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Paul cheated on me.
Chrissy was right. He never did love me.
When I get home, my answering machine is flashing red. Even though I’m a wreck, I decide to listen to the messages. I can always give Ma a call back tomorrow, and hearing a friendly voice might do me good.
I hit the button as I make my way to the dishwasher, then fish out a clean glass and fill it with tap water.
The voice that fills my room doesn’t belong to any of my family members, but it is one I can recognize in my sleep.
“Winnie? Um, yeah. Hey. It’s Rhys.” Pause. Uncomfortable laugh. Something twists in my heart, cracking it open, letting nostalgia trickle in. “We haven’t spoken since I came to Paul’s funeral. I don’t know why I’m calling.” Another pause. “Actually, I do. I do know. I wanted to ask how you’re doing. I know you just landed a huge gig—congratulations, by the way. Didn’t I say you were too big for this town?” His soft laugh rings through my apartment like church bells, bringing me back to the comfortable, to the familiar. “Anyway . . . just checking in. Your momma gave me this number. No rush in gettin’ back, I imagine you’re mighty busy over there. Things at home are fine. Normal. Boring.” Another snicker. “Guess I’ve always been kind of boring. That was my problem, huh? So, yeah. Call me. Miss you. Bye.”
The message ends. The glass slips from between my fingers and shatters on the floor noisily.
Rhys Hartnett is wrong. He was never boring. He was always perfect in my eyes. But perfection is something that’s easy to walk away from when you are eighteen, just got an acceptance letter from Juilliard, and the dreams in your head grow wild and long and free like weeds.
Another message rolls through. This time from Lizzy, my sister.
“Hey, Win! It’s been a hot minute, so I thought I’d see what’s going on with you. We love you. We miss you. Kenny wants to say hi to her favorite auntie. Right, Kenny?” A child’s laughter fills my apartment, making my empty stomach clench.
“Hi, Auntie Winnie! Love you! But I love Auntie Georgie too,” Kenny coos.
“Anyway,” Lizzy butts in. “Call us back. Bye!”
There is one last message. This time from Chrissy.
“Oh, and another thing.” She starts straight from the middle of our conversation earlier today. “Not only was Paul an obnoxious human being—not to your face, but behind your back—but he was also terrible in bed, remember?”
I choke out a chuckle. He wasn’t terrible. I’d had better. That’s all I ever told her, one drunken night when Paul was in Europe, ironically probably screwing Grace.
“You told me the best part of your sex life was your foreplay. That’s like enjoying the complimentary bread more than the entrée! I rest my case. Now go open a Tinder account and live your best life. Doctor’s order.”
I pull myself up, deciding the crushed glass could wait until tomorrow to be cleaned. I walk into the hallway. Stop in front of Paul’s office.
Betraying him and opening the door doesn’t seem like such a sinful act anymore, knowing what I know after my conversation with Arsène.
Paul never loved me.
This much I now know to be true. But because a part of me still loves him, I pass by the door and not through it.
One day, I promise myself. But not today.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARSÈNE
Tonight I’m expected to be the last thing I want to be—a respected, civilized part of polite society.
Arya Roth-Miller is throwing her annual charity ball. It’s for a good cause—Saint John’s Children’s Hospital—something that, in itself, would not make me leave the house in a million years.
No. I’m here because the pain in the neck she refers to as her husband used every tool in his arsenal to ensure my presence.
The general idea is to make a fat donation, take a few photos with people whose names I will forget before they even utter them to me, and go back to my apartment to read an astronomy book and eat leftover takeout.
I spent the afternoon hitting the bottle, pregaming before the ball. There’s nothing I like less than having to tolerate people I don’t know for long stretches of time sober.
“Arsène, you look amazing in that tux!” Arya pounces on me as soon as I walk through the door of the Pierre hotel’s grand ballroom. It’s an exquisite space, with dripping chandeliers and enough curtains to conceal New Zealand in its entirety. Grace would’ve loved it.
“I know.” I kiss both her cheeks.
Christian appears beside her, snaking an arm around his wife’s waist. “Return the compliment, you swine.”
“Arya.” I take my best friend’s wife’s hand, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “You’ll look amazing in my tux too.”
Arya, who is wearing a pastel dress, laughs, swatting my chest. “I don’t even know why I like you.”
