Chapter 1

Claire

“We don’t need pre-marital counseling, Claire.” Jonathan looked over at me as the elevator doors closed. “This is a waste of time.”

“I didn’t say we needed it. I said we should try it—to make sure we both have honest expectations about being married.”

“And what expectations are those?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.” I’d told him I wanted to attend a few sessions before we got married—something Ryan and I didn’t do, just to make sure we were on the same page about a few things. Of course, he was one hundred percent against the idea, but after I told him it would make me happy, he slowly gave in.

We were scheduled for a two hour session with the top counseling firm in San Francisco—Waldo and Emerson Associates. The doctors assured me that it would be a light and easy process and that Jonathan and I would come out of it feeling closer than before.

As our elevator came to a stop and the doors glided open, I realized that there was nothing ahead of us. There was no secretary’s desk, no sign that read “Waldo & Emerson,” nor was there anything that resembled any sort of professional counseling business. Instead, the entire floor was covered in white sand, the few clear columns that stood ten feet apart were filled with colorful fish, and there were three beige beanbags that surrounded a small makeshift fire-pit.

Before I could accuse Jonathan of tampering with our session, a man dressed in an all-white tunic stepped in front of us.

“Ahhhh,” he said, smiling. “The future Mr. and Mrs. Statham. Welcome to Waldo pre-marital counseling. I’m Dr. Choate and I’ll be assisting you through the first stage of unity today.”

“Wait a minute. I’m sorry.” I shook my head. “We’re supposed to be meeting a Dr. Clinton. Is this the wrong floor?”

“No. You’re in the right place. This is it.”

“Then where is Dr. Clinton?”

“He retired last week. He didn’t send you an email?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, well sorry about that. The company decided to hire me in his place the same day that he left. After all my success with the Zen rituals at Statham Industries, they thought I was the best choice.” He extended his hand to Jonathan. “That’s why it’s an absolute honor to share my new and exclusive Zen practices with the man who made me a household name.”

Oh god...

He instructed us to take off our shoes and led us over to the bean bags.

“So...” He put on a pair of glasses and looked at a sheet of paper. “Miss Gracen, I see that you’ve signed up for the two hour session. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And when asked what you wanted the main focus to be on...” He flipped the paper over. “You said that you two are having problems in the intimacy department?”

Jonathan quickly turned his head to face me, raising his eyebrow.

“NO. I never said that. I said that—”

“Ah, ah, ah. It’s right here. My secretary never makes a mistake.”

“You don’t even have a—”

“Shhhh.” He leaned forward and pressed a black pen against my lips. “Don’t be ashamed of your bedroom problems, Miss Gracen. Every couple has them in some form or another. That’s what today is all about.”

I could feel Jonathan glaring at me, begging me to look his way so he could say something, but I kept my eyes straight ahead.

“If you’re hurting about something—anything at all, no matter how small it is, these next two hours are the perfect time to let it out.” He took a deep breath. Then he shut his eyes and slowly exhaled. “Let it all out.”

He sat like that for at least two minutes—shut eyes, Indian style, head tilted up to the ceiling, and I signaled to Jonathan so we could leave and end this joke of a session, but Dr. Choate’s eyes suddenly flew open.

“Now that that’s done,” he said. “Let’s get down to business. Why are you here today, Mr. Statham?”

“To help fix my fiancée’s intimacy problems.”

“See that, Miss Gracen?” Dr. Choate nodded. “He wants to fix things, too! So, on a scale of one to ten, how satisfied are you with your current sex life, Mr. Statham?”

“Twenty.”

“Okay, that’s great. Miss Gracen, how about you?”

“Twenty,” I whispered.

“Hmmm. I see...” He wrote something down and held out two notecards. “I want you to write down your honest expectations for sex after marriage. Is it going to be the same as it is now? More? Less? Well, definitely not less because Miss Gracen clearly isn’t satisfied but—”

“Thank you, Dr. Choate.” I snatched the notecard from him, still avoiding the intense glare that was coming from Jonathan.

I wrote down “same” on my notecard and waited for him to speak again.

“Okay, now toss your cards into the fire pit.”

What?

Confused, we threw them into the small fire.

“Now,” he said as he handed us two more. “This time I want you to answer the question that is printed on the notecard and be as honest as possible. And actually, could you address them as ‘Dear Future Husband’ and ‘Dear Future Wife’? We’re going to toss them into the fire as soon as we’re done, but make sure you take this seriously.”

He turned on a small radio—a radio that played the sound of ocean waves, and shut his eyes again.

There was only one question on the card: What’s one thing you wish you could change about your current intimacy exchanges?

I looked over and noticed Jonathan scribbling away, but I couldn’t think of anything. I now felt guilty for suggesting this session in the first place. Whether I wanted to believe in my current fairy tale or not, there was nothing I would change. Not a damn thing.

Sure, he and I argued about things from time to time—me working late so often, him being so damn controlling, me redecorating every room in his house, but for the most part we were great. More than great.

As a matter of fact, last night he’d held me in his arms and told me everything he loved about me, assuring me that our marriage would be the greatest accomplishment of his life.

“Miss Gracen?” Dr. Choate snapped me out of my thoughts. “You’re not writing anything down. Don’t be afraid to unleash your honesty. You have to let him know exactly how you feel. How else can you expect your bad intimacy to change to good intimacy? Unless you want to experience bad sex for the rest of your life that is. I know you only said ‘twenty’ because he said it first.” He winked at me and whispered, “It’s okay. We’re going to fix this.”

Jesus...

I wrote down a few words so it would seem like I was trying. Then I looked over at Jonathan and frowned; he was still writing.

He has that much to say?!

“Time’s up!” Dr. Choate beamed. “Now, before we feed the fire, we’re going to exchange the cards and read them out loud.”

What?! “No...I can’t.” I crumpled mine in my hand. “I didn’t know that was going to happen. I would’ve written something else...”

“What’s wrong, dear?” Jonathan smirked and held his card out to me. “I thought we were working on having honest expectations for our marriage.”

I sighed and handed him my crumpled card, taking his into my hands, not bothering to look at it.

“Mr. Statham, you first.” Doctor Choate smiled. “What’s the one thing your future wife would change about your current intimacy?”

Jonathan looked down at the card, then he looked back up at me—smiling with his eyebrow raised.

Please don’t read it out loud...Please don’t read it out loud...

“She says better communication.” He smiled even wider and I exhaled, relieved.

“And what about you, Future Wife? What did your future husband have to say about you?

I flipped the card over and forced myself to look at it: Dear Future Wife, the only thing I wish I could change was letting you wake up late this morning because I should’ve woken you up early, taken you in the shower, and made you forget about this dumb ass meeting. However, now that we’re here, I want you to be fully aware that right after this is over, I’m going to make sure the words “marriage counseling” and “intimacy problems” never come out of your mouth again. :-)

I blushed. “He says the same thing.”

“Okay, well great. Now we’re getting somewhere. Communication is very key in having a successful intimate relationship. Moving on... In an average week, how many times do you currently have sex now, Future Wife? And in all honesty, is it fulfilling?”

Is he fucking serious? “A few times,” I said, hoping he would move on to something else.

“A few times?” Jonathan looked into my eyes. “That’s what you honestly think?”

Stop it...I knew he was reading my mind right now and could sense that I wanted him to stop, but he was clearly enjoying my embarrassment.

“Doctor, what classifies as a few times?” Jonathan kept his eyes locked on mine.

“Two or three times a week, Mr. Statham.”

“Hmmm...And a lot?”

“Well, I guess I would say eight to ten times a week.”

“Interesting.” He leaned forward and ran his fingers across my golden anchor necklace. “So Claire, having heard that, you think a few times is accurate for what we do?”

“Yes. I do.” I didn’t want the doctor in our sex life. At all. When I’d made this appointment, I’d been assured that the focus would be on us discussing our expectations for the long term—our goals and our dreams. There was no mention of dissecting what we did in the bedroom and I was damn sure I never said anything about intimacy problems.

“I am so hurt by these claims, Doctor.” Jonathan put his hand over his chest. “I mean, to have the love of my life tell me that she feels like we only have sex a few times a week is just...Is this the part where I’m allowed to cry?”

“Yes, Mr. Statham. Let out all of your pain.”

He smirked. “Is our sex not memorable to you, Claire? It must not be if you think we only have sex two to three times a week. I want an honest marriage as well, so if you think we have intimacy problems and that our sex is that terrible—”

“We have sex every day.” I nearly lost it. “Every. Day. Sometimes more than once. Sometimes more than twice. And every time is fucking memorable. Happy?” I narrowed my eyes at him and he kissed my cheek.

“Um...” The doctor adjusted the sleeves of his tunic. “Well...I....Very good for both of you. Let’s move away from intimacy then, shall we?”

“Thank you.” We said in unison.

**

Once the counseling session finally came to an end, we both shook Dr. Choate’s hand and said we’d be “in touch” about scheduling part two. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I rushed inside and pressed the “door close” button over and over—anxious to get far away from white sand and invasive notecards.

“What’s the rush, Future Wife?” Jonathan stepped directly in front of me and pressed my back against the wall. “Do you have another meeting to go to right now? Somewhere else where you plan on discussing our intimacy problems?”

“I never said we had intimacy problems...That was a mistake and you know it.”

“Hmmm.” He brushed his fingers against my necklace.

“I can’t believe you pushed me into telling him about our sex life.”

“He asked.”

“You didn’t have to tell him the truth.”

“I thought you wanted me to be honest.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “I’ve told you a million times that I don’t lie.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell him what I wrote on that card?”

He slipped his hand underneath my skirt. “If you would like, we can go back up and I’ll happily tell him that my future wife wishes that my head was between her legs right now.”

I blushed and shook my head.

“Are you sure?” He tugged at my panties. “I’m not opposed to telling him that.”

“That’s okay...”

He lowered his mouth to my neck, taking his time to press gentle kisses onto my skin as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

I looked up at the floor numbers that were flashing above the doors as we passed them by—Eight, Seven, Six, and pushed him away from me.

“We’re almost back to the lobby,” I murmured as I stepped to the other side.

“No. We’re not.” He hit the stop button and walked over to me, pressing me against the wall again. “I actually think we do have one huge intimacy problem, Claire.”

“What?”

“Why is it that you can only be open with me about sex in text messages and notecards?”

“What are you talking about? That’s not—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” He cut me off with a kiss and slowly hiked my dress up to my stomach. “I always have to try and read your mind, or read between your little smart-ass comments when it comes to what you want...Why is that, Claire?”

“I...” I couldn’t focus when he looked at me like this, when he locked his eyes on mine and demanded answers that I didn’t have.

“If you like when I fuck you with my mouth, why don’t you ever say that when we’re at home?”

I bit my lip as he slipped a finger inside of me, as he held me steady with his other arm.

“Hmmm, Claire? I’m standing right here...Tell me what you want...”

“Jonathan...” I moaned.

He was pressing his thumb against my clit, punishing it with slow, sensuous circles.

“You can’t tell me right now because you’d rather wait until you get to work and tell me in a text message?”

“No...”

“Then tell me what you like...”

“Everything...”

He closed the little space that was left between us, keeping his thumb busy, bringing his mouth close to my ear. “Tell me you love it when I fuck you with my mouth.”

“I do.”

“Say. It.”

I swallowed. “I love when you go down on me...”

He sighed and slowly pulled away from me, and I thought he was going to step over and hit the start button, but he spun me around so that I was facing the corner and gripped my waist. “You were right...We do need better communication.”

“Jonathan, there are federal offices in here. The fire department is going to—” I stopped once I felt him sliding into me, forcing himself deeper and deeper.

“If you think that I’m going to be happy in a marriage where my own wife can’t tell me what she wants, you’re sadly mistaken, Claire...” He held me completely still once he was entirely inside of me.

Kissing the back of my neck, he whispered once again, “Tell. Me. What. You. Like.”

I couldn’t think. I was too pre-occupied with thoughts of the fire department calling the elevator to check on us, thoughts about how my standing in a corner with Jonathan buried deep inside of me would look.

Before I could snap back into reality and answer him, he pulled out and quickly thrust himself back in—over and over, making me scream louder than ever.

“I asked you a question, Claire.” He gripped my breasts and squeezed them, slamming into me with each moan I let escape from my mouth.

“I...I like...” I stuttered. “I like when you...”

“Yes?” He moved one of his hands to my clit and started rubbing it in a rhythm he knew all too well.

“When you...”

“Fuck me with your mouth...” He was speeding up his thrusts now, making it harder and harder for me to talk straight. “Finish. The .Sentence.”

“Wait...I...I like when...when you—”

BEEP! BEEP!

“Elevator car number 510 at Waldo and Emerson Associates, this is responding unit 861.” A voice came over the speakers. “Speaking to you right now is Chief Brennan Marshall. We’ve noticed the current cart has stalled for over six minutes. Are there any persons inside?”

BEEP! BEEP!

“You know I don’t care if they see us like this...” Jonathan grabbed my hands, pulling them up over my head and pressing them against the wall. “And I won’t stop when they open the doors if you haven’t answered me.”

“Are there any persons inside?” The fire chief repeated. “Hmmm. Might be an empty car gentlemen,” he said in a lowered voice.

“There are persons inside.” Jonathan answered calmly, but his thrusts inside of me were the exact opposite. I was doing my best to hold my breath and bite down on my lip to prevent myself from screaming again.

“Okay, hold tight. We’ll send a team over now.”

There was another series of beeps to end the conversation, and then everything around me went hazy—blurred. I was suddenly screaming at the top of my lungs as he pushed me to the verge of an orgasm, as he demanded that I answer him one last time.

“I love when you...” I let my head fall back against his shoulder, let my body completely go. “When you fuck me with your mouth...” I shut my eyes as my knees gave in beneath me, as he slowly slid out of me and let me fall to the floor.

I wanted to sit like that forever—on a high, in bliss, but Jonathan pulled me up and held me against his side, hitting the stop button and pressing the level that was right above the lobby.

When we stepped off the elevator, he kept me tucked by his side and led me down the emergency stairwell and outside. As soon as the first whiff of fresh air hit my face, I took a deep breath. “Do you always have to do that to me? Is it impossible for you to wait?”

“It’s the only way to get you to tell me the truth...” He released me. “And I think you like it...”

I rolled my eyes and tried not to smile.

“I love you, Claire.” He kissed my forehead and adjusted my necklace. “I don’t know why you’re still so reserved about discussing sex with me, but you shouldn’t be. You should be able to tell me what you want, whenever you want, and I’ll make sure it gets done.” He kissed me again and wrapped his arms around my waist, leading me over to the parking lot.

As we approached our cars—town car for me, Bugatti for him, he spun me around to face him.

“Do you still think we need pre-marital counseling? Are there any other intimacy issues we need to discuss?”

“No...”

“Hmmm...” He pressed his lips against mine. “You are so lucky that I have a flight to catch right now,” he said as he slowly pulled his mouth away from me, as he pressed my crumpled notecard into my hand. “Be home by six.”

**

Days later, I stood in my office and stared at the newest set of family photos I’d hung on my wall: pictures of me, Ashley, Caroline, and Jonathan hanging out at a private lake.

In one photo, the four of us were building a large sand castle, laughing at how long it’d taken us to put it together. In another we were rowing four small kayaks across the water.

Ever since Ashley and Caroline had gone off early to college in Arizona, my days at home were a lot less noisy. They were actually quite boring.

I missed the two of them lying around on the couch—talking about absolutely nothing, laughing at my terrible jokes, and ultimately getting on my nerves from time to time. I missed that.

Now, instead of family dinners on Sunday and Thursday nights, Jonathan and I simply went over to his little sister Hayley’s condo and ate dinner with her. Although he never admitted it, Jonathan was missing family dinners too; I was pretty sure that was why he’d already planned a week of meals for their Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks.

“Miss Gracen?” My assistant interrupted my thoughts.

“Yes, Rita?”

“Your daily flowers from Mr. Statham have just arrived. Would you like them in here?”

“Yes, please.” I leaned back as she pulled a small cart of flowers—orchids, Baby’s Breath, and white carnations into my office.

As usual, there was a silver card with a note on top:

Dear Future Wife,

Do I need to start picking you up from work to get you home in time to eat dinner with me? You’ve been late all week.

Stop Testing Me.

Love,

Your Future Husband

I laughed. I was about to pick up my phone and call him, but Rita stepped into my office again.

“Your three o’clock is here now,” she said. “I’m going to bring her back before my lunch break.”

“Thank you, Rita.” I stood up and smoothed my dress, ready to seal another deal, blocking everything else out.

As soon as the client walked into my office, my mind was focused on white columns, framed cabinets, and the stained wood necessary to create a brand new space. She and I talked for hours, negotiating the timeline, the best materials, and of course, the cost for everything.

When I handed her the final contract, she nodded her head and grabbed a pen to sign it. “Everything looks really good, Miss Gracen. These dates work well for me.”

“Great. I’m really looking forward to designing your new living room, Mrs. Klein.” I shook her hand and stood up.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I’m sure it’ll be just as fabulous as all your other work.”

“I guarantee it.” I led her out of my office and back inside the storefront, pulling all the drapes closed once she walked outside.

I’ll finally get to make it home on time today...

I started straightening the pillow display that was over by the bay window, making sure all the tags were tightly tucked underneath. I was tempted to lay across them and relax, but my phone rang. Jonathan.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Claire.” His deep voice still had the power to make me melt. “What are you doing right now?”

“I’m closing the store. You?”

“I’m driving. Are you tired?”

“Why?”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes.” I yawned. “I’m too tired to have sex with you right now.”

He laughed. “Would you like me to reschedule our meeting with the wedding planner then?”

“No!” I’d been looking forward to that meeting for weeks. “Not at all.”

“Good. I’m on my way to pick you up. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“See you soon.” I hung up and swiped a mini-duster over the candle shelves.

I was halfway done when I heard the bell over the door ring.

“I’ll be right there.” I didn’t bother turning around. “Let me finish this last shelf and—”

“Claire?”

My blood boiled at the very sound of that voice.

I shook my head, knowing that I couldn’t be standing in my store. I had to be at home and asleep in my bed. I had to be dreaming. No, I had to be having a nightmare.

“Claire?” He asked again, and I pinched myself before slowly turning around.

I wasn’t at home. I wasn’t dreaming.

It was Ryan. 

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“I almost didn’t recognize you when I walked in. You look good, really good...” He looked me up and down. “Life must be treating you well.”

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Look. I know I’m the last person you want to see right now, but since I’m in town, I thought I would—”

“Invite me out to dinner? Catch up on life? I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“I beg to differ. We need to talk.”

“No thanks. Not interested.”

“It’s important.” He sighed.

“No. It’s not.”

“Claire, it’s been five years now. We can at least be cordial to one another.”

“Cordial? How cordial do you think I should be to the lying sack of shit who got my ex-best friend pregnant?” I shook my head. “Actually, don’t even answer that. I’ve already used up my pointless conversation minutes for the day. Please get the hell out of my store.”

“You’re going to listen to me, Claire.” He took a step forward and looked directly into my eyes. “Whether you like it or not, you’re going to stand there and listen to every word that I have to say.”

I crossed my arms. “If I were you, I would leave right now. My fiancée will be here any minute and he won’t be as nice as I’m being to you.”

His face suddenly fell—or at least it looked like it did. “You’re...You’re engaged now? To who?”

“Please leave, Ryan.” I felt an ache in my chest—a painful, burning ache. “I don’t want you here. Ever.”

He stared at me—shaking his head as he slowly backed away.

Before he opened the door, he looked over his shoulder. “I’m only leaving right now because you’re closing and I have somewhere to be. I was just stopping by to make sure it was true that you worked here. Trust me, I’ll be back. And you and I are going to talk.”

It took every ounce of strength in my body not to run over and stab him with the edge of my dust wand, but I just stood there. Paralyzed. Livid.

As soon as he was gone, I gained mobility again and threw my dust wand to the floor. I headed behind the counter, pressing the button that made the glass panel drop down and block anyone from coming any further; I didn’t want to take any chances on him returning minutes later.

I locked myself in the bathroom and ran cold water in the sink, splashing my face over and over again. As hard as I tried to fight it, my most vivid and bitter memory of our failed marriage began to play in my mind...

––––––––

I took another sip of disgusting wine and looked at the incriminating photos Barry had handed me.

“I asked Amanda where she was on last Friday.” Barry lit a cigar and shook his head. “She told me she was with you—out shopping for a new dress.” He picked up one of the photos and ran his fingers along the timestamp. “Maybe she meant she was wearing a dress while she was fucking Ryan in his office...”

I let out a short nervous laugh, but I couldn’t stop crying. As hard as I tried to repress my sobs, the tears were falling faster and faster and my chest was heaving uncontrollably.

A waiter stopped by and cleared his throat. “Um, sir? This is a nonsmoking—”

“My wife is fucking her husband.” Barry snapped. “I can smoke wherever the fuck I want today.”

The waiter’s face turned bright red and he dashed across the room.

I wiped away another stream of tears and stared at the photo that had fallen in my lap, the one of Ryan tucking a strand of hair behind Amanda’s ear, the one of her leaning in close for a kiss from his lips.

“Can I keep a set of these?” My voice cracked.

“Of course you can. I made four copies. One for you, one for me, and two sets for my lawyers.”

I nodded and slid the stack of photos back into the envelope. I was too numb to say anything else. I needed to be alone.

Standing up, I walked over and hugged Barry—knowing that I wouldn’t see him again for a very long time.

He hugged me back and used his wrinkled sleeve to wipe my face. “You’re going to be okay, Claire. Don’t let what they’ve done to us ruin you. You’re an amazing person and you’ll bounce back from this...”

He said a few more things, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. I was too busy focusing on the drive home, too busy wondering what the hell I was going to say when I saw Ryan face to face.

I dragged myself out of the hotel lounge and into the rain—not bothering to put up my umbrella. The valet brought my car around and offered to give me a towel for my seat, but I slipped inside and sped off.

“I love you, Claire...You’re the love of my life...I’m going to make sure our anniversary is the best one we’ve ever had...”

I sniffled as I remembered him saying those words to me—last night.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved—and you always will be...”

I pulled off on the exit that led to our suburb, shaking my head at all the beautiful memories that were playing in my head—knowing that no matter what I said to him tonight, our so-called “fairytale” was long over.

I drove around our neighborhood until the gas needle hit “E,” trying to come up with something to say, but I was too numb, too hurt. After deciding that I would let the pictures say it all, I drove my car into the garage and sat at the wheel with my head in my hands.

The two of us were just shopping for new kitchen countertops last week—he wanted wood and I wanted granite. We were just planning our fifteen year anniversary, and even though he’d been vague about the plans, I was sure he was taking me to the Panama Canal, the one place I’d always wanted to go.

A round of thunder roared in the distance and the rain began to pelt even harder, so I closed the garage and slipped out of the car.

Taking a deep breath, I twisted the doorknob and stepped inside the house.

“Hey, Mom!” “Why are you so late today?” Caroline and Ashley didn’t look up from their homework.

“Hey, babe.” Ryan pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. “Are you okay?” He raised his eyebrow, lowering his voice and asking why my face was “so red...like [I’d] been crying.”

I didn’t answer his question. I just stared into his eyes, wondering how he could act as if everything was normal—as if he hadn’t fucked Amanda in our bedroom yesterday.

“You’re drenched...” He ran his hands against my soaked blazer. “Did you lose your umbrella?” 

I swallowed, shaking my head.

He smiled. “Well, go dry up. Whatever’s bothering you—whatever it is, we can talk about it after dinner. Okay? I ordered pizza from the girls’ favorite place and it’s ready now.” He kissed my cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

I heard him whisper “I love you” into my ear before he walked away.

As soon as I heard him revving up his engine and heading down the driveway, I turned to face my daughters.

“Mom?” Ashley tilted her head to the side. “What’s wrong with you?”

Caroline lifted her head up and frowned. “Mom? Why are you staring at us like that?” She looked at Ashley and shook her head. “Why isn’t she talking?”

“I need you two to go to your room.” My voice cracked. “I need to...I need to talk to your dad when he gets back. Alone.”

They exchanged confused glances, but they put their folders away and hugged me before heading upstairs.

As soon as I heard their door close, I took out the envelope and sat down at the table, thinking about how I was going to present the photos to Ryan.

All of a sudden, my phone vibrated. A text. Amanda. “Hey Claire! Just texting you to remind you about that jazzercise class we signed up for tomorrow morning! I’ll pick you up at nine!”

Is this bitch serious?!

I tossed my phone across the room, knocking a photo frame off the wall. Hurt, I stood up and took the photos out of the envelope. I walked around downstairs and tossed them all over the floor, leaving a trail from the dining room to the living room and into the kitchen.

The last photo in my hands was one of Amanda straddling his lap in his car last week—in the parking lot of his law firm.

I wanted to rip it apart and force the pieces down his throat, but I heard the knob of the garage door twisting, heard him saying, “Where’d everybody go? I’m back!”

I leaned against the table and tried to calm my shaking hands.

“Ashley? Caroline? Claire?” His steps were getting closer and closer. “Did a tornado hit the inside of our house while I was gone?” He finally stepped into the kitchen.

“What’s going on, Claire?” He set the pizzas on the counter. “What are all these pictures and why are they all over the place?”

I didn’t answer. I just stared at him as he bent down to pick one of them up, as his face immediately went white.

He looked up at me in utter horror, devastation. “Claire, I’m so sorry...Can we...Can we talk about this?”

––––––––

I cringed at the memory and splashed more water onto my face.

The mere thought of Ryan still lit a bitter flame within me, but seeing him? In person? That was a damn wildfire, and I wasn’t sure how long it would take to put out.

I couldn’t believe his audacity—to actually show up and attempt to have a regular conversation with me, to act as if I would give him the time of day.

What the fuck does he want?

There was a knock at the door, but I didn’t answer it. I couldn’t. My body was shaking and my thoughts were consumed with rage and disgust.

Why would he even show up here? He knows I HATE him...

“Claire?” Jonathan’s voice was on the other side of the door.

“Yes?” I snapped out of my trance and unlocked it.

“Why are you in here? And why is your face wet?” He grabbed a towel off the rack and softly pressed it against my cheeks. “Are you hot?”

“No...I’m...” I hesitated.

“We can reschedule the appointment.” He wrapped his arm around my waist and walked me out front. “I’ll let her know we can come another day. You don’t look like you’re feeling well.”

“I’m not...Ryan was just here.”

His body immediately stiffened, and he looked down at me with his jaw clenched. “Your ex-husband Ryan?”

I nodded.

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know...I told him to leave. I didn’t want to talk to him.”

“Good.” His eyes softened a bit, but I could tell he was upset. “How does he know where you work?”

“I don’t know...” Caroline and Ashley knew better than to discuss me with Ryan, just like they knew better than to discuss him with me. The few mutual friends we shared in Pittsburgh only knew tidbits of my new life—nothing major, and they would never share any information with him.

“Do you know why he would bother coming to San Francisco?”

I shook my head. There was nothing here for him.

“Hmmm.” He pulled me close and kissed my hair. “I’ll make sure he never bothers you again.”

I wanted to ask, “How?” but I knew he would handle it. I leaned against him and sighed as he led me over to the passenger side of his car.

“Since you’re finally leaving work on time today, what would you like for dinner?” He revved up the engine and looked over at me.

“You.”

“That’s implied.” He grinned. “We can order something in.”

He pulled off and sped onto the highway, making me smile at how perfect my life was right now, how everything I wanted and needed was sitting next to me in this car.

As I looked out my window and watched the city disappear in the distance, I tried not to think about Ryan’s visit, but I couldn’t help it.

Outside of scheduling time to see our daughters, Ryan hadn’t bothered me any other year that I’d been living here. He knew not to, and I didn’t need my painful past colliding with my perfect present. Ever.

It has to be something really serious for him to come here...

No, fuck him. It doesn’t matter what it is...