“Dinner out tonight?” he asks, his voice now warm and affectionate in a way it hasn’t been with me in months.
“Absolutely,” Sloan purrs, reaching up to straighten his tie. “That new steakhouse downtown? The one that just got the excellent review?”
“Perfect. Let me just change my shirt.”
She stubs out her cigarette directly on one of the white ceramic plates with delicate blue flowers around the rim—the same plate I had washed by hand this morning, carefully drying it and placing it in the cabinet because these were her “good” plates that couldn’t go in the dishwasher. My hands still smell faintly of the expensive lavender dish soap she insists I use, the kind that costs eleven dollars a bottle.
Fifteen minutes later, they’re gone. I remain frozen in the kitchen, one hand pressed against my burning cheek, watching through the window as Deacon’s arm slides around Sloan’s narrow waist, as they laugh together about something, as they walk to his BMW—the one I helped him make the down payment on three years ago with money I’d been saving for a hearing aid I desperately needed. Their laughter floats back through the open garage door, carefree and light. The engine starts with a quiet, expensive purr. They back out of the driveway and disappear down the tree-lined street, heading off to their hundred-dollar steaks and fifty-dollar bottles of wine, leaving me alone in their showcase house.
