Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
And he grew on me.
I’m not sure I’ve ever had a type, but if I did, it more than likely would not be him.
After a week of him coming in every day, he asked me out for coffee.
I said no.
The following week, he tried again.
That time, I said yes.
What could it hurt, right?
Wrong!
The difference between Deven and me is one of us is more fucked-up than the other.
And it’s not him.
He doesn’t know how to repair or even deal with my broken pieces, and that’s okay. I never asked him to. The first time I opened up to him, just shortly after we were married, I described some of the dark thoughts and feelings living inside me. But instead of freaking out like I thought he would, he told me it was something I could overcome with professional help.
What a naïve little man.
Lately, though, he has been looking at me differently.
Can he see that the glass box I trapped myself in when I agreed to marry him would someday start cracking?
Deven thinks I see a therapist. But in reality, my so-called appointments are just me sitting by myself in a bar. Drinking. Not enough that it makes me intoxicated.
I have a glass of vodka, people-watch, and imagine all the ways I could kill them.
Except for the one man who is always there.
I watch him the most.
Tall, dark, and handsome. I never really understood that expression until I saw him. If God had created the perfect specimen, who was dark and stormy, it would have been him.
I’ve never spoken a word to him, and I never intend to—I am a married woman, after all.
And no matter how fucked-up my head is, I will never cheat.
Climbing out of the car, I check my watch. I’m home from work two hours earlier than expected, but I’ve been sitting in my car for at least an hour.
After locking it, I walk to the front door, my heels stabbing into the perfectly manicured grass that Deven works tirelessly on.
I hate the grass.
The only place that should have grass is a cemetery.
Opening the door, I step inside and try to think of a good excuse for why I’m already home. Perhaps I should explain to Deven that I quit and told the boss to go fuck himself. No, I need something better than that. Something… acceptable. My husband doesn’t want to hear that all I wanted to do was stab Carol from HR on my way out. Though I know he sees that in me already, so why do I care so much?
Pushing my copper-colored hair out of my face, I kick my heels off so they don’t dirty the perfect white floors of our perfect two-story house, then hang my handbag on the hook near the door.
As I continue to walk through the house, I hear his voice floating in through the patio doors, and I instantly know exactly where he is. His favorite thing about this house is the backyard—it’s his happy place, a place where he relaxes. He is always swimming in that pool he had built, claiming it’s part of his workout routine.
I don’t swim.
I hate the water.
I’m a serial loather.
And that’s why when he asked me to marry him, and I didn’t immediately have visions of domestic hell, I thought, Fuck it, maybe this will work.
My bare feet hit the tile floor of the kitchen, and that’s when I hear it—a second voice—feminine, breathy, and giggling. I force myself to keep walking forward, straight to the patio doors, even as my stomach turns to lead and my whole body shakes with adrenaline. Because I know what I’m likely to find. But standing here at the open back doors, I blink slowly, taking in the scene before me. My mind is sluggish, even as the rest of me grasps hold of this.
I see him.
Or should I say them.
Deven is in our pool—the one he loves so much—with another woman.
My eyes are playing tricks on me.
What is in front of me may not be real…
Unless he has a death wish.
She laughs as he pulls her to him, their bodies hugging one another intimately. And to top off the delightful image assaulting my eyes, the woman is naked. She leans in and kisses his lips. He moans and presses forward, runs his hand through her hair, holding her against him like he has done to me so many times.
I recognize her.
She is his co-host on the radio show, the same one he told me not to worry about. It sounds so cliché: the insecure wife jealous of an innocent relationship. She started this year, and I saw how attractive she was and how he watched her.
My pastime is to watch people.
My husband included.
So, I knew there was something between them.
I reach for my phone and lift it to take a short video of them kissing in the pool. Putting the phone back into my pocket, I go to the cabinet and grab a glass before I reach for a bottle of vodka. Opening the utensil drawer, I grab a knife.