Page 27 of Dearly Unbeloved
“I don’t, but if something happens and I can’t tell the police where my wife is, they’re going to think that’s pretty suspicious. Actually, maybe we should just share our phone locations with each other. Spouses do that, right?”
It’s not the worst idea. Jazz often sits and watches Liam’s location dot when she’s feeling clingy at work (and, when she’s not watching his, she’s showing Cal Maggie’s, since he can never find the right app on his phone).
I quickly share my location, and a notification pops up to say Rose has shared hers.
“Great. I’m going now.”
“Sierra,” she calls the second I have my hand on the door handle.
I grit my teeth. “What?”
“You might want to take your wedding ring off.”
The bar is dark, the music just loud enough that I have to strain to hear the woman standing beside me, and I can’t shake the feeling I’m doing something wrong. I owe Rose nothing, but something about standing here, trying to hook up with some random woman while she’s at home, feels wrong.
Not trying to have a repeat of Vegas, I ordered a single glass of white wine, but it tastes sour on my tongue. There’s a gorgeous brunette flirting with me, but every time I look into her piercing blue eyes, I think of hazel instead.
She ruins everything.
“Anyway, I feel like I’ve been talking about myself for hours. What do you do?” April asks, leaning in closer. Her perfume is pretty—vanilla with floral undertones. Roses, probably. Fuck.
“I’m an assistant at a law firm downtown,” I say, leaning back and breathing in my wine instead.
“Nice. So, do you live nearby?” April asks through fluttery lashes and, as out of sorts as I am, I recognize the cue.
“I’m like ten minutes away. You?”
Her eyes twinkle. “I’m just around the corner. My place is much quieter than this if you’d like to...” She trails off, her gaze falling to my glass. Fuck. I didn’t take my ring off.
April raises a brow. “Is that an engagement ring?”
“It’s a wedding ring, technically,” I answer without thinking. I flinch. “Shit. No, I mean… It’s complicated. I’m?—”
“Wait.” April holds up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I won’t feel as guilty if I don’t know the details. You want to come back to my place?”
The knowledge that she’s not put off by the ring on my finger zaps any of the attraction I feel for her. She has no idea my marriage isn’t real, and she doesn’t give a shit.
But it’s also just another reminder in a long line that, even though she might not feel guilty, I do. It doesn’t matter that Rose okayed me coming out tonight. My stomach is in fucking knots.
I drain my glass and set it on the bar top. “Actually, I think I’m going to head home. It was nice talking to you.”
I turn to leave, but April grasps my shoulder. “Hey, she doesn’t have to know. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
The urge to laugh, because she wouldn’t care if she did know, rolls over me, but I just pull out of April’s grip. “Goodnight,” I say, heading for the door and wishing I’d brought a jacket as I step out into the cool night.
I consider calling a cab, but it’s only a ten-minute walk, and I could use the fresh air. Two weeks married to Rose, and I haven’t really let myself think about it. We talked about when to tell our families, how to approach Rose’scolleagues, and made sure we were both aware of the end date, but neither of us brought up what this would look like day to day.
Maybe it’s me. Rose doesn’t seem nearly as cut up about it all as I do. The guilt is eating me alive. I can barely sleep, and she doesn’t seem to give a shit. It’s so fucking typical of her—icy and aloof.
Is this what life is going to be like for the next three months? I’m already exhausted. And all I wanted was a goddamn orgasm or two.
I stop outside our apartment building. How the hell did I get home so fast? It’s like the closer I got to home, the closer I got toher, the more pissed off I got. It was Rose’s idea for us to stay married—how dare she be so calm about it all?
The front door bangs behind me as I storm into the building and up the stairs, forgoing the elevator. My keys shake in my fingers as I force them into the lock and push open our apartment door. I drop my keys on the entryway table and kick my shoes off messily—fuck Rose’s shoe organization.
It doesn’t look like she’s moved since I left. She’s still lying on the couch, her book in one hand and a blanket covering her body. She looks up, confused. “That was… fast.” She picks up her phone and frowns at the time. “You’ve only been gone for forty minutes. How did you meet someone?—”
“I didn’t,” I interrupt, sounding as pissedoff as I feel.
