Am I the Only One Read online

“You honestly thought this wouldn’t upset me? If this was what you wanted, why couldn’t you have talked to me about it in private instead of having your mother do it for you?” The words rip out of me harshly.

  “Do what?”

  “Do you have any idea how humiliated I was to have my future mother-in-law tell me that my fiancé wanted me to sign a prenup?”

  At my words, his hands move fast, ripping open the envelope. His eyes skitter across the first page as his neck reddens in anger.

  “I never . . . baby, I promise, I didn’t know anything about this,” he insists as he sets the papers down.

  Looking over my splotchy face, he sits on the edge of the bed in our brand-new home and pulls me in next to him. He holds my face and wipes my tears, assuring, “I have never, not once, considered a prenup. The thought never even crossed my mind because that isn’t what you are to me. Nothing about you and me is a business deal. I’m in this for life because you are all I will ever want in this world.”

  He speaks firmly, needy for me to believe him, and I do. I can see the truth in his worried eyes.

  His hands cup my cheeks, and I grip his wrists to hold him to me, needing to rest in his comfort. The comfort of his words, but mostly, the comfort of his touch. When he pulls me closer and presses his lips to my forehead, my body sinks into the heat of him.

  Minutes pass in silence as I allowed him to soothe me before my voice cracks, asking, “Do your parents not like me?”

  “Baby, no. Don’t think that.”

  “Then why?” Pulling back, I look him in the eyes, desperate for understanding.

  “I’m sure her heart was in the right place. She was probably thinking she was protecting me.”

  “Protecting you from what? From me?”

  “I’m not defending her. What she did was out of line, but she and my father . . . they aren’t like us. They don’t have what we have. But I don’t want you to think that my parents don’t love you. They do.”

  I know Tripp isn’t being honest. One time, while at their house for dinner, I overheard his parents telling Tripp they were worried about me not fitting into their family. Tripp defended me. He doesn’t care that I didn’t grow up with the upper echelon, didn’t care that I graduated from a state university instead of an Ivy League, didn’t care that I worked a job that would never pay our bills. He once told me I was the most authentic person he had ever met, that my love was the purest he’d ever known.

  He opened up to me, admitting he had dated his fair share of women before me, but that they were just consumed with the idea of becoming Mrs. William Montgomery III. He saw the spark of living the “good life” in their eyes. Their love was one of agenda.

  I’ve never asked for anything from him. I was happy and content living in my one-bedroom flat in the city. I don’t care about his name. To me, he’s simply Tripp Montgomery—a guy who’s head-over-heels in love with a girl—me.

  Later in the evening, I overhear Tripp on the phone in his study. I listen to him as he raises his voice in disapproval to his mother, chastising her for going behind his back and upsetting me. My heart swells in knowing that, no matter what, Tripp has my back and supports me.

  While Tripp is still on the phone with his mother, I pull out the contract that outlines the provisions should we ever divorce. I skim the pages and, even though Tripp is against having a prenup, even though I am against it, I sign anyway. The last thing I want is for anyone to think I am after the Montgomery money or that I have any ill intentions. But there’s something else to me signing, something that makes me feel a step ahead of Eloise, that, aside from the fact that she’s been caught and berated by her son, I know I’m not signing the contract out of persuasion or intimidation. I’m signing of my own free will.

  The dip of the mattress stirs me back to the present. I can smell the faint scent of Tripp’s cologne as he lies on the opposite side of the bed.

  Tired of feeling lonely and neglected, I give in to my irritation and mutter beneath my breath, “You could’ve called.”

  “Stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s late, and I’m tired.” His tone is that of annoyance, which instantly pisses me off because I’m the only one with a reason to be annoyed.

  My frustrations seep out as I roll over and mumble under my breath, “You always have an excuse.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go to bed if you’re tired.”

  “Carly, it’s two o’clock. I’ve been working all day,” he shoots back.

  “Well, maybe you should stop working so late. Then you wouldn’t be too tired to spend time with your wife.”

  Tripp turns the lamp on and tempers flare.

  “You really want to go there, Carly?”

  “It’s been four weeks.”

  “What’s been four weeks?”

  Tossing the covers off me, I sit up and glare at him before snapping, “Since we’ve had sex, Tripp!”

  “This again? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been working my ass off. And let me tell you something else, your constant insinuations that I’m not being honest or faithful is a fucking turnoff.”

  I lose my composure as anger bursts from within. “You seem to have enough time for Olivia.”

  “Nothing worse than an insecure wife who has too much time on her hands.”

  “I saw you!” I accuse, sitting up and looking down on him. “What were you doing with her alone and on the opposite side of the house with her last night?”

  This has him pushing up to sit next to me. “If I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t come home to you every night.”

  “If you wanted me, you’d have sex with me, touch me, kiss me, something! And I’m not talking about a staged, closed-mouth kiss to impress your constituents or get votes.”

  We continue slinging our words back and forth, pressing each other’s buttons and hitting below the belt. But just because I’ve never outright caught him in the act, it doesn’t mean I don’t know that he’s cheating.

  I’ve found questionable texts on his phone, the lingering scent of women’s perfume on his shirts, and after he changed his password to his email accounts, I knew he was hiding something.

  “I just feel so far away from you,” I confess, finally lowering my voice and giving up on the fight.

  “I’m right here. Life is busy and stressful, but I’m here, and I need you. I need your support.”

  “You say you need me, but I need you too.”

  “It won’t always be like this.”

  I don’t believe him, though. I sense myself approaching my end with him and our marriage that has turned into a joke. It takes everything in me to keep the peace and not lash out at him on a daily basis.

  “How much longer will it be then?” I mumble as I lie back down. “Because I’m sick of waiting.”

  Tripp doesn’t respond, and no other words are spoken as we lie on opposite sides of our bed.

  Emma

  “Why are you studying so hard for finals?”

  Looking up from my textbooks, I glare at Luca and respond, “Because maybe, just maybe, if I make high enough marks on these last exams, the university will take pity on me and reinstate my scholarship.”

  “Is that even a possibility?”

  “I have no clue, but I’m desperate for anything at this point.”

  It’s been a couple weeks since receiving the last of my rejection letters and, even though I’ve been doing everything I can to pull my grades up, I’m still falling beneath the GPA requirements for my scholarship.

  Luca walks across my dorm room and sits next to me on my bed. “My mother was asking about you.”

  “When?”

  “She called me last night.”

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

  “No, but I wish you would let me,” he says.

  Luca’s mother has always liked me since I am the one and only consistent girl in her son’s life, and one who’s far from th
e unwitty tarts Luca often finds himself falling into bed with. His mother respects my tenacity and hard work, often teasing Luca that he could learn a thing or two from me. I have a feeling that she likes me enough to offer to lend me the money I need to finish my degree, but the last thing I want is a handout, so I made Luca promise to keep his mouth shut.

  “She was wondering if you were going to make it to the New Year’s Eve party.”

  “Crap. I totally forgot to RSVP.”

  “So, you’re coming?”

  “Of course I’m coming,” I say. “That’s one party I refuse to miss. Plus, it’s become our one date of the year.”

  New Year’s Eve would forever be our night together. After the first one we spent together, Luca told me that he refused to share that holiday with anyone other than the person who meant the most to him, and it’s likewise for me as well.

  “What are you going to say when my mom asks about school, because you know she will.”

  “Hopefully, I can get a plan in motion in the next couple weeks so that when she does ask, I won’t seem so adrift. But first, I have to ace this last final,” I tell him. “And you need to get off your cell phone and start studying too or else your mom won’t even care about my issues because she’ll be too busy jumping down your throat if you screw up your GPA.”

  Pausing whatever he’s doing on his phone, Luca peers over at me, teasing, “I do a lot of screwing, we both know that, but never with my grades . . . only chicks.”

  “You’re disgusting.” I scoff, scrunching my nose and closing my books.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I need a break. I’m going to run out and grab a coffee. You want anything?”

  “Nah.” He flops back onto my bed, distracted once again by his phone.

  “What’s got all your attention on that thing?”

  “Some girl I met at The Tombs last Saturday.”

  “Of course,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  Pulling on my snow boots, I laugh to myself when I hear Luca’s delayed, “See ya,” before I leave.

  The bitter cold bites my cheeks when I walk outside, and I tighten my scarf around my neck as I head to a local coffee joint on foot. A light snow falls, planting icicle kisses on my face as I walk. I’ve always enjoyed the cold winters. It’s as if I’m living among the dead for a moment, all the while knowing rebirth is just a season away. If only human life could be the same. If only we could wipe the slate clean after each year to have our own rebirth, a chance to start over and erase the faults from the months past. I wish my own year would die just as the blooms that lie in their grave beneath the snow I now walk upon.

  When I step into the bustling coffee shop, warmth thaws my cheeks, stinging the cold away. The line isn’t that long, and I take my spot, waiting for my turn to order an extra hot hazelnut latte. After I place my order and the barista announces my drink is ready, I look over and spot my therapist sitting by the oversized brick fireplace.

  “Mrs. Montgomery, hi,” I say as I approach.

  “Hello, Emma,” she responds, looking slightly surprised to see me. “Join me?”

  I slide onto the couch next to her and nod to the shopping bags by her feet. “Christmas shopping?”

  Looking down at the bags, Mrs. Montgomery smiles, answering, “I wish. I haven’t bought a single thing yet. My old snow boots bit the dust this morning.” She angles her foot out to show me her new designer chocolate-brown boots. “So, I splurged on these.”

  I smile. “Nice.” Then I take a sip of my latte.

  The past few sessions, Mrs. Montgomery has been focusing on having me talk through the emotions of my parents’ death. The appointments have been intense, so it’s a huge relief when she indulges me in light conversation, asking simply, “So, what have you been up to today?”

  With a heavy sigh, I relax into the plush leather couch. “Studying. I had a final yesterday, and my last one is tomorrow morning.”

  “How do you feel about yesterday’s exam?”

  “Good. I mean, as good as I can considering the semester I’ve had.”

  “With all you’ve been through, you’ve held up remarkably well, Emma. I only wish the university could extend you a little more of a grace period. I’m impressed by your determination. Most would’ve just given up on finals if they were in your position.”

  I take a moment to digest the complimentary words but find difficulty in accepting them. “I’m probably—subconsciously, at least—taking this opportunity to ignore the reality that none of this really matters anymore.”

  “It does matter. Maybe the grades don’t, but it says a lot about your character. You aren’t a woman who gives up. I admire that about you.”

  The heat of my cup warms my hands as I mindlessly pick at the cardboard sleeve. “You won’t be admiring much when I’m degreeless and working some dead-end job that will never be enough to pay off all the debt I have, which I’m only digging myself deeper and deeper into because I can’t even make the minimum payments.”

  The expression on Mrs. Montgomery’s face transforms to that of . . . pity? There’s nothing worse than being felt sorry for, but I see it in her eyes, and I don’t like it.

  “It was good running into you outside of your office,” I say as I stand in an attempt to remove myself from her dolent gaze. “But I really need to get going.”

  She then grabs her shopping bags. “I should probably get back to work as well. Did you park out back?”

  “I walked.”

  “You walked?” she gapes in surprise. “It’s freezing outside.”

  “I like the cold. Plus, I needed time to clear my head.”

  “Let me at least drive you back. I insist.”

  Reluctantly, I agree, and we make our way out to the back lot, but before we get two steps out the door, Mrs. Montgomery stops dead in her tracks, causing me to bump into her. There’s a strange expression on her face, so I follow her line of vision, which points to her husband holding a woman in his arms. Mrs. Montgomery looks on with horror as her husband embraces the girl, who looks to be around my age with vibrant long red hair.

  The embrace doesn’t last long before he pulls back and brushes his lips across the girl’s cheek in a sweeping kiss before he opens the passenger door to the SUV and helps her inside.

  To say this situation is uncomfortable would be a drastic understatement. Mrs. Montgomery is speechless as she stands next to me, both of us witness to her husband’s betrayal. And now it’s me who has pity in my eyes as I look at her.

  “Men are assholes,” I whisper, more to myself than to her, but Mrs. Montgomery hears and responds, “It’s probably nothing.”

  The saddened disgust splayed across her face tells me she doesn’t believe her own words. That she knows damn well that it isn’t probably nothing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Let’s get you back to your place,” she deflects as she watches the SUV disappear when it turns the corner.

  The drive back to my dorm is filled with uncomfortable silence. She’s trying her best to appear unaffected and poised, but her façade is terrible. I can see right through it and straight to her mortification.

  “Maybe she was just a friend who was in trouble,” I mutter, breaking the silence in an attempt to go along with the theory that it wasn’t what it looked like. “It did look like the girl had been crying.”

  Mrs. Montgomery’s response is that of a simple nod.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be intrusive.”

  “Emma, it’s fine. You need to focus on your last exam and let me focus on whatever happened back there, which like I said, was probably nothing. My husband is a busy man who deals with many people, so . . .”

  “Of course,” I agree, not wanting to upset her any more than she already is. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

  “It’s fine. Now, which building is yours?” she asks when she pulls into the campus housing where I live.


  I direct her to my building, but before I get out of the car, I turn to her. She still wears the mask of indifference, yet her eyes expose the nasty beast of horror at what the both of us just witnessed.

  “I guess I’ll see you later this week at our normal time?”

  “Yes,” she responds with a forced smile. “Good luck on your exam tomorrow.”

  Carly

  When Emma shuts the door and walks into her building, I drop the façade of calm I’d been clinging to. My hands grip tightly around the steering wheel as my arms begin to shake. I allow the heat of my wrath to emanate from the core of my soul, the one piece that is most tender, the piece I felt safe enough to hand over to Tripp only to have him incinerate it.

  I’ve tried so hard, exhausting myself to keep my world from falling apart. Holding tightly to my temper, I rarely ever let my frustrations boil over. I’m always the one to swallow the bitter pill of hostility to avoid a quarrel, but I’m at the end of my rope. How much longer do I have to stand by while my husband gets to live out his fantasies with women I can’t dare to compete with? I don’t compare to the twenty-something floozy he’s fucking around with when I’m fast approaching my forties. No amount of nips, tucks, or Botox can reverse the years that have etched their existence on my body.

  Tears run rivers down my cheeks as I drive back to Maryland. Tears that hold everything I’ve been hiding. Each one is a salty cocktail of anguish, hatred, loss, jealousy, desperation, and animosity. His audacity to bastardize our marriage rips fissures inside me. Wounds I doubt he could heal because, in this moment, my whole world, the world I built around my love for Tripp, completely disintegrates.

  So I cry.

  That’s all I can do because no amount of screaming can erase the asshole my husband has turned in to.

  With every blink, I see him with her. Static clips of him undressing her, kissing her, touching her, pushing into her play in color the whole drive home. I move in a haze through the home we’ve made together, up the grand staircase where he made love to me the first time he brought me to this house, and through the French doors of our bedroom. There isn’t a single room that is untouched by the burning love we once shared.