The Duet(72)

“Oh hello,” the woman said with a tentative smile. Her gaze flitted between Jason and me as if she wasn’t quite sure who could explain the situation better.

“Um, hi,” I said, unable to muster actual conversation as my brain worked overtime to figure out who she was. Jason’s cousin, Jason’s sister, Jason’s friend, Jason’s long-lost twin, door-to-door sales people. Nothing fit, because deep down I already knew what I was walking in on. The phone call the day before had proved it.

The woman stood up from the table and walked to join us in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Lacy, stay in here and color for a second,” the woman warned with a sweet edge to her voice.

LuAnne, who I hadn’t even realized was standing at the stove, spoke up. “I’ll watch her, Kim.”

The woman— Kim— smiled toward LuAnne and then slid past the kitchen doorway in pursuit of the living room. Jason followed after her, but I stood frozen in place, unsure of where I belonged. I didn’t want to go back into the kitchen and I sure as shit didn’t want to go into the living room. Maybe if I just silently went upstairs, we could pretend that I’d never come down in the first place.

“Brooklyn?” Jason asked from the doorway to the living room. His hand gripped the wooden frame as he willed me to cooperate.

With a heavy sigh, I found myself walking past him and taking a seat on the couch across from Kim. I’d rarely gone into the living room before that day. LuAnne always kept it immaculate and I felt awkward moving the pillows around or turning on the TV. It was my least favorite room in his house because it was the least lived in. Maybe now it would be my least favorite room for a different reason.

“I’m Kim,” the redhead said, bending over the coffee table to offer me her hand.

I stared at her dainty fingers for a moment before taking it. She had none of the guitar calluses that I was used to feeling on my own hands.

“Brooklyn,” I said simply when my eyes locked on the massive rock sitting on her ring finger. It had to have been at least two carats, flawless and twinkling in the morning light from the window behind me.

My gut clenched.

“Brooklyn, this is my—”

“Wife,” Kim answered with a terse smile.

Wife.

Wife.

Wife.

What the fuck? Is wife Spanish for “cousin” and no one had told me? Why the hell hadn’t I paid attention in school? There had to be a translation for wife that meant something other than a married woman.

In the matter of two seconds I had a dozen emotions seep through my bloodstream. Shock, confusion, disbelief, denial, anger, guilt, jealousy, and then sadness. Such sharp sadness.

I shot up off the couch and ran to the doorway, trying to keep the tears from spilling down my cheeks. Unfortunately, they were already slipping down my chin and dripping onto my neck. I used the back of my hand to wipe them away as subtle as possible. I stayed facing away from them as I spoke.

“I just realized that I have a bunch of phone calls to return,” I said with stuttered speech as I ran toward the stairs.

“Seriously, Kim?” Jason asked.

“What, Jason? That’s what we are! You’re still my husband.”

No. No. No. I didn’t ask for this. I shot up the stairs and shut the door to my room behind me, wishing for once that there was a lock on the door. Lock or not, once I was alone, the tears really came. My chest convulsed and I lunged forward holding my knees and crying with abandonment. There wasn’t even time to process the last ten minutes in my life. I was still feeling it.

“Brooklyn.” Tap, tap. “Brooklyn, let me in for a second.”

“If I open that door, you won’t be leaving with your body fully intact.”

Jason growled. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Brooklyn. Let me explain. You’re being ridiculous.”

I love being told I was ridiculous after finding out that the man I’d been falling for the last three weeks was married. That’s like piss icing on the shit cake.

“Go to hell,” I spat.

I heard his growl on the other side of the door, but after that, it was silent. I don’t know how long he stayed there, because I was too busy going through various stages of grief:

1. Tearing up the cute note he’d left me that morning.

2. Trying to drown the note shreds in the bathtub.

3. Flushing the shreds down the toilet instead, when drowning had proved ineffective.

4. Sitting on the top of the toilet seat and crying.

5. Hating myself for caring enough to cry.

6. Crying more because I hated myself for crying.

7. Checking to see if the note had actually flushed, and crying harder when I realized that it was gone for good.