relieved when I saw him talking animatedly with a curvaceous brunette I didn’t recognize, instead of sulking in the corner as he’d been doing most of the night. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to be suspicious or jealous. I had assumed she was someone’s girlfriend, sister, or wife who was feeling just as out of place at the party as Tom.
And this was her. I was almost sure of it. In my bed. With my boyfriend. Without their clothes. I finally broke the silence.
“I finished early,” I said, surprising myself with my even tone. It took great self-control not to cross the room and begin beating them both to death. “At the office. Who the hell are you?” Instead of answering, she turned back to Tom. Her brown hair glistened with infuriating perfection, spilling over her narrow and deeply tanned shoulders. Why were mistresses always tan? Was it a prerequisite to sleeping with someone else’s boyfriend or husband?
“You said she wouldn’t be home until ten,” she said sharply.
“Surprise,” I muttered. I stood stock-still as the brunette rolled off Tom, who was still partially erect. He quickly pulled a sheet over himself, and I gagged on the bile rising in my throat. There were suddenly a million questions racing through my mind as the brunette got up smoothly from the bed and started to get dressed. But all questions were overshadowed by the disgust and shock swirling through my mind. I didn’t have the faintest idea how to react.
“How long has this been going on?” I finally asked softly. The brunette, who was much taller and leggier than me, bent down to slip on her shoes. Manolos, I noticed absently. She was wearing $500 shoes and shagging my boyfriend. I wasn’t sure why that mattered. Tom greeted my question with silence, his face still the color of tomato sauce.
“Since December,” the brunette finally answered, brushing past me on her way to the bedroom door. Her face was still flushed, her hair disheveled. I felt the air vacate my lungs in a swoosh.
“Since December?” I breathed, looking at Tom. He wouldn’t meet my eye.
“What a waste of my goddamned time,” muttered the brunette. She placed a palm on the door and bent down to adjust her left shoe. She turned to glare at Tom, who looked like he was trying to shrink into the sheets, then she finally turned to look at me.
“He kept telling me he was going to leave you,” she said, looking me in the eye, her expression surprisingly calm. “What bullshit. He’s great in bed, though.” She turned away quickly and didn’t look back.
Her words echoed in my ears as she tap-tapped to the front door in her stiletto heels. I stood there in complete silence after she opened and slammed the apartment door behind her.
He’s great in bed? He’s great in bed?
Hell, not that I would know, lately.
I stared in the general direction of the front door for a moment before slowly turning to look at Tom. He was still wrapped in the disheveled silk bedsheets I’d bought just last month, now curled up against the feather pillows I’d had for years. He stared back at me apprehensively, guilt and fear written all over his face, which suddenly looked ugly and hateful to me. Nothing could have prepared me for walking in and seeing the man I loved deep inside another woman. Another woman with $10,000 breasts, $500 shoes, and silky brown hair that bounced just like the shampoo commercials said it was supposed to.
“Tom . . .” I began finally. The words trailed off into emptiness, because I didn’t know what to say. Half of me wanted to leap on top of him and beat him to death, and half of me wanted to break down in tears. My heart pounded rapidly inside my chest, and I could hear the blood rushing inside my head. I wondered for a moment if Tom could hear the pounding, too.
“Claire, I can explain,” he said finally. He looked so uncomfortable I almost wanted to laugh. He reached for his boxers, which lay just to the right of my bed, and
And this was her. I was almost sure of it. In my bed. With my boyfriend. Without their clothes. I finally broke the silence.
“I finished early,” I said, surprising myself with my even tone. It took great self-control not to cross the room and begin beating them both to death. “At the office. Who the hell are you?” Instead of answering, she turned back to Tom. Her brown hair glistened with infuriating perfection, spilling over her narrow and deeply tanned shoulders. Why were mistresses always tan? Was it a prerequisite to sleeping with someone else’s boyfriend or husband?
“You said she wouldn’t be home until ten,” she said sharply.
“Surprise,” I muttered. I stood stock-still as the brunette rolled off Tom, who was still partially erect. He quickly pulled a sheet over himself, and I gagged on the bile rising in my throat. There were suddenly a million questions racing through my mind as the brunette got up smoothly from the bed and started to get dressed. But all questions were overshadowed by the disgust and shock swirling through my mind. I didn’t have the faintest idea how to react.
“How long has this been going on?” I finally asked softly. The brunette, who was much taller and leggier than me, bent down to slip on her shoes. Manolos, I noticed absently. She was wearing $500 shoes and shagging my boyfriend. I wasn’t sure why that mattered. Tom greeted my question with silence, his face still the color of tomato sauce.
“Since December,” the brunette finally answered, brushing past me on her way to the bedroom door. Her face was still flushed, her hair disheveled. I felt the air vacate my lungs in a swoosh.
“Since December?” I breathed, looking at Tom. He wouldn’t meet my eye.
“What a waste of my goddamned time,” muttered the brunette. She placed a palm on the door and bent down to adjust her left shoe. She turned to glare at Tom, who looked like he was trying to shrink into the sheets, then she finally turned to look at me.
“He kept telling me he was going to leave you,” she said, looking me in the eye, her expression surprisingly calm. “What bullshit. He’s great in bed, though.” She turned away quickly and didn’t look back.
Her words echoed in my ears as she tap-tapped to the front door in her stiletto heels. I stood there in complete silence after she opened and slammed the apartment door behind her.
He’s great in bed? He’s great in bed?
Hell, not that I would know, lately.
I stared in the general direction of the front door for a moment before slowly turning to look at Tom. He was still wrapped in the disheveled silk bedsheets I’d bought just last month, now curled up against the feather pillows I’d had for years. He stared back at me apprehensively, guilt and fear written all over his face, which suddenly looked ugly and hateful to me. Nothing could have prepared me for walking in and seeing the man I loved deep inside another woman. Another woman with $10,000 breasts, $500 shoes, and silky brown hair that bounced just like the shampoo commercials said it was supposed to.
“Tom . . .” I began finally. The words trailed off into emptiness, because I didn’t know what to say. Half of me wanted to leap on top of him and beat him to death, and half of me wanted to break down in tears. My heart pounded rapidly inside my chest, and I could hear the blood rushing inside my head. I wondered for a moment if Tom could hear the pounding, too.
“Claire, I can explain,” he said finally. He looked so uncomfortable I almost wanted to laugh. He reached for his boxers, which lay just to the right of my bed, and
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