Tryst (Take It Off #8)(3)
Author: Cambria Hebert

Good marriage. Rash. Vows.

Suddenly I felt extremely sick to my stomach.

I stood up, ignoring the dizziness that swept through my foggy brain. “What time will Jack be home tonight?”

“Probably about seven.”

“Can you please ask him to draw up the divorce papers? Tell him I’ll come by later this week to sign them all and set things in motion.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Claire’s place. I’m staying there.” At least, I prayed she would let me when I flung myself on the couch and begged to stay.

“You need to go home. Work things out—”

I cut her off. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Yes. Well, I’m sure you’ve had a trying day.”

Yes. Trying.

I was trying to understand how the hell this happened. How could I have been so wrong about the man I married? I was also trying not to be pissed off my sister was kind of taking his side.

“Why don’t you stay? We can have tea and talk this over calmly.”

Calmly = Joanna telling me what to do.

“Thanks for the offer, sis,” I said, already heading toward the front door. “But I can’t, not right now. You’ll call Jack and ask him to bring the papers?”

“Of course, but are you sure you don’t want to think about it?”

I couldn’t not think about it. “I’m sure.”

Joanna’s face was drawn into a frown, creating a crease between her perfectly arched brows. I sighed, reached out, and hugged her. She returned the embrace, and I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. I pulled away, opening the door.

“Thanks, Jo-Jo,” I said, using the name I called her when we were kids.

I didn’t look back when the door closed behind me, but I did let out a long breath. I loved my sister, but sometimes I wanted to strangle her.

Of course, it was just my luck that when I turned the key in my ancient VW Jetta that the engine sounded like an old man about to cough up his lung. I smacked the steering wheel and let out a frustrated cry. “Today is not the day for this,” I demanded of my car. “Work, dammit!

I turned the key again and this time the engine sputtered to life. I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel for a few moments, allowing myself seconds of self-pity before driving out of the ritzy neighborhood and toward my therapist’s office.

The parking lot was packed when I got there, but I managed to snag the last spot around back. I guess I wasn’t the only one in need of therapy today. The scent of fried dough wafted through the afternoon breeze, beckoning me closer and offering thousands of calories in comfort.

I didn’t have to worry about calories anymore. Since no one was going to be seeing me in my panties, I could eat as many donuts as I wanted and not feel an ounce of guilt.

A woman holding a giant cup of iced coffee held the door as I stepped inside and stood at the end of the line.

My therapist = Dunkin Donuts.

What? Donuts make everyone feel better.

Inside the donut shop was a companion counter for Baskin Robbins. Donuts and ice cream? I couldn’t possibly.

Oh, wait. Yes. Yes, I could.

I grabbed a round, white ice cream cake—that said “Congratulations!” on the top in pink icing—out of the freezer and stepped back in line. At the counter, I ordered a dozen donuts and one of those giant coffee rolls. And because my anxiety and stress meter was off the charts, I ordered a large brown sugar latte.

Coffee had the opposite effect on me than it seemed to have on others. It didn’t make me jittery or keyed up. Coffee actually calmed me down.

Once all the sugar, carbs, and caffeine were piled in my arms, I climbed back in my car and checked my cell phone. It was still fairly early in the day, and I wasn’t sure Claire would be home yet, so I dialed her number.

“Hey, girl,” she chimed after two rings.

“Are you still at work?”

“Unfortunately,” she intoned, sounding bored. Working as a manager at a large retail store must not be very entertaining. “Aren’t you supposed to be too?”

“I left early.”

“Lucky.”

“So I’m gonna need somewhere to stay.” Damn my suddenly wobbly voice.

There was a meaningful pause on the other end of the line. “You know where I keep the spare key.”

I nodded and then told myself I was in idiot because she couldn’t see me.

“Want me to get some donuts?” she asked.

“I already got some. I got an ice cream cake too.”

“That bad, huh?” she said. She knew me so well.

“That bad.” I confirmed.

“I feel an extreme headache coming on,” she began. “Damn these headaches of mine. I’m going to have to leave early today.” Her voice was heavily laced with regret.

I smiled.

“I’ll see ya in a few,” she said, and I could already hear papers on her desk being shoveled around.

“Thanks, Claire.”

“Don’t eat it all before I get there.”

After I set down the phone, I glared at the dashboard. “I’m not in the mood for your hormonal activity today,” I told the car. It must have known I meant business because it started on the first try.

I pulled out of the lot and took a good, long sip of the coffee and sighed.

2

Talie

Was it possible to have a junk food hangover?

Was it possible my therapist wasn’t quite as helpful as it should be?

Yes, and yes.

Sunlight streamed between the edges of the white blinds in the living room, creating stripes of brightness across the floor and furniture. I cracked one eye open and took in my surroundings. It took a moment to place where I was.

Waking up somewhere other than my own bed, in my own home, was a little jarring. But, it wasn’t like I was at a bar, got drunk, and went home with some guy whose name I didn’t even know. The red sofa, purple patterned armchair, and array of colored pillows all over the place were very familiar.

I pushed up into a sitting position and leaned against the red fabric while I pushed a hand through my tangled, fine hair. Plastic forks and spoons littered the coffee table. The empty white cake box was dotted with crumbs from the crushed cookie layer that was in the center of the ice cream cake.

We ate the entire thing.

And just like that, everything that happened the day before came rushing over me.

Turns out feeling like a giant fatty whose blood sugar levels were likely going to put her in a coma wasn’t as bad as reliving the moment you caught your husband being ridden by some bimbo in the center of your Pottery Barn sheets.