I gulp, knowing she’s right.
Never once have I thought about wanting to push Dean to make a choice.
Making him choose between me, the woman he hasn’t seen for eleven years, or his wife, the woman he loves and cares for enough that he put a ring on her finger and gave her his last name.
I open my mouth to speak, but I’m cut off by Spencer’s soft drunken snores. With a racing heart, I close my eyes and pray for sleep to take me, knowing that soon everything will be different.
The knot in my stomach telling me something is about to happen returns.
THIRTY-SEVEN
NOW
Dean
I’ve been anxious and on edge all day, anxious for what’s to come tonight when I see Camille. I could barely sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her emerald eyes staring back at me.
When she walked into my office yesterday, I hadn’t planned on fucking her on every surface, but she looked at me with those eyes, telling me to use her body to pound out my frustrations, so I did. Without a second thought, I stripped her bare and fucked her all over my office, taking her raw and filling her with my cum repeatedly.
Now today, I can hardly sit still in my chair. She’s everywhere in my office, and I can still smell her arousal and sweet salted caramel pussy in the air.
I’d agreed to meet her at the lighthouse tonight, and as much as I want to avoid it, I have to go and tell her about the baby. She deserves to know that Karina is pregnant, and we can figure things out from there. I’m not sure what’ll happen and where we’ll go from there, but I’m laying all my cards on the table and telling her.
No more lies. If she’s going to be in my life long-term, a part of my future, then she needs to know. We’ve dug ourselves into a fucking mess, and it’s time we face the truth, the harsh reality that we’ve spent so much time avoiding while we were busy tangled in the sheets and fucking all over my hotel room.
It’s time we stop ignoring the elephant in the room and face the fact that we’re both married. Except now, my wife is pregnant.
Fuck. How did things get so fucking messy and out of hand?
Somehow, I get through the day. I attend every meeting on time, send over notices and blueprints to clients, and get through the long to-do list of work-related things I’ve been putting off.
* * *
As wreckedas my nerves are, I surprisingly have a very productive day. By 4:30 p.m., I leave my office and stop at a few stores on my way to the lighthouse in preparation to meet Camille.
I make it there an hour later, taking extra time to clean up the place. It’s been years since we’ve spent more than five minutes here.
We were here a few weeks ago, but neither of us stayed for more than a few minutes. The place hasn’t been cleaned in years. It’s dusty and untouched; all the items we left here remain.
Blueprints and clothing sketches on the walls; the only thing that’s been removed is the bedding and hygiene items we kept in the bathroom. Apart from that, everything remains—our books on the bookshelves. Magazines, papers, and pencils are spread out on the table. It’s as if we walked away eleven years ago, closed the door, and never looked back or opened it until now.
Digging into the shopping bags, I set to clean up as much of the downstairs area as possible. Sweeping and dusting, setting up the battery-powered lamps I bought, and then spreading a blanket across the floor once it’s clean enough.
I’ve just finished setting out our food containers on the middle of the blanket when lights flash through the windows, followed by the sound of rocks crunching under tires. A few minutes later, the door creaks open, and suddenly the space feels homier with Camille’s presence.
She’s wearing dark jeans, a pair of sandals, and a long-sleeved sweater, her black hair pin straight and flowing down her back. She clearly went home and changed after work, unlike me, who came straight from the office. I’m still in my suit, wearing dress shoes, navy slacks, and a white button dress shirt rolled up to my elbows.
“Hi,” she says, breaking me from my stupor, giving me an awkward wave. I’ve been too busy admiring how fucking beautiful she looks.
“Hey.” She closes the door and walks over to me, taking off her sandals before stepping on the blanket.
“I’m starving. Let’s eat?” She gestures toward the food boxes spread across the black and white blanket. With a nod, I step out of my shoes, keeping my socks on, and sit beside her, opening the Chinese take-out boxes.
We eat in silence, and for the first time since knowing Camille, our silence is awkward and unwanted. You can cut the tension with a knife. It’s clear we both have things we need to get off our chests, but neither of us attempts to speak.
Unable to take it anymore, I open my mouth. “I need to tell you something,” I say, at the same time as she says, “I have something to tell you.”
“Sorry… you can go first.” I shove an eggroll into my mouth to keep myself from blurting out the burning words on the tip of my tongue.