get more comfortable.
But then Adison saw the panties on the couch…and the volcano erupted.
“What the—” she started. “Danny!”
She pushed past him and entered the living room, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted to fling the Thanksgiving leftovers at him, to see mashed potatoes in his hair and stuffing sliding down his shirt collar.
How could this have happened? They had such a good relationship. They loved each other, were available for each other.
You are available.
The little voice in her head struck her dumb. It couldn’t have been more true.
She’d always been there for Danny. Meanwhile, he was in and out of the house, always claiming to be working.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this, Ad.”
He reached for her, but she stepped back. Her shoulder hit the corner of the wall, but she didn’t pay the pain any mind. Nothing could compare to the damage being done to her heart.
“What are you saying?” she asked. “That you were planning on leaving me for her?”
“No, Ad, no. I wasn’t going to break up with you.”
That made her jaw drop. “So you were going to keep on cheating.”
He looked stumped. There was no good way to answer that and, boy, he knew it.
“I have to get out of here,” she said, more to herself than to him.
Slamming the leftovers onto the kitchen table, she rushed into the bedroom and pulled her suitcase from the closet. Taffy was in there, crouched under some hanging dresses, looking up at Adison with big eyes.
“It’s okay, girl,” she told the striped cat. “We’re leaving.”
Before Taffy could run off and hide, Adison scooped her up and placed her in the cat carrier. Danny still hadn’t come into the bedroom.
She’d expected him to follow her in there, to offer an apology or another bull explanation. Apparently, though, he didn’t care enough to even try.
Angry tears stung Adison’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. A sob bubbled up her throat, but she kept that tamped down. No way would she sob where Danny could hear her.
She grabbed clothes by the fistful, not even sure if she was packing everything she needed. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t touch anything without her hands shaking.
“Adison.” He was in the hallway, looking in at her. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’m not a relationship guy. I tried.”
“Tried?” she spat. “More like lied.”
She pushed past him, bumping his shoulder on her way into the bathroom.
Toothbrush. Contact lenses and solution. Makeup. She threw them into a tote bag she found hanging on the back of the door.
There were so many other toiletries that she used on a daily basis, but she didn’t have time to pack those up. She needed to get out of the house before she completely fell apart.
“Come on, Taffy.” She lifted the cat carrier.
“Hold on,” Danny said as she walked for the front door. “We didn’t agree that you can take the cat.”
She spun around, pinning Danny with a withering look. “We didn’t agree that you could screw other women. Besides, Taffy is mine.”
She’d had Taffy since she was a kitten. The little furball had been a present Adison gave herself the week after her parents’ funeral.
Which meant her relationship with the cat was about three years longer than her relationship with the piece of trash standing in front of her.
She stood there, daring him to say another word.
But more than daring. Wishing. Waiting.
Because if he fell to his knees, if he groveled enough and was fervent enough with his promises to do better, there was a slight chance she would fall for it. She would say “okay” and try again.
It was what the old Adison always did. She gave people far too many chances and put herself through hell, all in the pursuit of fantasies that probably never had the potential of turning into realities.
Look where that had gotten her.
Well, not anymore.
“Adison…”
She slammed the door behind her, taking a modicum of satisfaction from the noise. Screw him. Screw all of this.
Even so, that didn’t stop her from sobbing the whole drive back to Corinne’s.
Chapter 3
Adison
Adison filled her coffee mug halfway, then poured nearly as much vanilla creamer into it. Usually, sugar was one of the things she was strict with herself about. The last few days, though, she’d let her consumption of it slide.
Along with her consumption of wine and reality TV.
Taking a seat at the table in the Montoya Foundation’s break room, she sipped her coffee and stared glumly out the window. It was her third cup of the morning, and