Other people—my parents, for example—would have died of shame to have their work mocked by Buzzfeed. Grace orchestrated that, and raked in enough private commissions of erotic sculpture from the visibility to buy our new home.
A loft where she brought my fuck-up of a brother to lick his wounds.
Alex leaves me alone with the booklet and a pile of regret he can’t even begin to understand.
I pack everything I might need to deal with an emergency from home and head out, not saying goodbye to anyone as I leave.
Echos of bad decisions chase me down the elevator and into my car.
I never thought I would have to look at my mistakes quite so squarely in the face. I never liked what I was doing—except when I did, briefly, because I’m a base animal inside. I lived with gross regret on a daily basis, but never did anything about it.
Even the inside of my car reminds me of driving to hotels, sending furtive texts on arrival. Ruining everything, over and over again.
The conversation I had with Grace about her show reverberates in my head. That was a day I’d gone out and fucked around on her. Got my hit of illicit feel good, feel bad vibes and took out my guilt on her excitement.
I need to talk to her about the show, too. And the weight of all the ways I’ve fucked up make it impossible to get out of my car. When I arrive at home, I sit in my parking spot for far too long.
I don’t want to go upstairs. I don’t want to see Grace’s sad face.
You can walk away.
She would be happier if I did, in the long run. Get out of her way and let her heal. Watch her move on.
I should leave her. But the thought of it fills me with terror. I need Grace for reasons I’ve never needed to spell out before, can’t even now as I sit in the underground garage and try to pull the words to my tongue.
I just need her. And I forgot, maybe, or lost sight of how much.
Taking a deep breath, I grab my bag. The elevator from the garage level that would take me to the back of the loft is out of order, so I take the stairs to the lobby, then take the main elevator up to our floor. There are four lofts per floor. One of them has a private elevator to the garage, although it’s been on the fritz for months. We are that loft on our floor.
Grace chose it for me. The loft is all her, but the private elevator that goes to the parking garage—that was a luxury she chose for me.
And I fucking hate that it doesn’t work. I hate that I share it with the other ten loft owners who stack above and below us.
I miss my Forest Hill mansion.
I lost that house, along with everything else.
Me. I. Me. My.
I resented how Grace barely tripped over my life imploding. She kept going, pulled us back up, and I watched her surpass me in every way. And I let that resentment fester.
When we met, I was the rock she leaned on, a stable force for a whirlwind young woman who had come from an unstable background.
Once upon a time, the monumental amount of chaos she carries in her small frame excited me. When we met, she seemed hedonistic and wonderful, perfect and erotic.
We were complete opposites, and the attraction had been instantaneous. Lasting.
And then Sam ruined everything.
It was ruined before that.
Where the fuck was this second-guessing voice in my head six months ago? A year ago?
Drugged. Drowned in scotch and smothered by easy escape.
The collapse of our firm revealed me to myself as weak in a shocking and pathetic way. I wasn’t able to share anything but the briefest of updates with Grace. I found myself lying to her, hiding things, terrified she would blame me for bringing this ruin upon us.
And once I was lying to her about money and business, it was easy to lean into lies in other ways. Private ways.
I realize with a start that I’m now standing in front of our front door. I let myself in to a dangerously quiet space.
“Grace,” I call out, my voice shaking. “I’m back.”
No reply. Dropping my bag, I head straight to the bedroom, prepared to see her closet empty and suitcases gone.
Instead, I find her asleep on the bed, her face blotchy.
7
Grace
I drift awake, half-conscious when I realize Luke is wrapped around me, spooning me from behind.
His arm is heavy around my waist. His palm pressed to my belly. His thighs, longer than mine, are wedged right against my legs.
And for a moment, I’m struck with a deep familiarity. It’s been too long, but once upon a time, he would hold me like this all the time.
If I wake all the way up, I’ll push him away and jump out of bed. I am going to do that very soon, in fact. But he’s so warm and I can feel his heartbeat.
Don’t cry. I’ve cried enough today, and felt so lonely I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I must have passed out on the bed while he was at work, and now he’s here, holding me.
Warm.
Strong.
Cheater.
I start to shake, and he makes a soothing sound from behind me. “I’m here,” he says, tightening his arms around me. His voice is rough, like gravel. “Is this okay?”
No. But I nod, because I like it even as I hate it.
“I’m sorry I went to the office.” He buries his face in my hair. “I shouldn’t have left you. We have so much to talk about.”
“I don’t want to talk,” I whisper. My voice is gravelly, too. “I need to…” I trail off. It doesn’t matter. Not today.
“Do you have work to do for your show?”
Tears spill out from behind my eyelids and fall in wet, fat drops on my pillow. “You’re not interested in that, remember?”
He swears under his breath. “I remember. I’m sorry.”
And we’re done cuddling. I push myself up, and he rolls onto his back, his arm falling over his face.
I go to the closet and find myself some clean clothes, then go into the bathroom where just last night I confronted him about the affair. Was that less than twenty-four hours ago? I lock the door and start the shower.
I take my time when I’m done, drying my hair and carefully applying serums to my face because I’m not fresh out of law school. Then I get dressed before opening the door to the bedroom again.
Luke is sitting on the bed. He looks like he’s been run over by a truck.
Good.
He straightens up and gives me a desperate look. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head.
“Let me cook something for dinner.”
I don’t want him to do anything nice for me right now. “We can order in.”
“I want—”
“I couldn’t fucking care less what you want.” I pin him with a sharp glare, meant to hurt.
He holds the gaze like an eager puppy, like any attention is good attention, which is probably what got him into this situation in the first place.
Pathetic.
He shrugs. “Fair enough. We’ll order in whatever you want. Maybe that’s better. Give us more time to talk—”
“I don’t want to talk,” I mutter.
Luke keeps going. “I want to give you my full attention. Fix what I’ve broken. You have a show coming up—”
“I don’t want to talk,” I repeat louder this time. “Because of the show. Because I’m a mess inside.” My voice raises. “Because I can’t look at you without shaking.”
And because I already miss the warmth of his body wrapped around me.
I hate you, I think in my head.
“Don’t look at me, then.” He gets up and moves to the armchair by the fireplace, out of my direct line of sight.
I move to the spot on the bed he just vacated, grab the blanket, and wrap that lingering residual heat around my body.
I’m hollow inside.
I want him to hold me again.
I hate him.
I curl onto my side and stare out the window at the sky.
Luke clears his throat. “I saw Alex at the office. Just him and Cameron, that was it. I told them I need to quietly take some time and work from home. Alex is going to cover my meetings—and he gave me shit for not being supportive of your show.”
“That’s why you asked about it.”
“He reminded me I’d been a dick to you. I’m sorry.”
I don’t reply to that. It’s hardly the most important problem in front of us right now. But now that he’s brought it up, my mind races with the to-do list I have for the next two weeks.
And then the opening night itself. I’m certainly not looking forward to pasting on a smile that will hurt by the end of three hours, pressing flesh with potential buyers for a catalogue of work that in an instant, my husband blew up my entire practiced pitch for.
The Death in a Marriage piece certainly takes on a new meaning. But all the other pieces are just as deadly to me. Each of them represents in a subtle way the erotic fantasies I had about Luke.
I’m a fool.
A fool who is going to have to sell pieces that no longer feel real to me.
Fuck.
Throwing off the blanket, I force myself to stand. “I need to go to the studio.” I swallow hard. “I might stay there tonight. I need some space.”
Luke’s out of the chair before I get to the bedroom door. He gets in front of me, blocking the exit, and I see red. I shove at his chest and burst into tears.
“Go to Sam’s,” he mutters under his breath. “He’s at Hazel’s for the week. Don’t sleep at the studio.”
I shove again and he bumps against the door frame, then slides out of the way.
I don’t look back. I grab my bag and my coat and leave before the tears consume me.
8
Luke
I spend a sleepless night alone in our bed. I can’t get warm, even wearing a sweater. At some point in the middle of the night, I pull on a hoodie from college that Grace had long ago appropriated as hers.
It smells like her.
And as I stare at the clock turn to half-past three in the morning, something inside me cracks. I reach for my phone in the dark and it lights up as I pick it up.
Grace: I can’t sleep. I hate you. I just thought you should know.
Luke: I can’t sleep either. I love you. And I understand.
Grace: I hate my show, too.
Luke: Can we talk? Can you call me?
She doesn’t reply, and the phone doesn’t ring. After a long, painful minute that feels like an hour, I try her phone, but it doesn’t go through.
Dawn comes before I fall asleep. I wake up with a start not long after, thinking I feel the weight of her sliding into bed next to me. But the loft is still empty.
9
Grace
It was a mistake to text him. I block him right after he says he loves me—no you don’t, you don’t know what that word means—and then I spend an hour watching and reading porn, trying to get myself off so the post-orgasm release will trip me into sleep.
It’s fucking rude that Luke’s affair has ruined some of my favourite smut subjects, too.
There’s no point raiding Sam’s cupboards for booze, either, because he doesn’t have anything. I find a single serving bottle of cheap champagne that’s covered in dust and undrinkable when I open it.
I hope he never wonders where that bottle went, because tomorrow I’ll find a better place to stay. I can’t stay here much longer without him figuring out I’m here, and…I’m not reading for that. As it stands, I’m already a creeper for letting myself in without telling him I’m there.
On the other hand, I know this apartment like the back of my hand. I helped Sam buy it, desperate to get him out of our place.
I thought Luke and I would be able to get back on track once we had our private life back.
I was wrong.
After pouring the bad sparkling wine down the drain, I steal a cheese stick from the fridge and go back to bed.
My second attempt at a desperate orgasm-to-sleep strategy works better.
When I wake up, it’s mid-morning, and my phone tells me it’s time to go back to the studio.
I made a long to-do list yesterday. I hate every single item on the list, don’t want to do any of it, but I’m a professional.
It’s time to get shit done for Future Grace, who will be very upset at me for making life even more difficult for her down the road if I don’t pull myself out of this pity party.
After putting my bedding in the washing machine, I make Sam’s spare bed with fresh sheets and go out to get a late breakfast.
When I walk past my car, parked on the street, I do a double-take because Luke is parked behind me. He’s slumped behind the steering wheel, wearing an old hoodie from university.
He looks like a stalker.
He’s acting like a stalker.
I throw my hands in the air and glare at him as he gets out of the car. “What are you doing here?”
“You blocked my number.”
“I didn’t want to talk to you.”
“You texted me.”
“A mistake.”
“I just wanted to see if you were…” He trails off.
I’m not okay. I wrap my arms around myself and shiver.
“Are you going to the studio?”
“Yes.” Eventually.
He glances at my car.
I could get in, but then I’d lose my prime spot, and I need to come back and put the sheets in the dryer after breakfast.
“After I get some food,” I mumble.
He turns and looks down the street, toward the hub of restaurants and shops not far from Sam’s place. “Can I join you?”
“No.”
His face falls.
Walk away.
But all I see is the sad, lonely boy in the cafeteria at dawn, studying his ass off.
No pity.
I wish I was smart enough to take my own inner advice. I sigh. “You know what? Sure. You can buy.”
His face lights up and I’m already kicking myself. But when he falls into step right beside me, and the tight vise on my heart eases a little, I can’t help but feel like this is okay. Not good, not great, but okay.
We’ve been married a long time. Together even longer. It’s going to be complicated to untangle our lives, and we don’t need to do it at DEFCON 1.
The first restaurant we poke our heads into isn’t busy, so Luke asks for a booth at the back. The server drops menus when she seats us, and promises to return with coffee momentarily.
It takes her nearly ten minutes, and they’re the longest ten minutes of my life. Luke makes small talk, which he’s not good at in the best of times. He asks about the show again, and I dodge the topic.
He brings up some book he started reading that morning about recovering from an affair, and I change the subject. I’m sure he just read the back of it and assumed he was the expert. That’s how he rolls through life.
Why did you ever love this man? An excellent question, followed immediately by my insides rolling over as another thought flashes through my mind. It’s going to take some time to fall out of love with him. I’ll teach myself how, it’ll be a fun project like launching my art career.
Because he can’t read my mind, he’s never been able to do that, Luke chooses that same moment to inch his hand closer to mine. I can feel the phantom warmth of his touch against my skin even with inches between us.
Traitor, I want to hiss at him.
Instead, my fingers flex, then flatten on the tabletop.
When I look up, his gaze is locked on my ring finger, which has been bare for a long time now.
He pulls his hand back, dipping it into his pocket, before pulling his own ring out. That’s better than mine, I guess. I vaguely try to remember where my ring even is, which is an easier thought to grab on to rather than really thinking about why he brought his ring to see me.
The platinum band spins on the table between us.
“I know
we haven’t worn these in a few years…” His voice catches on the last two words. Has it been that long? I guess so. Time flies when you’re miserable and numb.
I don’t remember which of us took it off first. I do remember why, though.
“Why didn’t we break up three years ago?” I ask abruptly.
Luke’s face clouds over. “Because we love each other.”
I laugh. It’s the only reasonable response.
“Come on, Grace,” he mutters under his breath as the server finally makes her way in our direction.
We’re both silent as she pours coffee and takes our order.
As soon as she’s gone, Luke leans across the table. It’s not fair, he’s big enough he can get close to me without trying. “I want to fight for us. Fight with me. Tell me what I need to do.”
I shake my head. “I’m just here to eat some food before I go to work. You tagged along.”
He lets it go, and we eat, but after, as we back to our cars, he’s practically vibrating. I know he’s going to try again, and I just want to get to work.
I’m tired. He looks tired, too. This is not a good idea.
Don’t, I say in my head, which is how I have most conversations with him, apparently, because I’m exhausted just imagining saying half this shit out loud. Instead, I burrow deep inside myself and imagine what my life would be like if I hadn’t sat next to him in the cafeteria and told him I thought his answer the day before had been really good, actually.
Grace Dunn, propping up Luke Preston’s fragile ego from day one.
I unlock my car from a few feet away, and reach for the door handle.
Luke steps forward and puts his hand on the car, the same way he’d tried to block me leaving the bedroom yesterday. I glare up at him. “Don’t do this again.”
He ducks his head and mutters something.
Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2) Page 3
