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“Ours,” he began.
“My name’s on the mortgage.”
“Sweetheart—”
“You’d seriously dare call me that? Try it again, and I swear to God you’ll leave bleeding. I said get out.”
He dragged on khakis. “We need to talk. You just need to calm down so I— Where are you going?”
“To get my phone.” She walked to her purse, took it out. “To call the police so they can remove you from my home.”
“Now, Sonya.” The way he said it took on that you’re-just-adorable tone. “You’re not going to call the cops.”
She stood, phone in hand, studying him. Gym fit, dark blond hair tousled from another woman’s hands. The smooth, handsome face, the killer blue eyes.
“If you really believe I won’t, you don’t know me at all.” She picked his keys out of the bowl, removed the key to the house, tossed the rest out the door. “Get out.”
“I need shoes.”
She opened the coat closet, pulled out a pair of his slides, tossed them at him. “Make do, and go, or I start screaming and calling nine-one-one.”
He bent, picked up the slides, slipped them on. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”
“When it comes to you, to this? Consider that the far side of never.”
She slammed the door behind him, turned the security bolt.
And waited for the tears, the despair, the misery. None of it, she decided, could burn through the rage.
She looked at the phone in her hand again.
Taking deep breaths, she walked to the sofa, sat. She started to send a text, realized she couldn’t manage it the way her hands shook.
She called instead.
“Hey!”
“Cleo, can you come over? I really need you to come over now.”
“Wedding crisis?”
“You could say. Please.”
Amusement turned to concern. “You okay?”
“Not really, no. Can you come?”
“Sure. I’m on my way. Whatever it is, Sonya, we’ll fix it. Give me ten.”
I fixed it already, Sonya thought, and set the phone down.
On her second glass of wine, Cleo circled the living room. Long legs in tiny white shorts covered the ground. She had her mass of curling burnt-honey hair bundled back in weekend-at-home mode.
Her jungle-cat eyes flashed.
The more incensed she became, the more the traces of her Louisianachildhood flowed over the heat. And the calmer Sonya felt. This, Sonya decided, was love.
“That bastard. That lying, cheating, sonofabitching bastard. And Tracie? I don’t even have words slimy enough. Your own cousin! And that—that miserable, big-tittedslutwas helping me plan your wedding shower.”
