“Do you know her?” Madeline asked, lifting her chin toward a spot a few rows below us. “The girl they were talking about? Is she a friend of yours?”
“I don’t . . .” I shook my head, my attention straying absentmindedly to where Madeline had indicated.
Her.
There.
She.
You.
Stunning.
Are.
Woman.
Want.
I lost my train of thought.
I lost my words.
In truth, I lost my ability to speak.
And think.
I’d been addled insensible by the vision before me.
Dark eyes lined by thick lashes set in an extraordinarily exquisite face—she was a painting. A marble statue, set apart and untouchable. Yet a moving, breathing object of artistry. Everything grace and elegance and beauty.
Her red lips pursed thoughtfully. The unknown woman was searching for something, eyeing the space around her desk, unaware she was being watched, the subject of intense fascination.
My mother had been an object to my father, a means to an end. A tool for a purpose. He was handsome, unfaithful, and soulless. His cold lack of regard eventually killed her. As such, I’d never allowed myself to be blinded or corrupted by a fa?ade. I’d trained myself to search for signs of authenticity and intelligence beyond the false and oftentimes misleading stucco of appearance.
But this woman . . . she was blinding.
Enchanting.
And she was bending over.
And now I was gaping at her remarkably perfect ass. It was the Helen of Troy of asses, the kind wars are fought over.
“You know her?” Madeline’s repeated question pulled me from my brazen gawking.
Ashamed, I forced my eyes away and cleared my throat twice before answering, “I don’t know her.”
“Oh. I thought she might be your friend. Why did you defend her if you don’t know her?”
“Mutual flirting and willing seduction are one thing, but forceful leering and being the target of unwelcome objectification are quite another,” I answered offhandedly. “I defended human decency.”
Unable to help myself, I re-centered the woman in my vision, appreciating the curve of her narrow waist, the bewitching line of her jaw and neck, as I might admire the handiwork of an exceptionally gifted artist. She’d twisted around again, sending me chasing my breath. Her loveliness again jarring and startling.
“She’s pretty,” Madeline said. It sounded like a fishing lure, a comment meant for me to contradict.
I ignored it, instead focusing on the woman’s sad eyes. But also curious. And wise. They held depth of thought, of knowing.
No. The thought was unbidden. She’s a reminder that true and brilliant beauty exists in this world.
I shrugged, dazedly watching the captivating creature as she slipped into her seat, and replied clumsily, “I have a girlfriend.” It was more a reminder to myself than a response to the girl’s remark.
Madeline said nothing else.
I heard nothing of the lecture.
And when the class ended, I battled my guilt, keeping my eyes pointedly downcast in atonement for looking.
But mostly for noticing, and allowing myself to be intoxicated by the sight.
CHAPTER 4
Dear Husband,
You know I love you because I don’t murder your mother.
-Jenna
Post-it Note
United Kingdom
Married 22 years
Present Day
Fiona
Greg and I arrived at the party five minutes early. This was a miracle because we’d left our apartment fifteen minutes late; the kids were ecstatic to have their dad home and didn’t want to let him go. Also, we encountered blizzard-like conditions on the streets of Chicago. Recognizing the plight of our tardiness, Greg suggested I call Janie—another of our close-knit group, though she crocheted mostly—and ask if she could send a car to pick us up.
I rationalized this frivolity by reminding myself I was bringing the cake. It was the cake, not us, that warranted the fancy car ride.
Greg saw nothing frivolous in asking Janie to send a car, remarking, “What’s the good of having friends if you can’t exploit them for their resources?” This statement earned him a stern look because he was only half-joking.
I’d known Janie—savant, guileless, tall—in college; when I was a master’s student she was starting her freshman year. I was the resident advisor on the dorm floor. We’d kept in touch over the years. Janie and her husband Quinn—resourceful, stoic, covertly noble—live in a penthouse apartment in a building he owns, at the north end of Millennium Park. He is in the security business.
In addition to Janie and me, the remainder of our knitting group is as follows: