Most days, my life felt close to perfect. There was still the pit in my heart that was Gus, and even though I knew it would never completely go away, having Garrett helped more than I ever could’ve dreamed. The one thing that had started to weigh on me was how little I got to see my husband. I missed Burke desperately—the piney smell of his skin, the grounding sound of his laugh, the way it felt to rest my head against his chest. And I wanted Garrett to know his father better, too. But Burke was already well into the second and final year of his analyst program. Come June his boss had promised to promote him to associate; he’d get a significant pay bump and hours that were far more bearable. By then the new baby would be born, and Burke would be home in time to help me put the kids down at night. We’d probably need to move into a bigger apartment, but that wouldn’t be an issue with Burke’s new salary.
Sometimes I had to pinch myself. Here I was, Heather Price Michaels, twenty-three years old and living in a gorgeous apartment in New York City, married to the investment banker of my dreams with an adorable toddler and baby number two on the way. I had a two-carat diamond-and-sapphire ring on my finger and access to a comfortable bank account and an ever-improving wardrobe that was—thanks to Manhattan’s plentiful consignment shops—almost enviable. Things were working out just as I’d planned. Life in Langs Valley was a forgotten bad dream, and I couldn’t imagine being happier.
That’s the thing about being on top, though—the higher you get, the harder the fall.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Skye
NOVEMBER 2019
My dad is handling everything with Davis as he builds a case, while I try to wrap my head around the unthinkable connection between my old babysitter and my husband. Her husband.
My dad says that aside from the initial statement I made about Burke’s deception, I only have to be as involved in the legal process as I want, assuming this doesn’t go to trial. In the meantime, he wants me to focus on allowing my life to go back to normal, though I’m not sure that’s possible.
For starters, I can’t stop wearing my ring. My wedding band I had no problem burying in an old jewelry box, but the engagement ring—that’s another story. I’ve gotten used to how it feels on my finger, the sheer weight of it on my left hand. I like the way it makes me stand a little taller as I stroll through the West Village, passing crowded bars of twenty-somethings who’ve succumbed to day drinking with the hope of finding their soul mate in a tequila-induced blur. You’ve already found yours, the diamond on my ring finger reminds me with a sparkly wink.
The only time I do take it off is when I’m going to meet my friends. Such as today. It’s a chilly, gray Saturday—New York fall has reached that point where it loses its appeal—and while I’d like nothing more than to sit in the bath and sulk, I’ve agreed to attend Isabel’s husband’s thirtieth birthday party at a bar in Williamsburg.
“I know you don’t like Brooklyn,” Lexy tells me in the cab. “But this is a new chapter, and I’m telling you—it’s all about Brooklyn.”
“Then why don’t you live there?”
“Because Matt is too fucking lazy to leave Tribeca.” She rolls her eyes. Matt sits next to her wearing AirPods and chatting on the phone, oblivious of our conversation. Being in the cab with the two of them makes me miss Burke more than I can stand.
When we reach the Williamsburg Bridge, I close my eyes and bite the insides of my cheeks. I can feel Lexy watching me.
“Shit, I forgot about your thing with bridges.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “Just breathe. Almost there.”
Lexy has me wearing one of her Herve Leger dresses, and she’s done my makeup, and leaving her building, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the lobby mirror, I was struck by my appearance. When you realize your husband is an impostor who married you for your money and you stop being able to eat and sleep, you lose fifteen pounds and suddenly have the banging body you weren’t disciplined enough to achieve before. Lexy has covered my dark circles with some miracle under-eye paste, and now, to the outside world, I’m a vision.
Inside I’m a destruction zone. The minute we step into the bar—a loungy place called Freehold—I want to leave. It’s one of those trendy Williamsburg spots with a different DJ in every corner, the result of which is a piercing mash of beats that stabs my eardrums.
“Drink!” Lexy leads us to the bar, where Isabel and Andie are already gathered with their significant others. We all greet one another and tell Will happy birthday, and I wish the ground would open right up and swallow me under. Seven of us are in the circle: Isabel and Will, Lexy and Matt, Andie and Spencer, and me. I’ve never felt so acutely alone in my life. Andie squeezes my hand.
Lexy orders us jalape?o margaritas.
“I know you don’t feel ready,” Lexy says, pressing the icy glass into my palm. “But Matt has a superhot friend here, and he’s a total sweetheart. A good guy. I could introduce you?”
My stomach sinks. I rub the bare space around my ring finger and feel my throat tighten. The audible reminder that I’m back on the market makes me want to rip my skin off.
“C’mon, S,” Lexy pleads. “You look smokin’ tonight.”
I swallow the full feeling in my throat. “Let me get this drink in me first.”
“That’s the spirit!” Lexy throws her arm around my neck and nods toward the corner of the room. “He’s over there, if you want a little preview. Light blue button-down.”
I follow her gaze, which leads to a sea of attractive men in a uniform of oxfords and jeans. Two years earlier I might’ve downed my jalape?o marg and made my way in their direction, keeping my eyes peeled for wedding-band-less hands.
But now nothing is appealing about these potentially single men, and with each sip of alcohol I’m only surer that my heart is somewhere else, and that even though it’s in a place it shouldn’t be, there’s no untangling it from where it is, at least not tonight.
Besides, there’s something I no longer like about the type of guys that are here, Will Maguire’s finance pals with their dry-cleaned shirts and clipped haircuts and playful, insatiable eyes. Perhaps it’s because they are boys, and I married a man.
Then a finger taps my shoulder, and the world is too small and weird, and something primal in me hitches—an urge to run—but I turn around anyway. Of course it’s him. Neat, sand-colored hair, cold brown eyes, bow-shaped mouth. A blade slices my chest. The syllables of his name are a slow drag in my head. Max. La. Pointe.
My mom used to say that resentment is a wasted emotion, that holding on to anger is like swallowing poison and hoping the other person will die. Maybe she was right. Still, I hate Max LaPointe so much I feel sick. The sight of him—which used to flood me with affection and intoxicating lust—now fuels a nauseating fire in the pit of my stomach.
“Starling.” He grins wickedly, his eyes moving up and down the length of me, and I feel my knees quiver. The sight of his gold wedding band sears the invisible circle around my own naked ring finger. “I thought I might have the displeasure of running into you here.” His devious gaze locks mine. One corner of his mouth curls, but it’s not a smile.