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Chapter Twenty-Nine
PAIGE
The boring front of the house mocks me and my past pain. You’d think it would have flames painted on the side or caution tape pasted over the door. Something to indicate that one of the most embarrassing moments in my life happened here.
But it’s as plain as steel-cut oats. A bran cereal house. Living in it probably helps lower your cholesterol.
“Screw you, you healthy sensible house,” I mutter under my breath as I climb the front stairs. At least this time I don’t have to knock. A plastic rock that isn’t fooling anyone sits off to the side of the porch. It only takes me a second to find the little latch needed to pop the hiding spot open and release the spare key Martin texted me about.
After three weeks and no word from my ex, I thought I might never get my stuff back. But then, last night, my phone finally lit up with a message from him, letting me know tonight was a good time to swing by.
Martin is out on a Friday evening. Probably with Miss Petite and Pretty.
I pause in the act of sliding the key into the door, revisiting my assumption.
Martin, on a date, with another woman.
I search every corner of my brain with a megawatt flashlight, but I don’t find what I was expecting to feel: jealousy, hurt, anger.
None of those ugly dark emotions burn in my chest.
There’s still discomfort. I know I don’t want to run into Martin when he’s out with another woman. But it’s not the ‘other woman’ part that’s causing my skin to tighten. It’s Martin himself.
He was a man I loved, and a man I started to fall out of love with. Then, instead of trying to work out his feelings with me, he jumped into bed with someone else.
I’m not angry anymore. I just…don’t like him. As a person. Martin is a different man than the boy I fell in love with. Or maybe I’m a different girl. Either way, one or both of us changed, and we don’t work anymore.
Sucks that cheating had to be the catalyst to realize that, but I’m better off now.
When I push the front door open, I find a dark house. After flipping a switch to illuminate the hallway, I experience a moment of panic.
Scattered across the floor is a sparse collection of rose petals.
Shit, did I get the day wrong? Am I about to walk in on Martin and his new lady? Again?
My racing heart calms when I notice the vase of red roses on a table in the hall. That’s when I recall the green house in Mrs. Blanche’s backyard. Roses are her specialty. That, paired with Martin’s complete incompetence when it comes to vacuuming, explains away the sight.
I exhale a sigh of relief, reassured I’m not going to walk in on him pounding away into the robe stealer.
Avoiding the petals so I don’t crush them into more of a mess than they already are, I veer to the left and enter a living room. Navy, white, and gold are the colors of choice for the place. The set-up is nice, in the same way a picture in Good Housekeeping is nice. But it’s not real life. Martin clearly hired someone to decorate.
I maneuver around a glass coffee table and a white couch.White?Hell, that thing would be covered in muddy paw prints and fur if Pumpkin got anywhere near it. This is not a house for a dog.
Next is a dining room with a table big enough to seat eight, and it looks like it can extend to hold more.Would Martin have expected me to host dinner parties here?Our New York apartment was too small for more than a handful of friends, but I remember him mentioning larger get-togethers in the future. I shudder.
Bullet dodged.
My eyes scan the walls, and a creeping unease tightens my shoulders when I realize there are framed photos artfully placed around the room.
Of us.
Me and Martin.
“What the hell?” I try to think of a reason for their existence as I step through another doorway into a massive kitchen.
The room is dark, with black cabinets, onyx countertops, and oak hardwood floors. One bright spot stands out, illuminated by a handful of candles placed on the kitchen island.
Martin. Or at least, Martin’s pale-as-hell back. I get a full view of the white expanse and his pasty legs because my ex-fiancé is standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a pair of Scooby Doo boxers I bought him as an April Fool’s joke earlier this year. I always said he looked like Fred from the cartoon, but he would never dress up like the character for Halloween, no matter how much I begged.
