Hot Mess - Elise Faber Page 0,3

had a forthcoming search through her file cabinet coming after she’d put Rylie to bed.

Lucky her.

Also lucky, Pepper knowing something was up, but not pushing her to talk about it. Instead, she and her husband, Derek, had kept Rylie entertained, even going so far as to BBQ and make s’mores, and sharing a secret smile with each other over the tasty treat.

Shan knew enough about their relationship—and had actually witnessed Derek’s proposal by s’more, so she understood the shared look.

She even understood the slice of pain and longing that cut through her.

See? She could be healthy . . . or pretend to be, anyway.

But, God, she’d yearned for that—small secrets between a couple, private jokes and sweet looks. And she’d had it for a time with Brian, she supposed. But it had been fleeting and bittersweet and—

It was never that.

Never what Pepper and Derek had.

Which is why she was currently looking at paperwork for the house, for the mortgage, and neither of them looked familiar.

Only now, she finally remembered why.

They’d bought this house when she’d been about eight million months pregnant, stuck on bed rest in the hospital, the actual papers not having been signed until the day after she’d delivered Rylie.

Her name wasn’t on them.

On either the house or the home loan she’d been paying over the last year.

Only now, she remembered Brian coming to her while she’d been terrified she was going to lose her baby, while she’d been not living even day to day, but hour to hour. He’d said that because she was in the hospital it would be easier if he just did the mortgage in his name, then he could get everything signed and wrapped up, and they could move in as soon as Ry was born.

They were supposed to have fixed that, to sign some paperwork after Ry had come home, putting both the mortgage and house in both of their names.

And Shannon had thought . . . well, honestly, she didn’t remember a lot of that time.

She’d had an emergency C-section that had taken eight long weeks to recover from—hindered by an infection at her incision site—and then when she had finally been able to move around, Ry hadn’t been the easiest baby and Brian had been traveling all the time . . . and that first year was mostly a blur.

By the time she’d gotten some actual sleep, she had already returned to teaching, and then her life was a baby, trying to be the perfect wife, to create the perfect home for her and Ry and Brian, and trying to be the best teacher her crew of third graders had.

Cursive and teething and cloth diapers. Baby food, day care, and poems. Common core and journal entries and board books.

And perfectly smooth hair. Wrinkle and hand cream every night. Shaved legs. Simple, understated makeup. Getting back to her pre-baby size. Dressing like she cared. Homecooked meals and—

Years of living as she thought she should rather than for herself.

She’d fought so hard to make something perfect, and in doing so, she’d missed the fact that she and Brian were never perfect, would never be, and that she’d wasted so much time and effort and energy trying to make it so.

Alone.

In the end, despite the fight she’d put up, despite the effort and energy, she’d ended up alone anyway.

Shannon set the papers down, sank back onto the couch, her head in her hands, her glass of red sitting on her coffee table full and untouched. The tears threatened to come. The feelings of failure definitely came.

Nearly a decade, and she was right back where she started.

Alone. Left by a man who was supposed to have loved her.

Again.

“Fuck,” she muttered, knowing what she needed to do but hating that she had to do it.

But this was Rylie’s future.

This was her future.

And for once in her fucking life she could demand to get what she deserved.

So, she picked up her cell and dialed her almost ex-husband.

Ring.

She fought the urge to not hang up.

Ring.

Then, “Hello?”

Humiliation burned hot in the back of her throat.

Because the Hello wasn’t from Brian. It was from Ann. Brian’s Ann. Ann, who’d sent Shannon an email nearly eighteen months before filled with pictures of Brian with her.

Couple pictures.

Holding hands. Kissing on cheeks. Kissing on the lips.

And a photograph of the three of them—Brian, Ann, and their little boy.

Who was a month younger than Rylie.

One. Month.

“Hello?” Ann said again.

Focus. “Hi, Ann,” she said. “It’s Shannon. Can I speak with Brian, please?”

Silence.

Then, “Oh. Um