You don’t need to see this—
Despite my screaming gut, I creep around the parked cars before finally coming to a stop behind a big SUV, not more than a stone’s throw from them. I peek my head around the bumper—
No.
No, no. no.
I shake my head frantically.
I shouldn’t have looked.
I didn’t need to see this.
I don’t want to see this!
But . . . shit.
I can’t look away.
I can’t look away!
Wide eyed and breathless, I watch as my husband strokes the cheek of the handsome man sitting in my seat: Julian, the radiologist. Dan introduced me to him at last year’s Christmas party as the new guy he’d been playing hoops with on the weekends. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Dan’s been playing basketball every weekend since we met nearly twenty years ago. He was an all-American in high school and played on a scholarship in college. After medicine, basketball is his greatest passion, so adding another guy to his roster of ball buddies didn’t strike me as concerning in any way. But I know better now. Being one of Dan’s ball buddies isn’t just a reference to the time they spend together on the court.
The rage that was just propelling my movements gives way to suffocating betrayal. I’ve pictured this scene thousands of times since he confessed the truth, but witnessing it firsthand—
Seeing him in the act—
Watching him touch someone else—
I thought it would feel strange to see him with another man, but it doesn’t even play a part. The pain is the same, no matter who sits in that seat. Julian’s just a person . . . the person my husband loves instead of me—
Dan suddenly leans in and kisses him, prompting my stomach to wrench, a swell of bile surging up my throat. Those aren’t my lips, Dan! You vowed you’d only kiss my lips! I quickly turn away, fist pressed to my mouth in hopes of stifling the sour stream, but it’s no use. The acrid liquid burbles into my mouth like remnants of a leaky pipe, forcing me to spit and sputter my dinner all over the car’s oversize tire.
Dammit, Jane!
Why did you look?
Why did you follow him here?
Why the fuck did you want to see this?!
I hear a car door slam, then another. Wincing against the taste, I swipe the spittle from my mouth and peek back around the car. Dan and Julian are walking toward the Bone Yard hand in hand.
Hot tears swell in my eyes as I watch them climb up the ramp of the loading dock, then disappear into the sea of male bodies, blue light, and pulsating music.
Asshole.
How could you do this . . . ?
My chest shudders with broken, wounded breaths, and I pinch my eyes shut tight, trying to unsee what I just saw.
Wishing I’d never followed the damn car.
Wishing I’d never believed him when he said he loved me.
Wishing I’d never committed my life to a cheater and a liar.
Liar!
Anger quickly seeps its way back into my bloodstream, once again dictating all my thoughts, stirring up a rage so deep my body starts to shake.
I hate you.
I HATE YOU!
Just like at the restaurant, I burrow my fingernails into my palms and stalk back toward my car, spitting and hacking against the burn still lingering on my tongue.
Asshole.
Asshole.
Asshole.
I’m just feet from the car when my phone chimes with a new text message. I snatch it out of my bag. It’s from Avery. Sweet, lying little Avery:
YOU NEED TO BRING THE ORANGES TMRW
I reel back.
What?
Why do I need to bring the oranges? Jennifer Sutton is the team mom this year; it’s her job to bring the oranges to the game!
I quickly pull up Avery’s name from my contact list and call her.
The phone rings three times before she finally picks up.
“What?” she grunts.
“What do you mean I have to bring the oranges? Why can’t Mrs. Sutton do it?” Given the circumstances, the pinched quality in my tone isn’t surprising.
“I don’t know.”
“So, she’s expecting me to do it?”
“I guess.”
“Well, what exactly did she say to you?”
“She just said that she couldn’t do it and asked me to ask if you could.”
“She asked you?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Like . . . Monday or something—”
“Monday?”
“Yeah.”
My jaw muscles grow taut. “Avery, you can’t just spring stuff like that on me. You have to tell me right away. I’ve been to the market three times this week—and now I have to go again. I really don’t want to do this tonight—”
“So, do it tomorrow.”
So, do it tomorrow?
Her flippant response sets my already-feverish blood to boiling.
“Excuse me?” I bite back.
She blows out a sigh. One of those heavy, teenage girl sighs that can only be delivered along with a monumental eye roll.
“What? God,” she goes on, “I’m just saying you don’t have to do it tonight. Just go in the morning. Or don’t do it at all—I don’t care. Nobody eats the oranges anyway.”
Nobody eats the oranges anyway?!
So, the thousands of oranges I’ve cut up over the last seven years were totally pointless?
Just a waste of my precious time?
Because nobody eats the oranges anyway?!
My hands start to tremble as I swallow back the fresh surge of rage that’s rising up from my feet, and the slurry of four-letter words following in its wake.
“I’m sorry, okay?” she continues, sounding anything but sorry. “I’ll tell you earlier next time—”
“Yeah, you’re damn right you will.” My tone is abrasive and must sound as unfamiliar to Avery’s ears as it does my own. But right now, I really don’t care. I don’t care! “Okay, so I guess I’m going to get the oranges nobody’s going to eat. I’ll be home when I get there.”
Huffing like a bull, I stalk back across the parking lot toward the market, mumbling hateful words about stupid, lazy Jennifer Sutton under my breath the whole way.
“I knew I couldn’t trust you to take over team mom duties,” I snarl through gritted teeth as I rip a plastic bag from the spool stationed in the middle of the produce section. “I told you it was hard work, but you said you were up for it. You said your divorce gave you perspective on what was important.” I yank another bag from the spool. The metal stand shakes beneath the volatile movement. “Guess we know how important the fucking oranges are, don’t we? Don’t we, Jennifer?”
I load up the bags—not even bothering to check if the oranges are ripe or damaged—then storm up to the fifteen-items-or-less line, where there are two people ahead of me.
Why is there no fucking self-checkout?!
Snippets of Dan and Julian’s make-out session flash through my mind, forcing my limbs to grow restless. I start rocking from one foot to the other—a little dance that’s meant to settle my nerves but sadly isn’t working.
The woman in front of me casts an annoyed glance over her shoulder.
“Can I help you?” I snip, cringing against the bitchiness in my voice and the gritty texture in my mouth. My tongue feels like sandpaper. Sandpaper laced with puke.
She scowls, then turns back around.
I drop the basket of oranges onto the floor and fish out the canister of Altoids from my bag. I pop the lid and see the blue pill I stole from Heather; it stands out like a little beacon against its white wintergreen neighbors. A beacon meant to provide me some peace—some control!—in this shitstorm that my life has become.
I tuck the pill in my front pants pocket, eager to take it once I’m back in the car, and pop a mint in my mouth.
The lin
e moves forward, so I shove the basket with my foot while searching the small refrigerator beside me for something to wash the pill down. Unlike every other grocery store in America, there’s no soda or water, just alcohol. Tiny little bottles of wine and liquor like you’d find on an airplane.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t drink before a thirty-mile drive, but a little something extra to settle my nerves before I get home and have to deal with Avery will do me some good. Besides, it’ll probably take at least that long for the pill to kick in anyway.
The line moves forward again, so I quickly grab a bottle of white zin, then kick the basket forward with another nudge of my foot.
Come on, let’s go.
The woman in front of me slowly starts to unload her items onto the conveyer belt: cans of cat food.
One can, two cans, three cans . . .
My jaw clenches at her sloth-like movements.
Hurry up!
. . . four cans, five cans, six cans . . .
Just dump them the hell out!
I blow out an annoyed groan. The cashier—a young woman, no more than eighteen or so—glances at me but doesn’t say anything.
. . . seven cans, eight, nine, ten . . .
I shift impatiently.
Come on, lady! I can’t take pills without liquid.
I can’t open the wine inside the damn store!
. . . eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . .
Thank god.
I pat my pocket.
Soon, little one. Very soon—
. . . fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . .
Wait.
What?!
. . . nineteen, twenty, twenty-one . . .
OHMYGOD!
My veins start to palpitate beneath a sudden surge of hot, angry blood.
What the hell?
It’s fifteen items or less.
Fifteen fucking items!
I grind my molars together, biting against the scream that’s rising in my throat.
. . . twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . .
My entire body grows tense, all my nerves and muscles turning rod tight. I plunge my nails into my palms.
She’s not the enemy, Jane.
You’re not really mad at her.
You’re mad at Dan.
And Avery.
And fucking Jennifer Sutton—
I pinch my eyes shut and drop my head, refusing to watch.
I’m going to lose my mind.
I’m going to kill her—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Thankfully the cashier starts scanning, which means the cat lady must be done.
But now I’m counting the beeps.
One, two, three . . .
Hurry . . .
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Seven, eight, nine . . .
Oh my god!
I plunge my nails in even deeper. So deep I swear I can feel the skin start to break.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . .
My teeth are about to crack.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . .
Oh, for fuck’s sake! You better finish checking her out, or I’m going to shove that cat food straight up her—
“Ma’am, I can help you now.”
The cashier’s call startles me.
I open my eyes.
“Ma’am?” she prompts.
Chest heaving, I slowly unclench my fist and raise my head just in time to see the cat lady leaving the store, her shopping cart loaded down with three full bags of cat food.
Three bags.
Bitch.
Blood still running hot, I unload my basket onto the belt. The cashier gives me a nervous glance but wisely doesn’t say anything. She weighs and scans the oranges, then pauses when she gets to the wine.
“Can I see your ID?”
As much as I’d like to think she’s complimenting me on my youthful appearance, I know that’s not the case. Grocery stores around here card everyone. I hand over my license—which she barely glances at—then she returns it to me with a forced smile and says, “That’ll be eleven dollars and fourteen cents.”
I swipe my credit card through the little machine, and while it processes, I glance down at my driver’s license. My blood instantly grows feverish as I read my name: Jane Louise Osborne. Osborne. I thought that was a name I could trust, a name that would provide me the life I always longed for.
Bastard.
With my grocery bags looped over my arms, I exit the store, tossing my driver’s license into the trash barrel just outside the door, and head for the car, where my sanity waits beneath a stolen pill and a tiny bottle of wine—oh, hell no!
My eyes splay wide, my teeth once again cementing together at the infuriating scene unfolding in front of me. Evil cat lady has just climbed into her little hatchback, abandoning her grocery cart in the empty space beside her, even though there’s a cart corral just ten feet away.
Ten feet!
“You better not be doing that,” I mutter over gritted teeth. “You better not be that lazy . . .”
Her engine starts up, and the taillights come to life.
My pulse spikes.
She’s going to leave it there.
She’s just going to leave it.
My eyes narrow, fury swelling as I approach the car.
The white reverse lights come on.
Don’t you leave that cart.
Don’t you fucking do it!
The car slowly starts to back out of the spot—
CRACK!
Something deep down inside me breaks, like a levee has just given way after a big storm. Seething, I reach inside the bag and grab an orange. I chuck it at her car and scream, “Put your fucking cart away!” The orange smacks the rear window, then rolls down to the ground with a thud.
Damn, that felt good.
She slams on the brakes. “What the hell are you doing?” she yells out her window.
Given the circumstances, her question is probably fair, but all my rational thoughts are gone—buried beneath the jarring hum that’s now pulsating through my body, my veins infested by wasps and hornets searching for a way out. But there’s no way out—no way that doesn’t involve me beating the shit out of her car with fruit!
I grab another orange and throw it. This one hits her back bumper.
Yes.
“Stop it!” she screams.
Another one. It hits her tire.
YES!
“Stop doing that!”
“You need to put your cart away!” I growl, my tone now bordering on demonic, suggesting my head is about to start spinning. “You can’t just leave your cart wherever you feel like it!”
I throw another orange. This one nails the roof.
I quickly reload, ready to fire again, but she must recognize the crazy in my eyes because she ducks her head back inside, then throws the car into drive and peels away toward the exit. Despite the distance, I still throw the orange, not with the intent to hit her but just because it feels really good.
So.
Fucking.
Good.
Winded, I stand in the parking lot, bags dangling from my hands like I’m Billy the Kid—ready for a showdown—and watch as she turns out of the lot and disappears down the highway.
“Holy shit . . . ,” I mutter, blinking hard as my blood slowly comes back down to a simmer, clearer thoughts returning to my brain. “What the hell did I just do?”
My knees go wobbly as a hurricane of emotions starts swirling inside me. I just verbally assaulted a perfect stranger. I threw oranges at her, for ditching her cart.
Dumbstruck and ashamed, I stagger to my car and climb inside. I toss the remaining oranges into the passenger seat, then promptly twist open the bottle of wine. I take a drink to wet my palate, then fish the little pill out from my pocket. It’s so small—not much bigger than a pea—but will undoubtedly provide me the calm and restr
aint I so obviously need. It better.
I place it on my tongue and wash it down with a nice, long drink.
There we go.
Come on, baby.
Work your magic . . .
CHAPTER 5
Thirty minutes later. Still in the grocery store parking lot . . .
“I am no lawn-ger bound by the confines of my peeeeenissssss!” I collapse against the steering wheel, cackling. “You are so funny, Dr. Deedee. Deedee. Duh, duh, Deedee. Duh, duh, Deedee . . .” I sway against the seat, snapping my fingers in time to the rhythm of my awesome new song. I just made it up—right now. It just . . . came to me. “Duh, duh, Deedee. Duh, duh, Deedee—ooh, that feels good . . .”
I close my eyes and squirm down deeper into my seat. I put the seat warmer on high, and it’s . . . oh yeah. I sink my top teeth into my bottom lip, savoring the warmth against my butt. “Mmm . . . I like that.” I drag my palms down the front of my thighs, moaning—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My eyes spring wide, and I quickly turn toward my window.
“Well, hellooooo!” I cry out. There’s a man standing right next to my car. And he’s precious, all dimples and broad, muscly shoulders. My lady parts suddenly start to tingle.
I groan.
That feels nice . . .
“I’m a police officer,” he says, flashing a shiny gold badge up to the window. He’s not wearing a uniform, just a well-fitting T-shirt. Really well fitting. “How are you doing tonight, ma’am?”
“Ahmaaazing,” I answer, shifting against the seat. “How are you, Occif—foff—fofficer Poncherello?”
The overhead parking lamp provides enough light that I can see his dark eyes narrow a little bit. Mmm . . . that must be his sexy smolder. It looks just like Erik Estra—Ester—Estah—whatever that actor’s name was who played Ponch. I miss CHiPS. That was a good show. And Ponch was . . . damn.
I lick my lips.
“Can you roll your window down please, ma’am?”
Oooh! He wants to get up close and personal.
FUN!
I press the button on my left side. The passenger window goes down. I snort. The passenger window is going down instead of my window—
“This one.” He raps on my window again with his knuckle.
“I know, I know,” I snicker. This car has so many buttons . . .
I press a different one and my window drops.
“Are you feeling okay tonight, ma’am?”
See Jane Snap Page 6