The election was in eleven weeks. Eleven weeks of black-tie fundraisers, cutesy interviews, and playing food poisoning roulette to judge chili competitions at local festivals. Eleven weeks of pretending she wasn’t just a rage cloud wrapped in Prada couture. Then they’d be done. She could walk away with enough of herself intact to hide any parts that would never heal.
She knew Matt wouldn’t budge on delaying the divorce. Protecting his career would always come first, no matter how guilty he felt about cheating. But admitting he needed her had been a mistake. He’d handed her a card to play, and she was determined to take advantage.
Rachel brushed leaves and dirt from her dress. “Rule number one. You don’t get to tell me what to do. I will go wherever I want, when I want, and you don’t say one word.”
“Rules?” Matt tugged at his collar. “If there are rules, then we must have an agreement.”
“Rule number two. Never, under any circumstances, are you to say that you’re sorry you hurt me, or you never meant for this to happen, or that part of you will always love me. All of the above are grounds for immediate termination.”
“Termination?”
“I will kill you.”
“Right.” Matt paused, his expression softening. “Thank you for… being reasonable.”
“Don’t say that either.” She stepped forward. “And don’t pretend that this is a choice. This is my home.”
Matt glanced at the house. “It’s mine, too, Rachel, just like you’re still my wife. I know you won’t believe this, but that still means something to me.”
Rachel leaned in, close enough to smell the mint from his mouthwash. “I may have to stand by your side and keep my mouth shut in public, but don’t ever call me your wife again. That’s rule number three.”
Matt sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Are you drunk?”
Rachel gulped the last of the soda. “Yes.” She shoved the cup against his stomach. He grabbed it instinctively, eyes wide as she walked past him toward the house. “I’d get used to it if I were you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Nathan couldn’t identify the smells coming from his kitchen, which usually happened whenever Bobbi Kim came over to cook. She liked to pretend it was altruistic, that she was saving him from a sad single-man diet of frozen pizza and takeout, but she actually wanted to use the space. Bobbi’s condo barely had enough room for furniture. She also had a roommate who worked from home and complained whenever an appliance ran during her Zoom calls. Nathan lived alone in his studio with a Viking gas range that Bobbi didn’t think he deserved. Last week, she bit his head off when he used it to boil ramen noodles for lunch.
“What are you making?” Nathan sat on a bar stool at his kitchen island. Bobbi’s hands were a rapid blur, her chef’s knife making quick work of a pile of vegetables. A large bowl of beaten eggs sat at her elbow, speckled with black pepper and other spices he couldn’t identify. Experimentation had always been her thing. When they were kids, it was a chemistry set. In college, it was switching majors and sneaking around with married women. Three years into being a line chef at a small DC restaurant, it was the aromatic contents of unlabeled jars ground to dust with a mortar and pestle.
“Breakfast,” she said. “A real breakfast, not that powdered milk shit your brother got you hooked on.”
“It’s a protein smoothie.” He sipped his coffee and eyed with suspicion the deep casserole dish she had buttered. Nathan didn’t remember buying it. His apartment was furnished during a big spending spree when he bought the building. There were probably towels and bedsheets somewhere in shrink wrap with the price tags still attached. “Joe says it’s vegan.”
“That doesn’t make it good for you. Why don’t you eat actual food in the morning?”
“I’m not big on breakfast. Too many eggs.”
Bobbi paused midchop to glare at him. She was tall, nearly his height, and usually wore her long hair piled on top of her head in a gravity-defying bun. He’d never seen Bobbi fight anyone, but he had once seen her stare down a cop so hard that he ripped up a parking ticket. Nathan took another drink of his coffee and vowed to keep all egg-related opinions to himself.
“I drew that thing you asked for,” he said.
She dropped the knife and clasped her hands. “Ooh! Can I see?” Bobbi vibrated with the same energy that she brought to discovering a new restaurant or adding a dish she’d created to the menu at work. Unlike his erratic relationship with art, Bobbi’s passion was focused and uncluttered—a laser aimed at whatever brought her joy. Sometimes he avoided putting his work in her crosshairs because he didn’t want to disappoint her. But other times, like now, her excitement was contagious. It made him feel like the hours he burned away struggling to capture his daydreams on paper weren’t a complete waste of time.