AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SADIE
The holidays draw nearer, and Ann gains in popularity. Not just among her social following, but also among women in our neighborhood. She’s the new kid on the block and everyone is interested in something new. Myself included.
Judging by the comings and goings at her house, it’s only a matter of time before she doesn’t need me anymore. I know I can’t let that happen. It didn’t turn out well for the guy at the grocery store—or the caterer—or the guy who hung her Christmas lights.
Speaking of, her Christmas party is the first time I see her in a new light. While most of the homes on Penny Lane have undergone substantial renovations, the Bankses’ was torn down completely and rebuilt from the ground up. Ann wanted that. If she had to downsize, she said—if she had to move to the middle of nowhere—she might as well design the place the way she wanted.
What she wanted, she said, was something that blended fine on Penny Lane but was just unique enough that it stuck out.
Looking at it now, it’s obvious she was successful in her aspirations. She lives in a breathtaking Mediterranean-style home, one of the largest on our street. The kind of place everyone gravitates toward. Myself included.
“Thank God you’re here,” Ann tells me as she swings open the door. Donning a black sweater dress, which only makes her red hair stand out more, and thigh high boots, she looks amazing. She looks like fire. She looks exactly like what she is—something that will burn you if you get too close but is just warm enough that you can’t help yourself.
Ann has minimal curves, but she doesn’t let that stop her. She accentuates her straight lines and her hard edges with a matching personality. I recall Ethan mentioning once, after she and Paul had stopped by the lane to check on the renovations, that she has the look of a super model that has aged well. Lean and well preserved. She told us at her dinner party that where she came from, that was important. No one asked what she meant. We all made our own assumptions. Or at least I did.
“You look great,” I say, which is a truth we both know. I assume her dress is cashmere. It looks precisely like that brand of perfect. She seems to read my mind because she says, “Go ahead and touch it,” and I learn I’m right. As my fingertips brush against the fabric, my eyes close involuntarily. Instantly, I am transported to another time and another place.
“Isn’t it just the softest thing you’ve ever felt?”
“Yes,” I lie. But when I open my eyes Ann has her gaze fixed on mine with such intensity that I add, “Ethan, he has soft, curly hair. It feels a bit like that.”
“Hmmm. I have an idea for you.” She takes me by the elbow and hurls me through the door. It’s a portal into her world where all is perfect and right and husbands who leave always come back.
I stumble though the entryway, mostly because I’m not used to wearing heels. She takes notice, which gives me the chance to get my bearings. Her eyes narrow as she gives me the once-over. “Nice dress.”
I don’t think she really means it about the dress, which is disappointing because the tag is jabbing me between the shoulder blades, an ever-present reminder that it has to go back where it came from. “You think so?”
“I mean, it’s not my taste, but I will say this: if your husband sees you looking like that, he’ll regret his decision and come running back in a heartbeat.”
“Maybe.”
“Here,” she says, pulling out her phone. She leans in close and snaps a selfie. Her perfume smells nice. It’s imported from France, she tells me, by which I know she means it’s out of my budget. “Let’s tilt the odds in our favor.”
Her eyes carefully scan the photo on her screen. She isn’t pleased. With one hand she drops the phone to her side and with the other she pushes my back against the wall. I start to resist but then she presses a finger against my lips and I stop. I let go long enough to search her face, and she lets her finger drop too. Slowly. Too slowly. I have no idea what she’s up to, or what’s gotten into her, but I can think of worse ways to die.
While I’m wondering what I said, what I’ve done, what I’m about to do, she busies herself tangling her fist in my hair. Next thing I know, she is parting my mouth open with her tongue, and she is lingering there. I don’t know how long a moment can last. Time is irrelevant. Meaningless. Until it isn’t. Because quickly—too quickly—she pulls away, and then it’s over. A void remains where her lips have been. No one has kissed me like that. Not ever.
Her back rests against the wall beside me; she’s breathless. Finally, she lets out a long satisfied sigh, leans in close, tilts her head, and snaps another photo. She holds it up for me to see. “Perfect.”
“Please don’t post that.”
Ann glances at the screen and then over at me and back. “Why not? It’s a great photo. You see? You have to feel love before you can have love. Desire is the same. The look on your face…Sadie. That’s what men want.”
I want to ask if that’s what she wants. I say the next most stupid thing instead. “Ethan isn’t on social media.”
“Oh, Sadie,” she chides. “This isn’t about social media. This is about revenge.”
I shrug. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Ethan will see it. Maybe he’ll get really lonely and Google me, and there it will be. Me in my new life. Me with my new friends. Not the wife he remembers. Better.
And if not, well, there’s always the off chance he’ll hear the news secondhand. We still have some mutual friends from college, if that’s what you call the people you’re connected with on social media but never actually speak to.
“Don’t worry,” Ann says. “If that doesn’t do it, there’s always the neighborhood app.”
I smile because she makes a good point. Ethan used to check that religiously when we moved here.
“He’ll see it,” she assures me.
