Page 163 of Homewrecker

I looked across the ballroom at Ravenna. She was laughing at something someone said. Her hand resting against Caleb’s arm.

Something shifted inside me, but not enough to leave. I wish I could say it was. I wish I could say I walked across that ballroom, handed Caleb his ring, told Ravenna everything and left with my dignity tucked underneath my arm. I didn’t. I was still in love, still stupid, still addicted to a future that existed almost entirely inside my head.

I stopped asking myself whether Caleb was lying. I knew he was. I just wanted to know how much.

Klair touched my arm. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“Bar.”

“I have a drink.”

“No.”

She took it from my hand. “You have champagne.”

She handed it to a passing waiter. “You need white liquor.”

Despite everything, I laughed. “Klair.”

“I’m serious. Brown liquor is for celebrations. White liquor is for finding out your married boyfriend is apparently Gordon fucking Ramsay at home. White makes you fight, but I’m ready when you are.”

I covered my mouth laughing. “You’re going to hell.”

“Look around, babes, we’re already there.”

She linked her arm through mine. I let her pull me toward the bar but halfway there, I looked back.

Caleb was watching me. His face said everything his mouth couldn’t from across the room.

I’ll explain.

I looked away first. Maybe the fantasy wasn’t dead yet, but I wanted to know what their home looked like outside of my imagination.

23

Blair

I’d been avoiding Nash for days. Not ghosting, avoiding. There’s a difference. Ghosting is disappearing, but I had not disappeared. I answered his texts… eventually. His good morning message on Monday received a very pleasant Good afternoon at twelve forty-five. Tuesday, he FaceTimed me around nine, and I declined the call because I was working. Technically, I was watching Lioness while eating kettle chips in bed, but maintaining my emotional stability was considered work. Wednesday, he asked if I wanted to grab dinner, but I told him I had a late client meeting.

This morning he texted.

Nash: You good?

I stared at the message for eleven minutes before responding.

Blair: Yeah. Just been busy.

Nash: Okay.

Okay. That was it. No ‘are you sure?’ No double text. No paragraph. Just… Okay. I spent the next eight hours irritated by a response I had practically begged for.

By six-thirty, I had convinced myself his okay meant he knew something was wrong. By seven, I decided he was probably getting tired of me. By seven-fifteen, I was wondering if he had already changed his mind. By seven-thirty, I was outside Klair’s apartment banging on her door.

“OPEN THE DOOR!”

“It’s unlocked!”