She’d use exercise to help her deal with her anxiety. Exercise was better than pills and wine. Exercise was natural.
So while she was running, every time a disturbing thought popped into her mind, she ran faster, pushing herself harder. She ended up running five miles before she returned home, and entering the house, she kicked off her shoes, tired but calm.
As she showered, her thoughts were less frantic, and as she dressed for her hair appointment, she told herself Boone loved her and the kids. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the happiness of his family. He wouldn’t.
But an hour later, as the color sat in her hair and she faced herself in the salon mirror, a little voice whispered that maybe Boone might not think that an affair would cost him his marriage.
He’d had that affair three years ago, and it’d been ugly. Very ugly. She’d cried. They’d fought. She’d yelled. He’d apologized. She’d yelled some more, threatened to leave.
He’d made promises. She’d stayed.
She’d stayed.
The stylist returned to peel the plastic back and check Sarah’s roots. “Five more minutes,” she said, tucking everything back into place before leaving Sarah in her chair.
Sarah stared at her reflection, into her eyes, wondering if Boone knew what she knew.
That she loved him too much.
And looking into her eyes, she wondered if that’s why he’d had the affair in the first place.
Because he felt safe and secure, knowing she was the dependent one, knowing she couldn’t leave him.
Sarah’s eyes burned. She looked away, unable to look at herself.
Forty minutes later, she stood outside Mama’s Café in downtown Alameda. So it’d come to this, she thought, disgusted with herself for driving here after her hair appointment instead of going home. It was midafternoon. Dad was expecting her soon. She ought to be home.
Instead she was here. Snooping. Spying. Craving peace of mind.
Sarah peeked through the window of the small café, checking out the interior. It didn’t look like much. Long counter, old-fashioned ceiling fans, and big booths covered in burgundy red leather. Pies and cakes filled a bright glass cabinet. Matronly waitresses moved through tables, pouring coffee, refilling waters, clearing dishes.
She felt foolish now, being here, but she’d driven here today to assuage her curiosity. She should at least go in. Order a slice of pie. Observe people.
Sarah opened the door, felt the gust of chilled air. Shivering, she stepped in, hearing the small bell on the door jingle, and the clink of glass and clang of cutlery.
So normal, she thought, approaching the register, which was also a hostess stand. She could find nothing remotely sexy or threatening about the café.
Sarah smiled uncomfortably as one of the stocky gray-haired waitresses approached, menu in hand.
“Sit where you like, hon,” the waitress said, gesturing toward the red booths and long Formica counter. “I’ll follow you.”
Sarah couldn’t continue with this. It was wrong. She felt hideous. “Next time,” she said, backing up, desperate now to escape. “But thank you.”
She walked outside and then practically ran to her car. That evening, after the kids were in bed, Sarah opened a bottle of wine, drank a glass as she watched the TV, refilling her glass periodically, still in disbelief that she’d actually gone to the café.
As she drank, she leaned back in her chair, resting the wineglass on her stomach, the stomach she worked so hard to keep taut and toned and flat, as part of the body—the package—she was, so important to keep it beautiful and appealing . . .
Because after all, there was so much competition. Women—wives—were easy to replace when there were hundreds—thousands?—of women waiting to step into her empty shoes and bed . . .
Sarah sipped from her glass, letting the wine fill her mouth and warm her all the way down. She needed the alcohol as much as she needed security. Stability. Peace. She needed to know she wouldn’t be replaced. And not just as the wife, but as the beloved, because that’s what she needed most. To be the One.
She would fight for her man to the end, but would he fight for her?
She’d lay down her life for him—hadn’t she already?—but did it mean anything?
Sarah drank again, throat aching, heart on fire.
Love was supposed to be patient and kind.
But love was also the most brutal thing in the world.
It’d been three years, but she still couldn’t forgive him for wanting another woman. And he hadn’t merely wanted her, he’d taken her, enjoyed her, enjoying her again and again over weeks . . . months . . .
He said it wasn’t months. He said it was weeks. But weeks was almost the same thing. Weeks was bad enough.