I smile. Of course he knows. I get him the same thing every year.
He untangles the boxers from the tissue paper, and a grin stretches across his face. “Sexy,” he says in a sing-song.
I smile playfully. “Maybe you can wear those for me later.”
He winks at me. “Definitely.”
He stares at the card and the pink gift bag on my lap. “Open it,” he urges.
I try to sit still, but I can’t wait to see what he got me. Diamond earrings? A tennis bracelet? A beautiful necklace? I already own a lot of jewelry, but John always says, “A princess can never have enough diamonds.”
I slide my finger along the sticky fold of the envelope, and eagerly tear the paper.
Something’s not right.
Reality doesn’t dawn on me in the quick flash of a single moment. It’s a slow confusing process. My thoughts slowly come together...
At first all I’m thinking is,This isn’t the card I saw. How weird is that?!
The card is stunning. Without a doubt. It’s an intricate affair with silk accents. A pretty ribbon lines the spine of the card, and elaborate designs are delicately cut into the lovely card paper. I read every single syllable, but I don’t register a single word. When I’m done, I shoot him a vacant look. “This is a beautiful card,” I say absentmindedly. “Thank you.”
“Open the gift,” he urges.
Where is the other card? I ask myself.Why did he give me this one? Did he change his mind? I don’t understand.
I dig into the gift bag, and pull out a gorgeous cashmere sweater; soft blue, pretty pearl buttons. I know it must have cost a small fortune.
“I have the gift receipt if it doesn’t quite fit right,” he tells me. “I wasn’t too sure on the size.”
I’m speechless.Where is the Tiffany’s box?
And then it hits me like a Mack truck. I’m completely blindsided because I never saw this coming.
The playful card and the Tiffany’s box were for someone else.
There’s someone else.
Part Two
Chapter Fifteen
I CAN’T EVEN LOOK AT HIM — this man I’ve been with for the last fourteen years, this man who has been the center of my life, this man who ismy everything. What am I to him? Am I just the mother of his children? Does he even love me?
When he leans in for a kiss, I turn, and his peck lands on my cheek. “I should tidy the kitchen,” I tell him as I stand slowly, still in shock. “I’m not feeling well at all.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Was it the wine?”
Red wine occasionally doesn’t agree with me for some reason, but I’ve found a few kinds I like that don’t seem to cause any trouble. “Yeah, I think so,” I say, absentmindedly wiping the kitchen counter.
Who is she?
How long has this been going on?
What does she look like?
Is she blonde? Skinny?
It’s how I picture her for some reason.
