“I know.” I stared at the cars whizzing by, waiting for my husband to somehow show up, out of the blue, and tell me that he wanted to give me a ride. Waiting for him to come and whisk me away. Praying he would shield me, not only from the storm outside, but the one inside me, too.
“Goddess, come here.”
Dropping my head, I tried to swallow the ball of tears in my throat.
“Francesca, it’s pouring. What the fuck?”
I heard Angelo’s feet slapping the concrete stairs as he made his way across the lawn, wanting to stop him, but knowing that I’d already messed with my destiny too much. Opening the notes when I shouldn’t have. Feeling things I shouldn’t feel for someone who was only after my family’s misery.
I felt Angelo’s embrace from behind me. It was all wrong and right. Comforting and distressing. Beautiful and ugly. And my brain kept screaming, no, no, no. He twisted me around. I was shivering in his arms, and he jerked me close, hugging me before bringing me to shelter within his chest. He somehow knew that my need for human warmth was stronger than the need for a roof over my head.
He cupped my cheeks, and I relented to his touch, knowing, without a shadow of a doubt now, that Wolfe had read the second note, about the chocolate, shortly after I moved into his house. And that he was also privy to the first note, as I’d told him, and ruined it for me, too.
Those notes didn’t count.
They never counted.
This was true. This was real. Angelo and me, under the open sky that was crying for all the time I’d spent trying to make my husband fall in love with me.
Angelo.
Maybe it was always Angelo.
“I’m pregnant,” I yelped into his chest. “And I want a divorce,” I added, not entirely sure that it was really what I wanted.
He shook his head, bringing his lips to my forehead. “I’ll be there for you. No matter what.”
“Your father hates me,” I moaned, the pain inside me cutting deep.
He saved me.
Angelo saved me.
Sheltered me from the storm.
“Who cares about my father? I love you.” He nuzzled his nose against mine. “I’ve loved you since the day you smiled at me—all braces—and I still wanted to kiss you.”
“Angelo…”
“You’re not a toy, Francesca. You’re not my leverage, or my pawn, or my arm candy. You’re the girl from the river. The kid who smiled at me with colorful braces. Just because your story had a few chapters where I wasn’t the main lead doesn’t make me any less the love of your life. And you’re mine. This is it. This is us.”
His lips crushed on mine, soft and firm. So determined I wanted to cry with both relief and heartbreak. Angelo was kissing me in front of the entire school. With Wolfe’s rings on my finger. Both engagement and wedding band. I knew, without even looking, that people took out their phones and recorded the entire thing. I knew, without a doubt, that my life had taken the sharpest turn of all. Yet I gave in to Angelo, knowing somehow that it needed to happen.
I was cheating on my husband.
Who wanted to ruin my family.
Who didn’t want our baby.
Who kept secrets from me.
I was cheating on my husband.
Who offered me everything he owned but his heart.
Who kissed me soft.
And fought me hard.
I was cheating on my husband.
After my father killed his family.
And there was no going back.
Our lips disconnected, and Angelo took my hand in his, tugging me back toward the school.
“Whatever it is, we’ll make it. You know that, right?”
“I know that.”
I turned my head around one last time to see if there was something I’d missed, and sure enough, there was.
While Wolfe wasn’t there, Kristen sure was, tucked inside a parked car, recording the whole thing.
I cheated on my husband, Wolfe Keaton.
The end.
She’s been fucking him the whole time.
They’re in a hotel in Buffalo Grove now, FYI. Might wanna make sure she takes a shower before you dip into it tonight.
I hope you know what it looks like to the media, Senator Keaton. You’re officially the joke of the state.
I’d read Kristen’s text messages until my eyes nearly bled. They were accompanied by pictures. Or rather, evidence. Evidence I couldn’t overlook since Twitter and Instagram burst with the same images from a hundred different angles of my wife, Mrs. Francesca Keaton, kissing her former flame and fellow student, Angelo Bandini, in the rain. It was like a fucked-up scene from The Notebook. The way he held her. The way she submitted to him. Kissed him back. Fiercely.
I couldn’t unglue my eyes even if I wanted to. And, quite frankly, I didn’t want to.
This is what you get for putting your trust in another human being, idiot.