It takes several deep breaths before I do the same.
I need to fucking calm down.
That shit was close. Any minute we could have been found out. No way Rosa would keep something like that quiet. The tabloids would pay a pretty fucking penny for a story like that. And that would be it for me. And Jocelyn.
No, I want you to listen to me as I tell you this. Because this shit is important.
I can’t let something like this happen with Jocelyn. Ever. Again.
If you see something like this happening, just fucking tell me to get the hell out of this situation, okay?
I’m dancing on the edge of the fire here. And I need your help before I get fucking burned.
Jocelyn
I go into the townhouse through the back entrance, not wanting to cause too much of a fuss. I don’t need the footman, the bellman, the doorman and the various members of the staff to stop what their doing and set it down to wish me a happy birthday today. I don’t want to be a bother to them.
Besides, if I really wanted to give myself a birthday present, I should try and do what I’ve been doing the last three days since the incident with Lance and I on the couch. That is, to avoid him completely.
Although in my case, the only way I’ve been able to avoid him has been to spend as much time away from the house as possible.
It’s doable. With Michael’s campaign not getting into full swing for a another couple of weeks, it gives me time to myself.
Sounds easy enough, right, hun?
Nope. And before you get upset at me that I may have tricked you into answering, please let me just say that I love the fact that you’re here and listening to me. I’ve never had someone like this who I could talk to about anything and everything.
Even my girlfriend from college who I met for lunch at 40 Carrot today for yogurt couldn’t understand what I was complaining about.
“So he doesn’t fuck you, this Michael,” she said as we began to scoop our yogurt and looked at the people walking into and out of Bloomingdales. “You better count your blessings, girl.”
“It’s not that, Cheryl,” I told her with a sigh. “It’s just that Michael seems to despise not just having sex with me but everything about me.”
“I don’t know, girl,” she says looking at me. “Why would he do everything you say he did to marry you if he’s not even going to talk to you or try to paw at your beautiful body? And don’t tell me it was to win some election.”
But that’s exactly what it is, I think to myself as I replay Cheryl’s words as I walk into the darkened townhouse. That’s exactly why he kept me around. The optics of a beautiful wife are much better than being single.
Oh, right, I forgot to mention that I went to lunch with Cheryl to celebrate my birthday. I officially turned 36 today. Married to a man who doesn’t love me. In a marriage that I can’t get out of.
Well, I guess it could be worse. Mom and dad are probably pretty aware of the fact that I’m not going to be able to give them grandkids anytime soon. So thankfully they don’t hassle me about that.
But still, I’d like to be able to someday. I don’t know if that’s something to realistically plan for anymore, though. Not with Michael at least.
I walk through the darkened house. Michael is probably at a work function or a campaign related event. I don’t know where Lance is. But that’s more of a relief than a worry.
If Lance were here, I don’t know if I’d be able to control myself. Not today, of all days.
That’s when a single light goes on in the living room. I turn around and gasp.
I really should make sure things are as they are before telling you about them.
Because there stands Lance, in front of the window overlooking Carl Schurz Park. I didn’t spot him at first because it was dark, but I see him quite clearly now.
He’s standing next to a table with two glasses of champagne and the bottle in a chilled ice bucket. Next to the bottle and ice bucket is a multi-layered tray, holding an assortment of delectable items—canapes, chocolate covered strawberries, grapes, mini-quiche.
I gasp.
“Happy birthday, Jocelyn,” he says, taking a glass and walking up to me.