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“Thank you. I thought we could spend a bit of time together before going to sleep tonight.”
“O—okay. Where’s Aunt Jenny?”
“She’s staying at the facility tonight. It’s just us.”
“Where’s Banjo?”
“Outside.”
I take his hand that isn’t holding the champagne and guide him to the bed. As I do so, I inhale, searching for her scent on him, but smell nothing but whiskey and cigarettes. After positioning my husband at the edge of the bed, I drop to my knees.
I remove his shoes, his socks, work my way up to his belt, his pants.
He is rock-hard as I pull down his boxer briefs.
I hear him chug the champagne above me.
Wrapping my hand around the shaft of his penis, I take him in my mouth as far as I can. My eyes water, and for a second I’m afraid I might throw up. I think of her being there before me, the smell of her, the taste of her.
Off.
Get off my husband.
Shepherd groans as I stroke back and forth. “Jesus baby.” He grabs a chunk of my hair in his fist. Holding me in place, he forces himself down my throat, as he does every time. Tears roll down my cheeks. My skin ignites with adrenaline from the pain and disgust of it. The ardent urge to attack him is so fierce that I have to clench my hands into fists at my side.
When I know he is close, I release him and rise to my feet, forcing poise.
As I take the empty glass of champagne from his hand, I imagine shattering it against the night stand and shoving the broken stem into his jugular. Instead, I shove him onto the bed, and straddle him, pulling aside the red lingerie before lowering onto his shaft. And with the candlelight dancing over our naked bodies, I ride my husband until he bellows my name.
My name.
THIRTY-NINE
AMBER
“I want a divorce.”
Mark freezes, mid-bite, the plastic spoon halfway to his mouth. He looks up from his late-night snack. A cup of yogurt—no-sugar, no flavor, just like him.
A moment passes as we stare at each other.
Oh my God, I said it.
I did it.
My heart pounds underneath my nightgown. My mouth is dry. My knees are weak. I have to fight from gripping onto the doorway for support. I’m a mess.
After checking on Connor, I attempted to relax with a bottle of wine and a bath. Instead, I found myself stewing. I couldn’t believe Mark locked our son in his room. After emptying the bottle, I gave myself a pep talk in the mirror and, well, here I am.
Choose the right time, I tell my clients who are on the edge of divorce. Don’t tell your spouse you want a divorce the minute before he is supposed to walk out the door to work, or before a visit to the in-laws. But also understand that there is never going to be the perfect time to end your marriage. There will always be future plans, financial uncertainty, an upcoming birthday…
I realized today what bullshit that advice is. Because, at some point, the spouse who wants the divorce breaks, and everything spills out with zero thought to day or time. Just like me, right now.
Mark’s mouth opens, closes… opens, closes. He’s completely stunned. Blinking, he drops his spoon in the cup. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. A flush of red races up his neck.
Abruptly, he pushes back from the dinner table, sending his chair tumbling backward as he surges up.
The burst of noise sends my heart jumping into my throat. I glance over my shoulder where Connor is sleeping down the hall.
