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For suffering the same phobia as Zach. For entering a loveless marriage. For having no one to help navigate her fears.
At least Zach would leave our arrangement cured.
I swore to it.
Constance searched my face for any trace of emotion—sadness, disappointment, jealousy—but found none.
Little did she know, she’d stumbled upon a veteran when it came to emotional abuse, courtesy of Vera’s twenty-three-year bootcamp.
“Very well, Miss Ballantine.” She nodded to the door. “Please, leave.”
“If you need anything else…” I jerked a thumb toward the hallway. “I’ll be in the living room, watching a movie.”
I deliberately antagonized Constance, resenting her for controlling Zach, knowing she didn’t have the balls to cry to him.
She glowered. “Hadn’t realized this was your day off.”
“It isn’t.” I drew a hand to my chest. “My, my. Howunsavoryof me.”
Humming, I strolled out, taking measured steps to my room, not letting the first tear fall until I was absolutely positive it couldn’t be heard.
Zach never arrived home.
I produced my phone, checked the time (ten-thirty—the fuck?), and stopped myself from texting him for the sole reason that he didn’t owe me anything.
In fact, I’d chanted this to myself on the regular since Constance and Eileen left three hours ago.
He is not your boyfriend.
Not your husband.
Not yours. Period.
Soon, he’ll promise his forevers to someone else in a fluffy dress on a field of pollen.
You are temporary and insignificant. A feather in the wind.
I paced my room, a lioness in a rusty cage.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. While Dallas’ now-husband had imprisoned her in a golden cage as she fought tooth and nail to break free, I’d slipped into my own gilded prison voluntarily and didn’t want to leave.
It would be easier if the glitz and glamor attracted me. I could find that elsewhere.
No, I craved the soft smiles we shared across the room, the fleeting touches, and his addictive words of comfort, each of them carved onto my skin like a tattoo.
I curled my fingers over my windowsill, staring at the gleaming pool. The clear water twinkled back at me under the moon.
What you need is a dip.
Cool off those raging hormones and red-hot jealousy.
I slipped into a tiny yellow two-piece from Dallas (“since I now look like bologna stuffed into a rubber band in it”), grabbed a towel, and made my way downstairs despite the freezing weather.
Steam rolled from the pool’s surface in thick white clouds. I dove in headfirst, slicing through the surface to the bottom and doing an entire lap before I resurfaced on the other end.
I sucked in a greedy breath and tilted my head skyward. Stars danced across my vision, melting into one another, whirling in a puddle of tears.
Stop with the weird pity party. Those are reserved for your birthday. Just swim.
