She went to his hotel and left dressed in his jacket? What am I supposed to make of that? The answer is obvious.
My headache escalates. The rotten way I feel doesn’t help. Turning on my heel, I go to the kitchen to get a glass of orange juice. I need an aspirin and some vitamin C. Something crunches under my feet when I round the island counter. It looks like sugar. I follow the trail. Ants are marching in a line over the kitchen floor. I’m not sure where they’re coming from, but their destination seems to be the trashcan. Lifting the lid, I peer inside. Sugar. Granulated sugar.
Dumping Maxime’s jacket on the nearest chair, I go to the cupboard and take out the sugar pot. It’s filled with cubes. Aware of Francine watching me, I empty the pot in the trashcan. For good measure, I throw the quiche that still stands on the counter in the trash, too. The old me would’ve never wasted food. The new me has a hardened heart.
My head is aching so much it’s an effort just to talk, but I turn on Francine and say, “Leave. Now. You don’t have to bother coming back.”
She pulls herself straight. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“Max is my boss and—”
“That may be, but this is my house.”
She drops the vacuum pipe. “I’ll work until the end of the month.”
“You won’t put another foot in here.”
Her smile is mean. “Is this about my work or about what happened between Max and me last night?”
Honestly, I can’t say if the sugar war is the last straw prompting me to chase her out of my house or if it’s the jealous anger eating away at my insides. Maxime and I, we’re not an authentic couple, but we are married. If he couldn’t respect the vows he took yesterday, he shouldn’t have made them. Whatever the case, I’ve reached my limit.
“You’re such a spoiled brat,” she says. “You don’t realize what you have.” Taking a few steps toward me, she asks, “Do you know what lengths Max went to yesterday? Do you know what you ruined?”
Placing a hand over my neck, I fight for composure. I fight not to humiliate myself by screaming or saying nasty words I can’t take back.
“He booked a whole restaurant out for you and hired a singer,” she continues. “Your own private little diva. He spent a fortune on roses and a wedding cake, not to mention the most exclusive photographer in Marseille who cancelled all his appointments just to capture your precious memories. Oh, did I mention the church choir? He did it all for you. No guests. Just you. The hotel honeymoon suite sure was pretty with all those roses and candles. At least I didn’t waste the champagne.”
Maxime always has a reason for doing what he does. He taught me that in Venice. His flowers and candles come with a price. It’s not the effort he went to that affects me. It’s that he already broke the promise he made when he slipped a ring onto my finger. My chest squeezes until my heart hurts. I can’t look at Francine for one minute longer.
“Leave your keys,” I say. “You won’t need them any longer.”
She grabs a coat and bag from the coat stand. “I’ll return the keys to the person who gave them to me,” she says, slamming the door on her way out.
I lean against the counter. It was hardly a fight, but it took all the energy I had. The smell of Francine’s perfume on Maxime’s jacket taunts me. It’s going straight to the dry cleaners. Furious and hurt, I bundle the jacket up to put it in the washing basket. Something white and lacy peeks from the pocket. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even care, but I can’t help myself.
Holding my breath, I slide my hand into the pocket and pull out the item. A woman’s thong. White. Like Francine’s dress yesterday.
I stand there like a statue, staring at the small piece of fabric in my palm. I have no right to feel like this, but it fucking hurts. It hurts differently to the day I caught Izabella and Maxime having a polite conversation with soft laughter in his library. That hurt was a shock, a mountain of ice dumped on my head I hadn’t seen coming. I never expected it. I suppose it prepared me for this second round, because this pain isn’t as acute as more drawn out. It’s a slow burn, creeping at a snail’s pace to bury itself deep under my skin. I’m not sure what’s worse, the quick and devastating collision or the slow crawl of agony. In any event, the outcome is the same—pain and more pain.
Maxime fucked Francine on our wedding night.
All the more reason to put a chastity lock and chain around my heart. I throw the jacket and the underwear into the trash can, wash my hands twice, and pour a glass of juice that I take back to bed. After swallowing aspirin, I crawl under the covers and pull the comforter over my head.
If I stay here long enough with my head buried under the covers, the pain eventually has to fade.
It’s late morning when I wake up again. I’m still alone. I feel like shit. Shaking all over with a cold fever, I pull the covers up to my chin. I need to eat. My body needs energy to heal. When the ice in my bones turns hot and sweat covers my body, I throw the covers aside and drag myself to the kitchen.
There’s nothing I can heat up and no baguette to make a sandwich. The quickest meal to fix will be scrambled eggs. I take the carton with the eggs from the fridge, but feel so miserable that I leave them with the pan on the counter and just grab the carton of juice. I take it to bed and swallow
