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“Well, maybe she should have,” Mabel pipes up. “I’ll be the first to agree that Barrett didn’t treat Lane the way he should have, but he’s not a cruel person. He’s just odd and…oblivious. He probably had no idea the way he carried on with Wren hurt Lane’s feelings.”
I absolutely didn’t. And I wasn’t “carrying on” with Wren or anyone else. Wren and I were just friends and coworkers back then.
Before I can get too indignant, however, Celeste adds, "Well, he should have. They crossed the line between friends and something more a long time ago. Anyone with eyes could see the way Wren looked at him. She’s been in love with him since we were kids. Barrett had to have known that, on some level, no matter how oblivious he is, and he encouraged it. And in my book, that’s cheating. It doesn’t matter if he never touched her. That’s an emotional affair and a betrayal of his marriage vows.”
My grip tightening on the two rapidly warming glasses of champagne in my hands, I consider her words.
I would never call what Wren and I had “an emotional affair” but were there nights when I lingered at work with Wren because I dreaded going home to Lane’s perpetually disappointed gaze? Yes. There were also days—many of them—when I considered teatime with Wren the best part of my day.
Rarely did coming home to my wife make it into that top spot.
“I agree,” Allana says. “And bringing Wren here tonight is just rubbing salt in the wound. Have you seen them? He can barely keep his hands off her ass, it’s so embarrassing. I cringe every time I look their way.”
“But you’re still going to Barrett’s practice when you and Doug try for number two,” Mabel says. “Don’t lie.”
“Well, of course, I am. He’s the best doctor in town and probably saved Bailey’s life when she got the cord wrapped around her neck on the way out. I have nothing negative to say about this doctoring. Just his personal life.”
The women laugh softly before Celeste says, “But I guess all’s well that ends well. Lane and Grant clearly belong together. And Wren can enjoy Barrett for however long that lasts before he starts doing the same thing to her. Once an emotional cheater, always an emotional cheater. At least that’s been my experience.”
“I honestly feel bad for her,” Mabel says, surprising me. I thought she was on my side, at least a little bit. We’ve never been close—she’s a decade my senior and rarely has time for family functions with her busy work schedule—but I thought there was mutual respect between us. “She’s obviously in love with the idea of him, not the real Barrett. Someday the rose-colored crush glasses are going to fall off and she’ll see him for the emotionally stunted, rigid, workaholic he is and realize she wasted her entire youth pining for a man who doesn’t exist. And by then it will probably be too late for her to start over. You know how the men are around here. As soon as you’re thirty-five, you’re over the hill and no one swipes right.”
“Oh, that isn’t true,” Celeste says. “You’re just swiping on the wrong ones, honey. You should let me help you look. I’m a good judge of character, even through a phone screen.”
“Or you could let me set you up with Doug’s cousin, Albert,” Allana says. “Yes, he’s bald and weirdly obsessed with football, but he’s funny and a real sweet guy. And I have it on good authority, he can still get it up like clockwork. Carina dated him when she was rebounding from her divorce and said the sex was great. She just wasn’t ready to commit to a man whose entire living room is decorated with collectible Viking helmets and beer steins.”
“Being a Vikings fan is hard enough without being confronted with memorabilia morning, noon, and night,” Celeste agrees.
They continued to discuss Mabel’s cursed love life—and Albert’s dick—and after a few moments, I eased away from the ficus and back toward the champagne fountain. I don’t remember what I did with the two glasses of champagne, but the decision to leave without saying goodbye to Wren in person was a conscious one.
I knew she’d hate me for it, and that was for the best.
It’s better if she hates me. Better if she dumps me on my ass than I continue to make her the laughingstock of town for dating an asshole like me.
Because, apparently, I’m an asshole.
I thought I was just the square peg that didn’t fit into one of the circular holes. But instead, I’m the rotten potato at the bottom of the bag, stinking up the entire kitchen. I’m actively making other people’s lives worse simply by existing in their general vicinity.
And the worst part?
