. It’s not that early.”

“So…are youjustgoing out to dinner?”

He’s focused on rolling up his sleeves, his watch gleaming in the light. At least he’s too cheap to buy a Rolex, so he won’t have women throwing themselves at him for his money.

Everything else, yes. But not money.

He shakes his head. “Simon did the planning, so I doubt it’ll end there.”

His shirt looks soft. If I were a girl seeing him out tonight, I’d walk straight up and run my fingers over it and ask him where he got it. He’d tell me he didn’t remember and ask if I wanted a drink, and I’d smile at him—a small reward for playing along because we’d both know I didn’t give a flying fuck where he bought that shirt.

He catches me watching him and crosses to where I’m standing. “Are you okay?” He tips my chin up as if he’s observing me for signs of illness.

“I’m fine,” I reply, batting his hand away. “But don’t think you get to bring someone home just because you’re paying the rent.”

His eyes brush over my face, searching for something before a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

He grabs his keys, hesitating.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Though I’d be better if I could just find my Tulane sweatshirt.”

“It wasn’t yours anyway.” A hint of a smile creeps onto his face again. “But yeah, it’s a real mystery, that sweatshirt’s disappearance.”

After he leaves, the apartment just seems empty. I change clothes andconsidereating my weight in junk food—Lucky Charms, washed down with Doritos and Oreos and maybe some guacamole if I need a vegetable—but I don’t do it. When this pregnancy began, it was like being held hostage by someone or something I didn’t have to listen to. Now, though, the baby matters more to me than anything I crave, so I wind up eating a boring salad, and it sucks that Graham isn’t here to pat me on the head like a child for making a good choice. I’m getting texts from friends and acquaintances about the video, but work is my concern and Graham’s really the only person I want to discuss it with. I guess there are other people I could call—Gemma would bring both guns blazing tothatfight, I’m certain—but I know it won’t be the same. She might reassure me, but she won’t be able to comfort me the way he would. No one could.

I put onBridgertonand turn it off. It’s no fun without Graham there to comment, and I wonder if it’s always going to feel lonely like this after he’s gone.

I thought I loved living alone. I thought I loved being free. Maybe it’s just what I told myself so I wouldn’t get tempted to want anything more.

I wakeon Saturday morning and scroll through the texts on my phone. Every friend has seen the video by now and it just makes me wish I’d been doing something slightly more spectacular—some kind of crazy roundhouse kick to fight off an intruder while pulling the baby out. Perhaps a John Wick-style pencil to someone’s eye.

I have no idea why this video is even athing. Would anyone want to watch a video of a guy catching a frisbee? Because that’s basically what I did, only the frisbee was covered in amniotic fluid and briefly wedged inside a vagina.

Okay, I guess Iwouldwatch a video of a guy pulling a frisbee out of a vagina.

I skim through the texts until my eyes catch on an unfamiliar number.

Hi Keeley.My name is Trevor MacNulty. I’m a producer atMindy and Mills. Hope you don’t mind but I got your number from a mutual friend. Saw your video and would love to talk to you about working together. Please give me a call as soon as possible.

This is it. My shot at fame has arrived at last. I’ll begin as their medical expert before moving onto a show of my own—something where I diagnose really cool, rare skin conditions but with a personal element: viewers will see me in business mode, but also watch me and Rihanna heading to Pilates together, or me and Jennifer Garner making scones in her kitchen.

“Graham!” I scream, running to the kitchen, still clad in my pajamas. “Graham, I’m gonna be rich!”

My words echo in the empty apartment. His door is wide open, the same way it was when he left last night.

I grip the counter, staggered by the unexpected wave of sheer fury sweeping over me.

He stayed out all night.I told him he couldn’t bring someone home and he followed my dictates to the letter and stayed with her instead.

You son of a bitch.You goddamn son of a bitch.

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