He sighed and gave her that look she hated—exasperated but patient—resigned to another teachable moment. “It’s your party too. Why are you hiding in the kitchen? People are starting to notice.”
“I need to finish the cake.” She slid her knife along one side for emphasis.
“No one cares about the cake. They probably won’t even eat it.”
Her face heated. He was so good at that—making something benign, like baking a cake for a birthday party, feel like a childish mistake. “I don’t care if they eat it.” She put the knife down and untied her apron. “It exists. That’s all that matters.”
“Whatever you say.” He shrugged. “Are you coming out or not?”
“Do you like it at least?”
He sighed again, flicked his eyes toward the door, and pressed his lips into a smile that looked more like a gassy grimace. “It’s perfect. Like always. Now come on.” He waved a lazy hand at the cake on his way out. “Bring it with you.”
The silence he left behind was smothering. Their snippy argument was nothing new. Yesterday it was about paint colors, the shade of blue she’d chosen for his office. “It’s too dark. How am I supposed to work in a room that feels like a cave?” That was who they were. Snippy arguments. Cold pimento cheese. Not sexy text messages at inappropriate moments. He’d never proposition her this way.
Rachel flipped her phone back over. The screen was covered in webbed cracks, but the picture was still visible. She sent a reply.
I don’t think you meant to send this to me.
She put her phone down and dipped her finger into a bowl of leftover icing, careful to avoid the red velvet crumbs in the center. She hated red velvet. The kitchen door swung open and banged against the opposite wall. Matt rushed inside, his panicked eyes darting from her face to her abandoned phone. “Jesus.” He shoved both hands in his hair. “God, I’m so sorry.”
Rachel held his gaze and slowly pushed the cake over the counter’s edge. It fell, facedown, into a bloodred pile at his feet.
Two weeks earlier, Rachel had been perched on the edge of her living room sofa while she stared deeply into Matt’s eyes and promised to be less of a selfish bitch. Or, more accurately, decided that keeping her mouth shut was the best way to avoid another surprise marriage counseling session. According to Shania Fariss—their wispy marriage-maintenance specialist—their relationship’s primary area for improvement was Rachel’s lack of gratitude.
“Focus on what your partner gives you,” Shania advised. “Not what you think is lacking.” Whatever annoying habit of Matt’s that Rachel had planned to mention immediately deflated into something so small and petty, it didn’t deserve to be spoken out loud. Instead, they focused on the very important fact that Rachel was not, and had never been, very good at being his wife.
A good wife would not have slipped away during her husband’s Rising Star Award speech at the Virginia bar luncheon to send their driver to Popeye’s Chicken, causing political commentators to speculate whether a white man with a Black wife was a fan of dark meat. According to Matt, her lack of judgment said something deeper about their marriage aside from Rachel’s aversion to underseasoned poultry. The small scandal had called for another counseling session—their third in two months.
“I’m grateful for my family. My daughter.” Rachel paused, and then quickly added, “The Abbotts of course,” because everyone thought she should be grateful for them. Matt had made her one of the Abbotts, a family so royal adjacent that the press had dubbed Rachel “the DC Meghan Markle.” And like Meghan, any hint of dissatisfaction with her royal status would be met with skepticism and, occasionally, open hostility. Who wouldn’t be grateful to wake up each day swaddled in downy white privilege?
In truth, Rachel was grateful for not worrying about whether her bills were paid or there was food in the refrigerator. She was thankful for the car that always started and insurance that swallowed medical bills like magic. But Matt and Shania wouldn’t understand any of that. They couldn’t relate. He was born with money, and Shania, with her Wellesley pedigree, would probably launch into a lecture about the pitfalls of focusing on material things as if they were discussing a designer shoe collection instead of basic human needs.
When Rachel and Matt were dating, it didn’t matter that she was always broke. Their differences seemed small and romantic. Like how he would order too much food at restaurants because he knew that outside of their shared dinners, Rachel existed on ramen noodles and cheap gas station hot dogs.