Sarah headed for the kitchen and took the bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, emptying the last little bit of wine into her glass.
But he hadn’t just slept with her, that woman, Sarah thought, hand shaking as she tossed the empty bottle into the kitchen’s recycling bin.
Boone had called her and sent her e-mails and texts. He’d told her things, said things, that had cut Sarah’s heart wide open . . .
Want you . . .
Can’t stop thinking about you . . .
Need you . . .
You and that beautiful body are all I can think about . . .
Fuck you, Boone, Sarah thought, knocking away the tears that fell before drawing a quick, shaky breath, aware that she was close to losing control.
She leaned against the counter and looked across her expansive kitchen to the sunken living room with its huge leather sectional that looked overpowering when empty of sitters but shrank the moment Boone stretched out on it, his six-three frame filling it, reducing it to something practical, functional.
She could picture Boone on the sofa, his big, muscular arm outstretched, gesturing for Ella to come to him, and how it always moved her, every single time, when Ella ran to him. Not walked. Ran.
Little girls and their daddies.
Little girls and their hero worship of men.
Sarah had told herself it was because of Ella, and Brennan, that she stayed after discovering Boone’s infidelity. It was because of them that she’d fought to get through her anger and pain . . .
But it wasn’t because of them.
She’d stayed for herself. She’d stayed because she loved him.
All the magazines said if you had self-respect you’d go. All the books and experts said once a cheater, always a cheater, and Boone was a cheater. The media loved to mock the women who stood by their men, whether politicians or actors or professional athletes. The media painted those women as weak. Maybe the media was right.
Or maybe the media was just plain mean.
Lots of people in the world were mean. Haters, Sarah thought, twirling the stem of the glass. The world was full of haters and she didn’t want to be one of them. She wanted to forgive Boone and get past this. Wanted to move past the ugly and get back to love. Get back to happy. Get back to feeling like Sarah on the inside . . . but that was the thing she couldn’t seem to do.
Who was she? What was she? Besides angry?
Sarah lifted her wineglass, inhaled the crispness of the wine, the tangy oak and sweet pear teasing her nose before she sipped, letting the wine sit in her mouth. It was cold and sharp and she waited until it warmed before swallowing.
She was drinking too much. She knew it. Wasn’t proud of it. But she needed the wine, needed the softness it gave her, and the escape, blurring the edges of time and easing the endless minutes of night.
She glanced at her watch. Ten thirty. Boone was in Baltimore. What time would it be there? Twelve thirty? One thirty? Would he be in bed, or was he out having a late dinner . . . drinks . . . with his teammates . . . or with others.
Old friends. New friends. And were those friends female? Were they sitting with him somewhere, having a beer, having fun, while she was here, home, holding down the fort? Was he out there being handsome and sexy and male . . .
Virile.
Single.
Free.
Jesus. Sarah drew a sharp breath, her insides hurting, bruised.
Boone had promised her he’d never cheat again. He’d promised her he’d learned his lesson. But had he? How would she know if he was being unfaithful? She hadn’t suspected before, and yet when she discovered the truth she was shocked by the heat of it, and how carnal it was between them, he and that woman . . . and when Boone had said it was nothing, that the woman meant nothing to him, that it was just sex . . .
Was that really supposed to make her feel better?
Did knowing that he could separate sex and love help?
Did knowing that men were—supposedly—different from women change anything?
No, and no, and no, and no.
If anything it made trust impossible.
How could she trust Boone not to stray when he could say it was exercise, an outlet, a release, and not something more, something important?
What kept her here, in this marriage, was the fact that love and sex were so intertwined. She couldn’t sleep with Boone without loving him mind, body, and soul.
Perhaps the fault was hers. Not being able to have casual sex . . .
Abruptly Sarah dug into her skirt pocket for her phone and tapped Boone’s number on speed dial.
He answered after a few rings. There was noise in the background—voices, music, cutlery. He was in a bar. Or a restaurant with a bar. Someplace lively for one thirty at night.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to sound unconcerned even as she pressed her hips against the counter’s edge and felt the stone dig into the small of her back.