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By the time she parked, she regretted canceling the appointment with the florist. She should’ve taken care of it. Flowers, like cake, should make you happy.
She’d make up for it by tossing something together for dinner.
A ploy to head off a let’s-eat-out suggestion? she considered as she walked to her side of the duplex. Maybe, but he’d come home to a meal in progress, a bottle of wine, and that was a good deal.
They’d eat, drink, and finalize that damn guest list.
A big check mark in the done column would lift a weight.
Weight lifted, they could spend Saturday night naked in bed.
She heard music when she opened the door and stepped into the foyer. And saw, a few feet ahead as the foyer gave way to the living room, a woman’s shoe.
A red stiletto.
She set her purse on the entrance table, dropped her keys in the bowl she kept there. And slowly bent down to pick up the shoe.
Its mate lay on its side near the turn toward the bedroom, along with a white, full-skirted, strapless dress.
Music flowed out of the bedroom, a quiet, sexy score punctuated by a woman’s breathless cries and moans.
Brandon liked having music on during sex, she thought dully. He made a point of it.
She’d found it endearing. Once.
Since they hadn’t bothered to shut the bedroom door, she stepped over the discarded dress, kicked the man’s shirt and trousers out of the way.
Who knew, she thought, that love could snuff out like a candle in a stiff breeze? And leave no trace. None at all.
She watched her fiancé’s ass grind as he thrust into the woman under him. The woman whose legs were wrapped around his waist as she called out his name.
She looked down at the shoe still in her hand, looked at that naked, cheating ass.
When she flung it, when it struck, she thought: Oh yeah, that’ll leave a mark.
He reared up, scrambled around. The woman managed a quick shriek and tried to drag up the rumpled sheet.
“Sonya.”
“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped at him. “Jesus Christ, Tracie, you’re mycousin. You’re part of the bridal party.”
Sobbing, Tracie dragged harder at the sheets.
“Sonya, listen—”
“I said shut the fuck up. I’m in the middle of a goddamn cliché. Get dressed, get out. Both of you.”
“I’m sorry.” Still sobbing, Tracie snatched at the bra and panties on the floor. “I’m so—”
“Don’t speak to me. Don’t ever speak to me again. If your mother wasn’t my aunt, and someone I’m very fond of, I’d kick your slut ass here and now. Keep your mouth shut and get out of my house.”
Tracie grabbed the dress on the run, dragging it over her head, sans underwear, as she went. She didn’t bother with the shoes.
She didn’t shut the door behind her.
“Sonya. I have no excuse. I slipped, I—”
“I see. You slipped, and your clothes just tossed themselves around the room while you fell naked on my cousin. Get out, Brandon. You can get out naked or pull on some clothes first. But get out of my house.”
