“The English Lit department…” She blinks in my face. “Luke. You did it again.”
“Sorry.” I swallow hard. “I was just thinking that I really love you.”
Shock rolls over her face. “What?”
I sit up. “It’s okay if it’s too soon. I just thought you might want to know. The last three months have been…you’ve saved my ass. And I can’t wait to see you at the end of every day. I never want to let you go. Because I love you.”
She kisses me hard on the mouth, whispering something back that sounds a lot like I love you, too, but I’m not sure, because my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears.
After what Sam just told me, pledging my heart to Grace is a dumb move. But it’s the truth, and if my parents want me to transfer to the London School of Economics, they’re going to be disappointed. I’m not fucking smart enough to go there, anyway.
If it wasn’t for Grace, I’d already be failing out of U of T.
So I yank my fucked up scatterbrain back and give Grace my full attention. “Start over again. What’s this project?”
She smiles sweetly. “The English Lit department hosts it every year. It’s called the Art/Lit Project, and writers and artists are paired together to create mutually reflective pieces. I want to participate as an artist, and the poet I paired with has written a piece about…” She trails her fingers down my belly, to the muscle that curves over my hip. Her fingertips walk a path along that ridge until she dips them under the waistband. Then she smooths her hand flat and rubs my flat, tense abs. “This.”
“There’s a poem about abs?”
She nods vigorously. “And I really love it, so I want to draw something amazing to go with it. So I need an amazing model. What do you think?”
I think I’m taking my clothes off and sitting still for a while.
17
Grace
Present day, sitting on the floor of her closet
I still have that sketch of Luke. It’s not that great, but I framed it when we moved into our Forest Hill house, when I worked with an interior decorator to create the perfect entertaining home. She told me my art was best kept to the bedroom suite area, because it was so…extra.
Now, that extra work is all over my loft, because fuck being small.
I’m extra as hell.
But that first sketch is in a mirrored frame, designed to catch the light off the chandelier in my dressing room—one of the indulgent Real Housewives of Toronto type of things I kept when we moved. So it’s still hung over my jewelry case.
I miss that Luke. He was my favourite. Those first couple of years were…magical. I swipe away tears and take a big drink of a glass of wine that has found its way into my hand as I’ve stomped down memory lane.
I wonder if Luke ever misses those early days. That simple apartment we moved into when his parents threatened to disown him, the way we took Sam in over holidays, when he didn’t want to go home because his dad hated him.
The senior Lucas Preston hates both of his sons, because neither of them are biologically his. My understanding is that he and his wife came to a sort of understanding, and then she blew it out of the water when Sam came out looking not at all like either of his parents, and very clearly like a close family friend.
Fuck. Maybe I should have seen the infidelity train barrelling towards us years ago. When Luke went to work for the family firm, that mended their relationship…and small changes started to happen in my relationship that I didn’t pay enough attention to at the time.
I push to my feet and go in search of the bottle of wine I opened for a top up.
I fill it unfashionably high. It doesn’t matter, I’m drinking it fast tonight.
But the glass doesn’t chase away the weird thoughts that won’t get out of my head. The haunting, what-if thoughts. So I open my computer and open an incognito browser so I can search for her without leaving a trace, not that I think I’m leaving any kind of trail.
Not that it matters.
I’m just looking at publicly available information. Who posts what, who likes what…
I lose track of time, poking through her social media friends. Nobody I recognize. Nobody connected to Luke, either.
Time to pour another glass, because I’ve hit an obsessive wronged-wife treasure trove. All the men who like her posts. I click on all of their profiles and try to figure out if they’re married.
Most are not.
Three are, and I scowl at the screen as I sip my second over-filled glass.
I pace away from the computer and order delivery. A banh mi sandwich from the place down the street. Ten minutes, they say.
I love the city.
Back to the computer, and one of those three married men has his page wide open to the internet.
And there are messages that she’s sent him that are clearly talking about private dinners in the last week. Well, she moves fast. Or maybe she has multiple lovers at once.
Maybe you’re drunk and drawing conclusions.
Maybe I don’t care.
This asshole is just like Luke. Maybe worse, because he’s doing it in public. My mouse hovers over his name.
Don’t do it, says the wiser part of my brain.
Fuck it, says my heart. Tell him off. What does it matter?
It doesn’t. The fear of God is good for him, maybe.
And before I can think better of it, I hit send on a snarky, judgement-laden message.
I wake up the next morning with a raging headache, for obvious reasons. Too much wine, too much screen time, not enough sleep or common sense.
With a groan, I grab a laptop and carry it to the kitchen. As I brew an extra-large cup of coffee, I open the computer and wince at the evidence on the screen of my wine-fuelled critique of a stranger’s choices.
Then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I refresh the page—and find myself blocked.
Well, that’s probably for the best.
Luke would be horrified if he knew what I did. It’s the worst kind of behaviour he abhors on the internet. I would feel bad about it if his own behaviour in private hotel rooms wasn’t a thousand times worse, and maybe the asshole from last night will think twice about making the same mistake my husband has.
My thoughts swirl from Luke to Damien Noble, and the conversation the day before. Then back to Luke, Luke of old, Luke from college, who would be the first person I’d talk to about taking my business in a new direction.
I’m so tempted to call him. No, text him. That would be safer.
Just to run the question past him.
Would it be fair? To ask him for that attention, knowing I’m using him? But also, why do I feel like I need to be fair? He hasn't been fair to me.
What if I'm selfish and I just take what I want? I'm nervous about this show. How best to leverage it and still deliver orders to my online customers who fund my life. The show is about prestige, local recognition. It’s about my reputation.
I want to go for a walk around my city, with my husband, and be selfish for a short period of time.
Maybe I have to be honest with him about that. I think about texting him or emailing him or calling him, and explaining what I want.
But something holds me back, and I don't. And then when I go out, there he is. On the elevator when the doors open.