20. Stepping in Shit
One block over and back from the Brantleys, I dodged a puddle and tugged at Chanel’s leash. She was distracted by a discarded Starbucks cup, growling fiercely at it when I glanced down the street and came to a stop.
There was a stranger, leaning against a streetlight. Not an odd sight in this city, but it was the woman in his arms that held me in place. Nicole. He said something to her and his voice floated innocently through the air, like he had no worries, certainly not little ol’ me fifteen feet away. I was close enough to see Nicole’s breath frost in the air as she leaned in and smiled up at him. Close enough that, when his hand reached down and palmed her ass, I could see the crease in her leather pants. Close enough that I noticed her grip on the top of his jeans, the top of her fingers slipping in between material and skin. Close enough that I worried, when I gagged a little in my mouth, that they heard me.
I’d known Nicole wasn’t perfect. The sweet bubble of kindness that I met the first day had popped. I’d seen her tempers. Her high maintenance ways. The insecurity that she tried desperately to hide. The woman had everything but wanted more. I knew that, but still … she was MARRIED. Not that I knew anything about being a wife, but monogamy seemed to be the number one rule of the union. And yet his mouth was coming down on hers, her hand digging into his hair. It wasn’t a first kiss; it was natural, like they’d done it a hundred times before. I wanted to pluck off one of Chanel’s booties and throw it at her, followed by that dirty Starbucks cup. She was married to Clarke, the beautiful man who worked nonstop and still got up an extra hour early to cook her breakfast. The man who massaged her shoulders when she bitched, brought her flowers, opened her car door, and looked gorgeous doing it all. She had all that—yet was in this stranger’s arms.
The guy wasn’t even drool-worthy. He wore a plaid cardigan (yuck) and had a beard, one of those flimsy ones that signified a late attempt to jump on the trend. He looked mid-thirties, with a thin build, his legs spread in black jeans, the hint of a light gray T-shirt peeking out from beneath the cardigan when he shifted toward me. He glanced in my direction, and I got a good look at his face. It wasn’t ugly. It wasn’t beautiful. It was normal. Nothing when you compared it to Clarke.
Our gazes met and I knew the judgment must have shown on my face. I knew I should turn away but didn’t. I’d forgotten how to function. In the world of fight or flight, I froze in place and got eaten.
Chanel stopped her interrogation of the empty Starbucks cup, the leash going slack, her leopard print body trotting forward. I pulled on the leash, tried to turn but she saw Nicole and lunged forward, yipping loudly.
Oh shit. I pulled harder, my eyes flitting to Nicole and watched, in almost slow motion, as her head snapped my way. She raised a hand to her mouth, stepping back from the man. I scooped up Chanel’s rigid body, fighting her strain toward the pair, her yaps loud and harsh in the quiet cold. Shushing her, I turned away and blocked her view with my body, my flats quick on the street. I was running by the time I climbed the steps to their house, out of breath, Chanel’s body wiggling to be free, our fall through the front doors done with a fair amount of drama, despite my best attempt to be quiet. Nancy, one of the maids, rushed in, her hurry ceasing when she saw it was just me.
“You’re tracking snow in. Get those stupid shoes off the dog before she ruins the floors.” She snapped out the words, oblivious to my situation.
I wanted to tell her that I also thought the doggie shoes were stupid. I wanted to tell her that I just saw Nicole kissing a stranger and—Chanel darted out of my hands, her booties tip-tapping across the floor, leaving dots of water. I scrambled to my feet, going after her, apologizing to Nancy. She shouted at me to remove my shoes and I chucked them off, the action too enthusiastic, one flying up and hitting a large crystal dancer that sat on the entrance table, everyone but Chanel freezing as we watched it fall to the floor.
At any other time, it would have been a beautiful sound, a thousand tiny splinters of glass on marble. We stared at the damage, Nancy letting out a sharp gasp.
“Fuck,” I whispered. Between catching Nicole in the act and destroying this, I was most likely staring at unemployment in that pile of crystal.
What could I have done? What could I have said? I still didn’t know what the right action was to take on that Manhattan side street.
Should I have confronted her? Pointed a judgmental finger at Nicole and asked what in the hell she was doing?
Should I have looked away, pretended I didn’t see anything?
Waved cheerily as if cheating was an everyday activity?
I stared at the broken crystal and drew a complete blank.