We ordered dessert (though I was going to go into a coma soon if I ate much more).
“Babe,” Alexander said now, “I know this has been a rough couple of months for you.”
“You, sir, are absolutely right.” I was tipsy and enjoying it. It was fueling my rage.
“So I wanted to give this to you, and hope it will make things a little happier.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a little velvet box.
Shit. If there was an engagement ring in there, I knew it would be big, and I’d want it, and I wouldn’t be able to have it, and everyone in here would feel bad for the poor guy who proposed and got shot down. Cringing internally, I waited for him to get down on one knee.
Thank God, no. He just passed it across the many plates and smiled.
“Aw. So sweet of you!” I opened it and, shit, it was a beautiful necklace. A chunky bezel-set diamond surrounded by pink gold with a matching chain. “I love it.” I did, damn it. I’d keep it, too. I could sell it and pay for something in my house. “Thank you. How much did it cost?”
“Oh, babe. Whatever it cost, you’re worth ten times that much.”
“So . . . what are we talking? A thousand dollars?”
He grinned. “More. Significantly more. Here, let me put it on you.”
Ass. I allowed it. He sat back down, smug and pleased (glancing around to see if everyone had noticed).
“It’s beautiful,” said the woman from the next table.
“Thank you,” Alexander and I said in unison.
“Hey, Alexander, I have a quick question for you, babe.”
“Sure, babe.”
“When you came to my mom’s dinner party, did you remember Gillian?”
“Uh . . . the one with the baby?”
“No. That’s Mickey. The very pretty woman?”
“Other than you, babe?”
“The one you made a pass at last May. At the yacht christening party she mentioned.”
He blinked. “I think she . . . no. I’ve never met her.”
“She said you pressed her against a wall, kissed her neck, gave her your room key to the Madison Beach Hotel. Where we then spent the night after she turned you down.”
His neck was getting red. “She must have me confused with someone else.”
“You said you’d ‘rock her world.’”
He didn’t answer.
Luciano came with our desserts. “The bomboloni for signorina, the cheesecake for signore.”
“Thank you so much,” I said sweetly. He left. “Anything to say, Alexander? You made a pass at a woman and then called me as your B-list fuck. Why would you do that? You were going to cheat on me!” My voice may have risen a teeny bit.
“Look,” he said, glancing around, his hands up in the universal male sign for don’t make this a big deal, you hysterical female. “We never said we were exclusive.”
“What? We were exclusive! We’ve been dating for two years! We spend holidays together!”
“Calm down,” he said.
“How dare you tell me to calm down!” But yes, people were staring.
“I never said we were exclusive,” he repeated through gritted teeth.
“What does that mean? You get to sleep with other women?”
“Yes.”
The bald-faced admission was like a bucket of ice water. “Do I need to get tested?” I hissed. Thank God we’d always used condoms and the Pill. But I did. I’d need to get tested. Good God!
“Look.” He glanced around. “It’s not like I’m promiscuous, okay? I’m not on Tinder. But yes, I have two other relationships.”
“What?” There was the screeching again. Luciano was huddled with the maître d’ in the front, casting us concerned looks, so I lowered my voice. “Explain yourself.”
He looked at the restaurant ceiling, clearly aggrieved. “There’s Toni in San Diego and Paige in North Carolina. I’ve been seeing Toni for four years, Paige for three.”
“And me for two.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m the other woman?”
“No, no. Well . . . yes, I guess so. I don’t see it that way.”
“How do they see it?”
“They don’t know about you. Why would I tell them, right? When I’m in San Diego, I see Toni. When I’m down south, I see Paige. But mostly, there’s you, babe.”
“Do not call me babe. Ever again.”
“Listen, Sadie. You’re my favorite,” he said, leaning forward with a smile.
“I proposed to you,” I hissed.
“And when I get married, you’ll probably be my first choice. You know. When I’m ready.”
Jesus. I stood up and threw my napkin on the table. “I’ll send you the bill for my STD panel,” I said loudly. “Make sure you leave Luciano a thirty percent tip. And I’m keeping this necklace.” I looked down at the table. “And these little donuts.”
* * *
— —
Luciano patted my hand and waited for the cab with me, as I was busy crying (and eating the bomboloni), the shock of what I’d learned settling in.
Shit. It was so obvious now. The three days in San Diego turning into five. The many times North Carolina had thunderstorms that shut down the airport (not that I bothered to check the Weather Channel, because I was trusting and an idiot). The “turned-off” phone. All those yacht emergencies. How tired he could be after coming home from schmoozing and screwing his other girlfriends. The holiday weekends when he was traveling, or visiting his “mother.” The truth was, he was probably taking Paige or Toni on lovely weekend getaways, same as he’d done for me.
I’d have to find them through his Facebook page or Instagram and tell them.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I went to Carter’s apartment and spilled. He made the appropriate noises, cursed occasionally, ate my remaining donuts and made me drink water.
“I know it’s too soon to say this, honey, but you’re better off without him,” he said as I hiccuped and clutched his aging, obese cat to my chest. “Now go to bed. Uncle Carter’s giving you some Motrin and water, and don’t even think about puking in the guest room. Janice just redid it. I’ll make you a nice big breakfast in the morning, okay?”
“How’s Josh?” I asked, remembering that my friend was happy, and we talked about how Sister Mary had invited the guys over for dinner and told them to get married and not live together first.
Good. There was love in the world, even if I was a jerk.
I got in my pajamas, washed my face and brushed my teeth, avoiding my reflection in the mirror, and got into the wonderfully soft bed.
As I lay there, slightly drunk, tears leaking into the pillow, feeling as dumb as I’d ever felt, I had two overwhelming thoughts.
The first was that I missed my dad so, so much. That he would’ve known more than anyone how to make me feel better about this—less ridiculous, less like the younger, stupid Frost daughter.
The second was that Noah wouldn’t have cheated on me with a gun to the back of his head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Juliet
On Wednesday, Kathy stopped by Juliet’s office, her gossip face on—eyes sliding from the left to the right, eyebrow raised (lucky . . . Juliet’s were still frozen). She came in and closed the door. “Guess who was just named project manager on the school Beyoncé is building in Houston?”
“What Beyoncé school?” This was the first Juliet had heard of it.
Kathy sat down, looking too pleased with herself. “Yeah. Her.”
“Arwen?”
“Who else?”
Anyone else, that’s who. Matt, who was nine years senior to Arwen. Elena, who was six. Brett and Christopher, four.
“Are you going to talk to Dave?” Kathy asked, ru
nning a hand through her bright red hair.
“Are you?”
“No. Of course not. It’s not like I could be PM, though I’m definitely hoping to be on the interior team. Maybe meet Queen Bey.”
Juliet was very sure Kathy was too old and white to be using that nickname. She glanced out the window, her stomach clenching with nerves. “Did you know we were pitching Beyoncé?”
“Arwen mentioned it. It’s really Beyoncé’s foundation. Her PR team asked us to keep it a secret till ground is broken.”
Beyoncé. Jesus. And Kathy knew, but hadn’t said a word till now.
“Well. I have work to do, Kathy.”
“I’m sure you do.”
What did that mean? She and Kathy used to be friends, but Kathy had always been the office gossip. Juliet felt she’d been immune to that.
Now it was hard to trust her, with that Arwen haircut and the way Kathy brayed laughter from Arwen’s office at least twice a day. Kathy was here to gather intel, that’s what she was doing. To plant seeds and make trouble.
It worked.
A few hours later, so it wouldn’t be so obvious, she went down the hall to Dave’s office with the excuse of showing him the plans on a house for a former senator. She liked doing residences once in a while—she’d done her own house, obviously, and occasionally offered to do one at work, though it was small potatoes for her. She’d volunteered to do this one because it was fun and had a limitless budget, which was always pleasant.
“Is he available?” she asked the side-eying Laurie (who may have been casting a spell on her).
Laurie shrugged and jerked her chin, indicating that it was okay for Juliet to go in. Her boss had his feet up on the desk and was gazing out the window. Hard to believe he’d been a force in architecture once, since he mostly napped and went out for lunch these days.
“Hey, Dave, I’ve got the elevations on that house in Maryland. Want to have a look?”
“Sure.” She sat down and watched as he gave them a glance. “Nice job, Juliet.”
“Thanks. It’s a beautiful site.”
“That it is.”
“So, Dave . . . I heard a rumor. You made Arwen the PM on a school for Beyoncé’s foundation?”
He avoided looking at her, studying the house plans as if he’d just realized they’d come down from Mount Sinai in the hands of Moses. “Mm,” he offered.
Be careful, a voice in her head warned her. But screw that. She’d earned her place here. “Since when does such a green architect get that kind of high-profile job? I thought the firm had a system. A ladder.” One that she’d climbed, step-by-step, never skipping a single rung.
Dave sighed. Still didn’t look up. “Arwen is very talented.”
“I’m aware of that, Dave. But she’s only thirty-one. She still needs supervision.”
“Or does she? She’s quite ambitious. People respond to her.”
“There are a lot of ambitious people here who outrank her. Matt. Elena. Brett.” She paused. “Me. I’m a little shocked that I wasn’t informed we were pitching this job, frankly. I’m the senior project manager at this firm.”
“Look, Juliet,” he said, finally looking at her. Her chin, to be exact. “You’ve done some remarkable work for us.”
“I am doing remarkable work for you, Dave.” Her voice was firm but she made sure not to be too angry, because God forbid her boss had to deal with an angry female. “I realize Arwen is the shiny new thing, but my record speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
“I’m a fan of yours, Juliet. Don’t get hostile.”
Oh, the fuckery. “I’m not being hostile. I’m pointing out facts.”
“Maybe if you smiled more, people would—”
“Dave. Do not finish that sentence.”
“I’m just saying, Arwen is a really positive person. She smiles all the time.”
“Are you giving her a promotion because she smiles?” she asked.
“There’s that hostility.” He smiled ruefully.
“It’s disbelief, not hostility.”
“Juliet, you’re very serious.”
“About my work, absolutely. You could say that’s a positive attribute in an architect.”
He put his hands behind his head. “Listen. You’re right. Arwen is new and exciting, and the world seems to love her.”
Time to be dead honest. “But her work isn’t particularly special, and you must know that.”
“Be careful, Juliet. You’re sounding very jealous and competitive.”
Hostile, serious, jealous and competitive. All code for bitch, or worse. If she were a man, it would be fiery, dedicated, strategic and ambitious.
But here she was, in a male-owned, male-run firm. So she lowered her voice to a tone Dave could tolerate. “I’ve always put the firm’s best interests first and foremost, Dave. I’m your senior architect. I’ve never let you down, have I?”
He tilted his head. “Nothing is coming to mind, no.”
“Because it’s never happened.”
“What’s your point, Juliet?” He glanced at his phone.
You could lose me. I might quit. I could sue you for ageism and discrimination.
Except Kathy was older and wasn’t saying boo. And it would be hard to prove discrimination on the basis of gender, given that Arwen was a woman, too. A gay woman, for that matter, something Juliet had only found out a few weeks ago when she and Saanvi had had drinks at the same bar where Arwen had been with a woman, and they’d kissed once or twice. Arwen hadn’t seen Juliet, and Juliet hadn’t gone over, not wanting to intrude.
Now Juliet glanced out the window, then back at her boss. “Just be thoughtful, Dave. A green architect on a high-profile client’s project could be risky.”
“Fortune favors the bold,” he said. “And you know how we like to think outside the box at DJK. Thanks for bringing me your concerns. I think we’ve cleared the air. And I’ll see you at your party this weekend, right?”
Dismissed. “Yes. Thanks for hearing me out.” She left his office, past the silent Laurie, the plans for the senator’s house clenched in her hands.
Today was one of the days she left early and worked from home. She grabbed her stuff, fake smiled at her colleagues and got out of there as soon as possible. In her car, she sat for a minute, gripping the steering wheel, stymied, frustrated and . . . scared.
She could leave the firm and start her own. The thought had crossed her mind from time to time, but DJK had always been the best of both worlds—creativity within an established, respected firm. Starting her own would be twice the workload, and the girls still needed her. She could put out some feelers at other firms, but the truth was, if she left now . . . well. It would look exactly like what it was. She was leaving because another architect was taking over.
Was it possible she had peaked? Were her best days behind her? She was forty-three, and she hadn’t recycled an idea yet. Maybe this was just a normal phase of a career, being established and therefore slightly less exciting.
But the thought of aging out struck a nerve. Arwen was so beautiful . . . That had to be a factor, even if it wasn’t ever going to be acknowledged. Juliet looked in the rearview mirror. She was still attractive. Of course she was! She had decades of youth in front of her! She was in her prime. Look at Meryl Streep! Look at . . . um . . . Sofía Vergara! And JLo! She’d just spent three grand on looking even younger, goddamnit.
She was too serious, was she? She should smile more? How dare her boss imply that she was . . . was stale and boring! She was absolutely not those things. Oliver still adored her. Even if they’d settled into a routine, it was a good routine.
Sort of like Mom and Dad.
Shit.
She flew up 95 to Stoningham. Oliver was working from home today with a slight cold and being an utter infant about it. He was a
bout to have his mind blown. Time to be shiny, spontaneous and bold.
Oliver was in the laundry room, putting sheets in the dryer because Juliet still hadn’t hired a new cleaning lady, goddamnit.
“All right, love?” he said as she came in.
“I want you,” she said.
He side-eyed her. “Darling, I have a man-cold. I’m hovering at the precipice of death.” He coughed to prove it, a meaty, phlegmy sound.
“I don’t care. I’m so . . .” Shit. She should’ve paid more attention to the three pornos she’d seen in her entire lifetime. “I’m so . . . wet.” Ick. It sounded like she’d peed her pants.
“I wouldn’t wish this cold on my worst enemy, my darling girl.”
“I won’t kiss you on the mouth, then.”
She dropped to her knees and started to untie his sweatpants.
“It’s a lovely thought, darling,” Oliver said, putting his hand on her head. His voice was thick with the cold. “Perhaps a rain check.”
“No. I need you now. Here. Like this.”
“Darling. I feel wretched.”
He’d change his mind. She pulled down his pants. “It’s so, um, big.” Gah. It wasn’t, not at the moment. She screwed her eyes shut and gathered her courage.
He stopped her, thank God, and pulled his pants back up. “Juliet, what are you doing?”
“Trying to give you a BJ.” Men were supposed to love this shit.
“The girls will be home in five minutes.”
Right. “Then I’ll be quick.”
“I swear that I’m thrilled about this theoretically, but seriously, darling, can we reschedule?”
“No.”
“Juliet.” He pulled her to her feet. “What’s got into you?”
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