Page 38 of Am I the Only One

I approach the bar and notice him rubbing his forehead after he slips off his glasses that he never wears when he’s on television.

“May I?” I question as I take the seat next to him, thankful that this man is sharply handsome and not some ogre.

“Um, of course ... yes.”

He seems flustered, or maybe he’s just tired. Eyeing his open briefcase with papers scattered about, I ask, “Working off the clock?”

He looks over to me, smelling of spiced cologne and scotch. “In my line of work, there are no clocks.”

“What can I get for you?” the bartender inquires as he sets a cocktail napkin in front of me.

“Grey Goose martini, up, stirred, with a twist.”

I’ve never tasted the drink before, but it’s what Luca’s mother drinks so I figured I couldn’t go wrong.

When I turn my attention back to my target, he’s wearing a slight smirk, and oddly enough, it eases my tension.

“So, no clocks,” I state. “How do you know when to stop?”

The clink of the martini glass being set in front of me sounds at the same moment his eyes land on my cleavage.

“I’m not a man who likes to stop.”

Carly

Alone at the dining table with an empty bottle of wine.

How has this become my life?

The rain gave way to snow a few hours ago, and it feels like a reflection of my soul. A metamorphosis seemingly beyond my control.

Only, I am in control. It is by my hand that I sit here, in the early hours of the morning, turning my blood into alcohol as I wait for the call. My eyes burn from lack of sleep and the many tears that have slipped out of them today.

Salt eating flesh.

Thoughts tormenting me.

It’s after three in the morning, and I can’t stop torturing myself with thoughts of what the two of them are doing that’s preventing her from calling.

What have I done?

I’m second-guessing this plan in its entirety, but there’s no turning back. At least I know that Emma is on my side, and she’ll tell me everything I need to know. It’s the other women I have to worry about—the wild cards who are looking for their ticket to advance in social standing. Or maybe it’s the thrill of the forbidden that drives them to married men.

Yet, here I sit, a desperate wife, doing what she can to regain control of her life. When I walk away from this marriage, I’ll be damned if my head isn’t held high.

The wine acts to medicate me, putting me to sleep right here at the table with my head resting upon my folded arms.

When the chiming on my phone wakes me, I raise my head and squint against the morning sun that’s pouring into the room. My head spins, and when I pick up the phone to read the text, it takes a moment for my vision to clear from the haze.

Emma: Tripp just left my room to go to work. The coast is clear.

Putrid gurgling from my gut makes me flee from the table. Sour bile rises as I run to the kitchen sink because there’s no way I’ll make it to the restroom. With my hands braced on the edge of the glazed lava stone countertop, I vomit the burning remnants of last night’s wine into the sink. My stomach bubbles in disgust as another round barrels its way up my throat.

Flicking on the faucet, I hang my head as the tears fall.

He spent the entire night with her.

I swish my mouth out with water and then soak a paper towel and press it along the back of my neck. The effort to right myself is for naught. All I can hear is the echo of Margot’s words in my head.

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