Chapter 1
Hannah It started with a small chip in my nail polish. Working in an interior design firm, I spent most of my days either moving furniture or hauling fabric, paint, and rug samples around town, so a chipped nail was hardly a rarity or anything I fussed over. But when a client called last-minute to cancel our four o’clock Friday meeting, I decided I might as well squeeze in a quick manicure before I went home to get ready for the double date. Grady and I were going on with another couple.
On my way to the nail salon, I swung by Grady’s house to pick up my favorite bottle of OPI polish—Mimosas for Mr. & Mrs.—which I’d left in his bathroom. Per my mother’s wishes not to “cohabitate,” I was waiting to officially move in with him until after the wedding. It was a waste of money, and a bit inconvenient, but there was something about the decision that felt romantic, too.
As I pulled into the driveway, I took a moment to admire the satisfying symmetry of the small but stately brick Georgian that Grady had just bought with a chunk of his trust fund. He called it our “starter home,” but I couldn’t imagine we would ever outgrow it. I especially loved the huge old magnolia in the front yard. One high, sturdy branch was perfect for a swing.
I parked my car in the driveway, walked up the front path, and used my key to unlock the front door. As I stepped into the foyer, I heard the low thrum of music coming from upstairs. Grady was still at work—I’d just called him—so I assumed he’d left his Alexa on. Midway up the flight of stairs, I could make out Coldplay’s “Yellow.” Then, a couple of steps later, I heard the faint sound of moaning.
Female moaning. I stopped in my tracks and held my breath, telling myself there was no way. There must be a benign explanation. Maybe Grady had left the television on this morning, along with his music. Maybe he had blown off work, too, and was indulging in a little Friday afternoon porn. It wasn’t my favorite thought, but with Grady’s sex drive, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. That had to be it, I thought, deciding to abort my nail polish mission and save us both the needless embarrassment.
Yet the smallest kernel of paranoia lingered, propelling me down the hall and toward the bedroom door. It was only open a crack, but it was wide enough for me to peer inside and see a naked woman mounted on my naked fiancé, expertly riding him. They looked like a couple in a movie. . . . The scene was that airbrushed and golden, right down to the way the late afternoon sun streamed through the window and her long blond hair flowed down her tanned hourglass back. There was even a soundtrack, Chris Martin serenading them.
And it was all yellow. I stared in horror, my mind working overtime, wondering if she was a high-end call girl performing some sort of hazing ceremony—a bachelor-party ritual. But as the two fluidly changed positions, I had a hunch it wasn’t their first time. And then, in another gut punch, I recognized her. Grady was having sex with Berlin Beverly, a young Instagram influencer whom I happened to follow, as did about seventy-five thousand other people.
Berlin’s page was curated pastel perfection filled with artfully arranged images of balloon bouquets and fine china tablescapes and expansive floral arrangements. Mostly, though, Berlin’s feed was full of Berlin, sashaying all over Atlanta—that is, when she wasn’t posing and preening aboard luxury yachts and private jets. To say she was smug is an understatement, but she had always seemed harmless, her clichéd captions punctuated with hearts, butterflies, and clinking champagne flutes.
Several excruciating seconds ticked by as I watched them, wondering how this could be happening. Of course, I knew how in the literal sense. I knew that Grady had lied about being at work. I knew he must have parked his Porsche in the garage rather than in his usual spot in the driveway. I knew that Berlin lived two streets over, close enough to walk, which she must have done, as there was no sign of her Portofino blue Range Rover. I knew they had climbed the stairs, removed their clothes, and gotten in the upholstered bed that I’d bought with my designer discount.
How, though, was this
actually happening?
I waited for the rage to kick in, knowing that I was supposed to follow the script of a woman scorned. Pull an Elin Nordegren and smash something. Curse at them. At the very least, interrupt their imminent orgasms. But I couldn’t make myself move, feeling paralyzed with an irrational feeling of shame. It was almost as if
I was the one doing something wrong, and I might, at any second, get busted by
them. Instead, I made my escape, slowly backing away, then running downstairs and out the front door.
...
I must have been on autopilot because I don’t remember driving home or parking my car in the garage or taking the elevator up to my apartment. Somehow, though, I now find myself in my foyer, collapsed on the floor. As the shock starts to wear off, I break into a cold sweat. I feel nauseous and dizzy. Like I might vomit or faint.
I sit up, put my head between my knees, and take deep breaths, in through my nose and out through my mouth. At some point, I manage to lift my head and find my phone in my tote bag. I check my messages, a small part of me expecting to find a full confession from Grady. Instead, there is only a one-line text from him, letting me know that he’ll pick me up at seven.
I close my eyes, wondering if Berlin is still in his bed. I picture the satisfied way he always looks after sex. His faint smirk.
I text back that I don’t feel well and need to cancel. It’s the truth. I have never lied to Grady. I stupidly add that I’m sorry.
What’s wrong?
I feel nauseous.
Uh-oh. Could you be pregnant?
I’m tempted to write back: No. Could Berlin be pregnant? But I’m not ready to confront him. I’m too disoriented.
No. Probably just a bug. Give my regards to the Campbells.
He gives my text a thumbs-up and says he’ll call me later, feel better. He then sends a lone red heart. I stare at it, questioning every heart he’s ever sent me.
I’m not much of a drinker but decide I need something strong. I get to my feet, walk the few steps over to my kitchen, and survey my paltry selection of liquor. I opt for Tito’s, pouring it into a juice glass, skipping ice and mixers. Vodka neat and room temperature. Is that a thing? It is now. I take a large swallow, then quickly drain the rest and head down the hall to my bedroom. I take off my shoes and pants, then crawl under the covers, curling into a tight ball.
Just as the vodka starts to kick in, my phone rings. It’s my mother. I want to answer it. I want to pour my heart out to her and have her tell me that everything is going to be okay. But after thirty-two years, I know better than to answer. I know that she is incapable of making me feel better after a stumble or fall, especially one this serious. She just can’t do it. She’ll find a way to make me feel worse. She had worked so hard to infiltrate Grady’s mother’s Bible study group, then the inner sanctum of her tennis team, to arrange that first date, years ago. And now all her effort was for nothing. I know that will be her take, and I can’t bear the thought of disappointing her. I can’t bear the thought of
anything.
I tell myself to pull it together. My fiancé cheated on me, but it’s not the first time in human history that such a thing has happened. There are many people in the world struggling to
survive—and in any event, suffering far more than I am right now.
But perspective is a hard thing to come by when your heart is broken, and I feel myself completely unraveling, believing this is proof that I’m destined to be alone, maybe even unworthy of having a happy family. Suddenly, all I want to do is call Summer. Hear her voice. Cry into the phone. She would know what to say. She would know how to ease my pain, if only a little.
And that’s when I realize what I need to do. It’s not a solution, but it
is a path forward. A baby step. A promise kept.
Copyright © 2024 by Emily Giffin. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
