by Sloan Archer
Greg had come from a fair amount of money—the million-dollar “starter home” he and Vanessa resided in had been a college graduation present to Greg from his parents many years ago—and thus he was accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. Greg’s parents had done him no favors by raising him in such a pampered fashion, Vanessa had often thought, since he was incapable of fending for himself in so many ways. Shopping for groceries, washing dirty clothes, and making his own coffee were just a few of the chores Greg had deemed “middle class,” which was his way of saying that doing them was beneath him.
When they first started dating, Vanessa had teased Greg that he’d be in serious trouble if there were ever to be an apocalypse, since there were so many universally performed (by commoners like herself) tasks that he didn’t know how to do. After she moved into Greg’s loft and discovered how truly helpless he was, the teasing stopped and over time her nerves started to prickle with resentment. No woman wants to be her man’s mother.
However, as Vanessa had reminded herself during the times she wanted to strangle Greg for his uselessness, he’d put up with his fair share of nonsense from her.
“Hey there, Tony,” Vanessa said casually, as if she was merely taking her office supplies out for some fresh air.
“Hello, Vanessa. You guys both having lunch in today?”
“Sure am,” Vanessa replied as she walked past. She stopped, slowly turned around. “Wait. Both of us?”
“You and Mr. Dashner.”
Vanessa frowned. “Greg’s here?”
“Sure is. He got here about twenty minutes ago with . . .” Tony broke off suddenly, guiltily, as if realizing that he might have said too much already.
“With what?”
Tony flapped a hand. “Ah, you know me. I like to stay out of resident affairs.”
Vanessa was in no mood. She held up the box. “Tony, while I appreciate you saying nothing about it, you might have noticed what I’m holding here. Yah, I’ve just been fired. I’ve had a hell of a day, and I’m barely hanging on by a thread as it is. So, please, would you just tell me what is was that you were going to stay? I promise that it will stay between us.”
Tony shifted uncomfortably. “It’s nothing, really. I was only surprised that you didn’t know your boyfriend was here, him being with, um, family and all.”
“Family? I doubt it,” Vanessa said, shaking her head. “Most of them are upstate. And the ones who aren’t live in Paris this time of year. You sure he was with someone?”
“A redhead,” Tony said with a confident nod. “I think he said she’s his cousin.”
Vanessa furrowed her brow. “His cousin?” This was news to her, especially since Greg had never mentioned having a cousin that he was close with, let alone one who was a redhead. Greg’s family had origins in the Mediterranean, and the majority of them were raven-haired and olive-skinned. “Has she been here before?”
“Sure. A few times. Usually during the day—lunch hour time, you know.”
Lunch hour time, you know. Was it just her, or did Tony’s voice contain a hint of suggestiveness, like he was trying to tell her something without actually vocalizing it? “Did they arrive together?”
Tony didn’t even have to think before answering. “No, he got here first. He asked me to send her up once she arrived.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Maybe twenty minutes ago.”
Vanessa said no more and continued on her way, her heartbeat thrashing against her ribcage as she floated toward the elevator in a dreamlike state. What was going on? “Maybe Tony got it wrong,” she murmured to herself, though she didn’t sound so convinced. Her breath hitched in her throat as she pushed the button for her floor.
Alone in the elevator, she ticked the facts off on her fingers, ignoring the shaky quality of her voice. “Okay, so Greg didn’t answer his phone. And I’ve never heard of this so-called cousin. And the only redheaded woman I can think of who fits that description is . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No, don’t even think it. He would never, ever do that to me.”
Would he?
Of course not. This was Greg she was talking about! Sure, he could be snobby and oftentimes selfish, but he wasn’t a liar. If anyone should be suspected of cheating it was her. She was the one who often stayed late at the office, sometimes coming home in the middle of the night with no explanation offered.
Vanessa exited the elevator onto the hallway that lead to their loft and froze. She pulled out her cell and tried Greg’s number once more.
This time, he answered.
“Hey, babe, I’m super swamped at work—can’t talk long.”
“You’re . . . at the office?” she finally managed to choke out.
“Yah, going to work straight through lunch. Got a big meeting this afternoon. Everything alright?”
“Yah, sure. Just wanted to say hello.” In a voice that did not sound like her own, she added, “And tell you that I love you.”
“Yah, me too,” he said hurriedly. “Okay, gotta go!”
Vanessa pocketed her phone after it went silent in her ear. A flood of wooziness overtook her as their conversation sank in, her knees threatening to give out. She dropped the box and huddled down next to it, breathing hard. An array of possibilities occurred to her, each one more hideous than the last.
There has to be some logical explanation, right?
Right?
For the life of her, she couldn’t think of one.
Vanessa got to her feet, her eyes travelling toward the door to the home she and Greg shared. Their place of love and trust. She couldn’t get her feet to move no matter how hard she tried, as if the soles of her shoes had been fused to the carpet. She shivered as a cold bead of sweat trickled down the center of her back.
If you walk through that door, your life will forever change, a frightened voice spoke up inside her head. She had no way of truly knowing it, but she did.
Now, a different, bossier voice spoke up. Would that really be such a bad thing? Maybe a change is exactly what you need.
“Yes! It would be horrible!” Vanessa hissed at the empty hallway.
Be honest: How long’s it been since you’ve been happy? Truly happy?
“I can’t do this right now,” Vanessa whispered shakily. “I can’t-I can’t-I can’t . . .” Clipping her heel against the box, she sprinted toward the elevator in a blind panic. She jabbed the button to recall the elevator before realizing that it was still opened to her floor. She stumbled inside, her finger hovering over the button marked CLOSE DOOR.
Running away will only prolong the inevitable.
“Come on.” She commanded her finger to move, but she couldn’t drive it home.
You’ve got to face the music eventually.
With a miserable sigh, Vanessa exited the elevator. “Yah, yah.” Ignoring her box in the hallway, she fished her keys out of her jacket pocket and quietly tiptoed to her door.
It wasn’t that she could actually hear anything on the other side—the door itself was meant to be soundproof—so much as she felt it. Deep in her bones, she knew that the man she was planning on one day marrying was not at work as he’d claimed but was instead inside their home.
With another woman.
Holding her breath, Vanessa eased her key into the lock and silently pushed the door open. Immediately, she noted a large black handbag hanging on the coatrack. On the peg below it was a trench coat with a faux fur collar. A few steps in, her nostrils were assaulted with the opulent scent of Chanel No. 5, a perfume she’d always liked for its association with Marilyn Monroe but had never been able to wear because it did not smell right on her skin.
There’s still the possibility that she really is his cousin, she thought frantically.
A few more steps forward, Vanessa lost hold of whatever remaining delusions she’d been desperately grasping as she saw the trail of clothing. Greg’s pants, underwear, and shirt she recognized, but the trashy linge
rie she had never seen before—it was most definitely not hers. With annoyance, she noted that the bra—fuchsia polyester and lots of ruffles, sequins—was significantly larger than her own.
She followed the trail, which led to the bathroom, its door slightly ajar. Vanessa cocked her head and listened to the splashing sounds, her clenched fists tightening at her sides as she heard a woman’s high-pitched giggle. Huffing and puffing, in her mind’s eye she saw herself karate-kicking the door open the rest of the way. And similarly karate-kicking both Greg and his mistress.
To calm herself, Vanessa closed her eyes and started to count backwards from ten. She made it to seven before she could no longer take the anticipation. She placed a hand on the door and silently eased it open.
She found Greg scrubbing the back of a gorgeous redhead. With her loofah! A redhead, Vanessa wasn’t all too stunned to see, who she recognized.
Out of all the words she would have imagined herself saying to her boyfriend that day, “You’re screwing the coffee shop girl?” would probably be dead last. But there she was, saying them just the same.
Really, it was more like shouting.
Eyes bugging, Greg leapt from the bathtub, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled across the wet floor to seize his towel. “Vanessa! It’s not what you think. I can explain.”
Vanessa barked out an incredulous breath. “Explain to me what? I have eyes, asshole!”
“Please—”
“Her? HER!” Vanessa bellowed as she lunged toward Greg, her fingers curling into vicious claws. He backed away from her in a hurry, much the same way that Melane had. This only incited more fury.
“Wait!” Greg sniveled, half-crouching into a cowardly little ball.
Nostrils flaring, Vanessa forced herself to stop. She was certain she would inflict grave injury if she continued her attack, and she didn’t want or need to add “arrest for assault and battery” to her day’s list of hideous accomplishments. She grabbed the nearest object, a dried-out bar of soap on the sink, and lobbed it at Greg’s face.
It hit him square on the forehead. “Ow!”
“Good! I hope it kills!” she shouted, raking her hands through her hair. “God, I knew it! Every time we went for coffee, you practically wet yourself whenever you saw this . . . this . . .”
“Leah,” the girl said from the tub.
Vanessa wheeled around and gave the woman an icy stare. “I’ll deal with you in a minute,” she snapped before she continued berating Greg. “But whenever I called you out on your disgusting flirting, you said that I was being—” she raised her hands and jabbed the air with sharp quotation mark fingers—“catty. Jealous. Insecure. And you’re such a manipulator, I believed you! To think that I was right . . .” Vanessa’s words began to die off as the redhead stood up in the tub. “All . . . along.”
“Vanessa, I know this is hard,” said the girl.
“You’re . . .” The room spun round and round. Vanessa placed a steadying hand on the wall, rapidly blinking her eyes to stop herself from passing out.
Humiliatingly, the girl stepped out of the bathtub and got Vanessa some water from the bathroom sink. Vanessa sipped it. The glass she’d used was actually a toothbrush holder, the liquid nauseatingly minty. She heard the girl ask Greg, “Should we call someone?”
Vanessa took another sip of water. She gazed up at the naked redhead. Leah, the girl who’d made her countless cappuccinos, always with a sly smile. “You’re . . .”
“Pregnant, yah.”
“Is it . . . ?”
“Yah, it’s mine,” Greg said so quietly that Vanessa wasn’t sure that he’d truly spoken. Though, it wasn’t as if he needed to. The situation was pretty evident.
Vanessa joggled her head side to side. “I don’t understand. She’s got to be at least four months along.”
Greg and Leah gazed at each other helplessly. “Five, actually,” Leah said at last.
“I see,” Vanessa murmured. Looking up at Greg, she asked, “How long has this been going on?”
“Does it matter?”
Vanessa’s rage brought her back her into focus. Quickly, she got to her feet. “Yeah, it matters! We’re living together. We’ve been talking about getting married!”
Greg shook his head in a fashion he probably thought made him appear unhappy. It came across as condescending. “That’s all it ever is, Vanessa. Talk. You’re never around—”
“Oh, so now this is my fault?”
“Look, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying?” Vanessa rubbed her temples as she began pacing the room. She felt as if her head might explode. “Do you have any idea what’s happened to me today?”
“No. What’s happened?”
Vanessa shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Look, Vanessa, all I’m trying to say is that you and I are nothing more than roommates at this point. Living with you . . . It’s been like living with a ghost.”
Vanessa let out a snort. “I think you’re being a tad dramatic.”
“Am I?” Greg said quietly, sounding more than a little deflated. “Why don’t you tell me what we did for my birthday, then?”
“What are you talking about?” Vanessa scoffed, knowing that she had him on that one. “We took that romantic cruise along the Hudson and then went out for that amazing five-course French dinner.” Emphasis on romantic and amazing for the redhead’s benefit.
“That was my last birthday.”
Was it?
“This birthday you totally forgot.”
Vanessa did a quick countdown of the months in her head. Oops. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I shouldn’t have to!” Greg hollered and Leah jumped. A lot more quietly, he added, “It isn’t just about my birthday. It’s everything. It’s all the late nights. The weekends apart. It’s you having conversations on autopilot . . . And I can’t remember the last time we made love, can you?”
His last statement, much to Vanessa’s aggravation, seemed to please Leah greatly.
Greg continued, “You know I’m eager to start a family, get married . . .”
“And I would have done that with you!”
“When, though?” Greg countered. “After work slows down? After you finally get your big promotion? After your schedule changes? After this, after that—it was always some excuse.”
“So, what, you just replaced me?” Vanessa’s eyes narrowed on Leah’s glittering ring finger. “Oh my . . . Is that what I think it is? This is seriously not happening right now.”
Greg and Leah stared down at the ground. Finally, Greg said, “I’ve been trying to find the right time to tell you.”
The only thing that could possibly make this day worse, Vanessa thought, is if I’m hit by a flaming meteor. “Let me get this straight. Not only did you knock up another woman while we were together, but you also got engaged, and your biggest dilemma was finding the right time to tell me? And when would that have been, exactly? After your wedding, or maybe while she was at the hospital giving birth?”
“Look, I know I could have handled this better—”
“Yah think?”
“—but it is what it is. To tell you the truth, I feel relieved now that you know.”
“Oh, well, I’m glad you feel better!” To the naked Leah, she snarled, “And you—how about you put on some damn clothes!”
The demanding voice inside Vanessa’s head spoke up once again. How bad do you feel, though? The truth is that you’re more upset about losing your job than you are about losing Greg. What does that tell you?
Vanessa surprised herself by breaking into hysterical giggles. “Oh . . . It’s . . . I can’t . . .” She thumbed away a tear from under her eye. Greg and Leah exchanged a worried look, which only made her laugh harder. “It’s too good! First, I get fired for embezzling from a client that I didn’t even know that I had—”
“You were fired?”
“—and then some
old bat loses it on me in the train. And now this! It’s just too good.” She shook her head as her giggles died down. “Guess it’d be a terrible day for me to play the lottery, huh? Or go walking through a minefield.”
“Vanessa?”
“I’m good, Greg,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. She let out a long breath, utterly exhausted, despite her nerves feeling electrified. “Okay, so what now?”
“I think it’s pretty obvious. I mean . . .” Greg considered the room with pointedness, his eyebrows raised.
“You mean what?”
Greg’s discomfort was palpable. “Well, Van, this is my place. And with Leah giving birth soon . . .”
Vanessa was finally cottoning on. “You want me to move out, is that it?”
Leah came back into the room, now wearing the coat Vanessa had seen hanging by the door. Had she come over in just that and lingerie? She couldn’t recall seeing anything else of hers, no dress or pants.
“Yah,” said Leah. “We want you to move out.”
“When?” Vanessa asked Greg, refusing to acknowledge the “we” in Leah’s statement.
Greg looked as if he thought she might never ask. “How about I help you pack your things?”
CHAPTER THREE
Cash Axton did not know the name of the woman whose bed he was sharing, nor did he care too much to learn. She was sexy and she was looking for love—or something in the ballpark—which was really all the information he needed.
She was also, judging by the fire engine red nails clawing trails down his back, hot to trot. If she raked any deeper, he was going to need iodine. Then there was the wet, cinnamon-y breath murmuring against his ear like a jukebox programmed on repeat: Don’t stop, don’t stop—baby, don’t you ever stop! He could have done without being called baby, but he’d have liked it even less if she’d called him by name. Cash was a man who preferred to keep his hookups anonymous.