I sorely regret my alcohol intake last night when I wake up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a mouth that tastes and feels like sandpaper. I roll over in bed and see the empty spot next to me. It’s the first time in our entire marriage that Sam went to the couch to sleep. I have a bad feeling it won’t be the last.
While I’m lying in bed, the doorbell chimes sound throughout the apartment. I rub my eyes, wincing at the noise. I can’t even imagine who would be coming here on a weekday morning. I’m certainly not expecting anyone.
Oh my God, is it the police coming to arrest me?
My heart is slamming in my chest as I race out to the door in my bare feet. I lean in to look through the peephole, and I nearly faint with relief when I see my old assistant Gertie standing there. She’s clutching a shopping bag from the grocery store in one hand, her cane in the other, and beaming at the door.
I fling the door open and her face breaks out in a smile when she sees me. Well, until she gets a closer look at me. It’s disturbing the way her eyes widen and she takes a step back. I wish I had checked a mirror first before I ran out here.
“Abby!” she gasps. “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
No, I’m just hungover. But I don’t say that. “Yeah, it’s been rough lately.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here!” She holds up the shopping bag. “You were so sad last time I saw you. I wanted to make you some breakfast.”
“That’s really sweet, but…”
Apparently, Gertie is not taking no for an answer. She pushes past me and quickly makes herself at home in our kitchen. Within seconds, she’s running water and clanging pots.
“Can I do anything to help?” I ask.
She waves me away. “Of course not! You go, um… freshen up.” I can take a hint.
I stumble in the direction of the bedroom to check out the damage. I almost gasp when I see the circles under my eyes and my hair sticking up in defiance of gravity. When I was in my twenties, I could throw back a bunch of drinks and still look gorgeous in the morning, but not so much now. I run a brush through my black hair, and dab on some make up.
There. Better.
When I return to the kitchen, I smell frying eggs, which makes my stomach growl in spite of my semi-hangover. It reminds me of Sam’s attempt to cook an omelet for breakfast a few months ago. He put too many eggs in the pan, and the center of the omelet was completely raw while the outside was dark brown. We nicknamed it “Salmonella Surprise.” We laughed a lot that morning. (And had corn flakes for breakfast.)
I can’t believe Sam is sleeping with Monica. How could he?
“Have a seat, Abby dear,” Gertie says. She’s wearing Sam’s “I ate some pie” apron and moving eggs around the frying pan. She picks up the pan and scrapes the eggs onto two plates. She brings my plate out to the dining table, then limps back to bring out a glass of orange juice. “Breakfast is served!”
I don’t know if I’m hungry, but I don’t want to seem ungrateful so I sit down. At the very least, I’m incredibly thirsty, so I down the orange juice in three big gulps. It makes my pounding headache feel ever so slightly better.
I dig into the eggs a little more reluctantly, but after the first bite, I’m shoveling them into my mouth. They’re actually really good. Much better than Salmonella Surprise.
“What do you think?” Gertie asks, grinning at me across the time.
“You need to show my husband how to make this,” I say. Although I suspect Sam will never try to make me eggs ever again. Those days are over.
“I’d be happy to.” Gertie winks at me, and I can’t help but notice that up close she doesn’t have as many wrinkles around her eyes as I’d expect her to. I always thought of Gertie as pushing seventy, but now I think she’s likely closer to sixty. It’s a shame that she hurt her hip so badly at such a young age. I still wonder if Monica was responsible—I’ll probably never know the truth.
I’ve nearly cleaned my plate of delicious eggs when the doorbell rings again.
Gertie looks up from her own plate of eggs. “Are you expecting someone, Abby?”
I shake my head no. Maybe this time it really is the police. I wipe my mouth with the napkin Gertie brought me, then get to my feet to check the door. When I see Monica standing in front of the door, I nearly pretend not to be home.
I don’t want to be alone with Monica. Mrs. Johnson’s terrifying stories are still ringing in my ears. I don’t trust that woman for a second. She almost certainly killed Denise in cold blood.
But then again, Gertie is here. She wouldn’t try anything in front of a witness.
Would she?
I turn the locks on the door and crack it open, but keep the chain in place. Monica looks stunning in a bright red dress, with her black hair silky and loose around her shoulders, but my eyes are immediately drawn to her belly. God, she’s gotten huge. She’s got to be ready to have the baby any day now.
“What are you doing here?” I snap at her.
“Could you please let me in?” She clutches her belly with both hands. “We need to talk.”
“Oh, do we?”
She hesitates. “Sam asked me to come here and speak with you.” “Who is it?” Gertie calls from the dining table.
I stare through the crack at Monica, whose looks like she’s just struggling to stay upright at this point. Monica might be dangerous at her worst, but I don’t think she is right now. I could probably take her, even if she had a knife. Or a letter opener. And anyway, Gertie is here—it would be two against one.
“Fine.” I close the door, unhook the chain, then throw it open for her. “Come on inside.”
Monica waddles into the apartment. Well, she sort of waddles. Even though she’s very pregnant, her gait is not entirely ungraceful. I wonder what Sam thinks of it all. I’m sure he thinks she looks incredibly sexy. He’s clearly having sex with her, because he and I haven’t had sex in a month.
Monica notices Gertie sitting at the dining table and stops short. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“Oh!” Gertie struggles to her feet. “I could go if you’d like, Abby.”
“No,” I say quickly. It makes me feel safe that Gertie is here, even though she’s an old woman with a cane. “Please stay.”
Gertie glances at Monica, hesitating. Maybe it’s selfish of me to ask Gertie to stay, especially if Monica is the one who pushed her down the stairs. I don’t want to put Gertie’s life in danger. But no, it will be fine. Monica won’t try anything with both of us here.
“I’ll tidy up in the kitchen,” she finally decides.
Monica settles into one of the chairs while Gertie hobbles into the kitchen, out of earshot. Monica flips her black hair over her shoulder, and once again, I catch a glimpse of her pale roots. Her dark eyes meet mine and I shudder involuntarily.
“Sam had an early class this morning, but I promised him you and I would have a heart to heart.” Her smile doesn’t touch her eyes. “Things have gotten a little out of control, don’t you think?”
I stare down at my plate of eggs. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t have to tell you that your behavior last night was very upsetting to Sam, Abby.” She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Searching through his phone? Not very classy.”
I lift my chin. “I had just cause.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Yes,” she finally says. “I suppose you did.”
Her answer doesn’t make me feel any better. “What do you mean by that?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” she says quietly. I raise my eyes. “What?”
“Abby,” she says. “It’s over.” I stare at her. “Excuse me?”
“You and Sam. Your marriage. It’s over.”
The orange juice and eggs in my stomach threatens to come back up. “What are you talking about?”
“Think about it, Abby.” She gives me a pitying look. “You’re a mess. Look at you. You’re a drug addict. You’re about to be arrested for murder.” She shakes her head. “Sam and I feel it would be best for you to find another place to live, so we could live here and take care of the baby.”
With those words, she puts her hand protectively on her belly. That was the baby I was supposed to raise with Sam. Now he’ll still raise the child,
but I’ll be out of the picture.
“I…” I look down at my empty plate, feeling ill. “I’d like to hear it from him.”
“Sam doesn’t have the heart to tell you. This is very difficult for him.” “Oh, really?”
She snorts. “Honestly, you never should have been with him in the first place. You’re hardly even attractive, and intellectually—well, there’s no comparison. You don’t know real numbers from the Real Housewives of Orange County.”
Yes, I do. I know what real numbers are. They’re all numbers that are… well, real. Like, not imaginary.
I better not say that though. I could be wrong.
“Sam married you for money,” she says. “Your trust fund. Pure and simple. And now you’ve outlived your usefulness.”
Is she right? Did Sam really just marry me for my money? I wouldn’t have believed it if someone told me that a year ago. But now…
There’s a buzzing sensation in the back of my skull. I shake my head to clear it, but it doesn’t go away. I look at Monica, and for a second, I see two of her. But then when I blink, she becomes one again. I rub my face.
Monica frowns. “Are you okay?”
“I…” I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. “I feel sort of… dizzy.”
She looks down at the plate of eggs in front of me, then she leans back in her seat to glance into the kitchen. She calls out, “Was it in the eggs?”
Gertie comes out of the kitchen, drying her hands on one of my hand towels. Weirdly, she’s not holding her cane, even though she barely seemed able to take a step without it when she arrived. “No,” Gertie says. “It was in the orange juice. She drank it about ten minutes ago.”
My mouth falls open. “Gertie?”
“And you put the whole bottle in there?” Monica asks. “Every last pill.”
Monica smiles at Gertie—this time a genuine smile. “Thanks, Mom,” she says.
