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Without another word and without paying for my drinks, I grabbed my bag and zigzagged out of the restaurant, not caring if every eye was on me.
No, Matt wasn’t having an affair with his secretary.
He was fucking my best friend.
White-hot tears finally exploded.
THIRTY-TWO
NATALIE
The rest of that day is a total blur.
Another one of the many worst days of my life.
When I got home, I popped a Xanax, then opened another bottle of wine and drank it until I passed out on one of the couches in our living room. It was five o’clock in the afternoon when I woke up with a major hangover. My head throbbing, my mouth parched, I sat up slowly, the pain of Matt’s betrayal—and Alexa’s—robbing me of any rationality. Propelling me to confront him no matter what the consequences.
Butterflies swarmed my stomach at the thought of the ugly confrontation ahead. I couldn’t let Matt have the upper hand. I needed to fortify myself. Make myself look presentable. Dragging myself off the couch, I crept up the flight of marble stairs like an old lady, hoping I wouldn’t miss a step and fall down it. And kill myself. I made it to the landing and staggered to our bedroom at the end of the long hallway. Our bedroom. I wondered how long that would be the case as I stripped off my wrinkled clothes and stumbled to our adjacent bathroom.
Stepping inside the shower, I adjusted the lever and let the scalding hot needles of water recharge every cell of my body. I must have stayed under the steamy spray for at least a half hour. When I’d finally had enough, I turned off the water and stepped out of the stall. After towel-drying myself, I put on my fluffy terrycloth robe that hung next to his. I couldn’t even say his name to myself.
Wiping off the fogged-up mirror with my elbow, I stared at myself. The shower had revitalized me. My skin was aglow, my eyes no longer glazed. Rather than blow-drying my hair, I ran a comb through it and gathered it up into a ponytail. Then reapplied my makeup, lipstick the color of blood and mascara so thick my lashes were spikes.
Feeling stronger, I returned to the bedroom and pondered what to put on. A power suit? Jeans? A sexy dress? None of the above. Instead, I opted for a pair of black silk pajamas I’d bought in Paris. Complete with my tallest, spikiest heels, I felt like a knight in shining black armor. Empowered. I mentally donned a sword and then marched out of the bedroom. Patiently, I stood at the top of the stairs waiting for him to come home. I was ready for combat. Ready for revenge.
Ticktock. Ticktock.
The passing minutes ticked in my head. Matt should be home at six. Sure enough, on the dot, I heard his car pull into the driveway. I knew his routine. He’d come in through the side door. Go to the bar. Pour himself a shot. Come upstairs to take his jacket off and wash up. My heart racing with anticipation, I did a countdown in my head. Silently singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” A song I used to sing with the kids on long road trips. Except I tweaked it slightly: “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Stairs.”
And if one of them happens to fall off the stairs…ninety-eight bottles of beer on the stairs.
In my head, I envisioned the bottles on the stairs. Surrounding me on the landing. Imagining that, one by one, I would hurl them at Matt like a circus knife thrower until one struck him and sent him careening down the steep steps. A wicked smile lifted my lips at my sinfully evil fantasy. I was surprised by how much evil lurked inside me. Then again, I shouldn’t be. I was born from evil, after all.
I was down to eighty-nine bottles when I heard Matt mount the stairs. A marathon runner, he climbed the steps effortlessly despite a long day at the office. Because of their serpentine nature, he didn’t see me on the landing until he was almost at the top. My hands were planted on my hips and my eyes were shooting daggers. If only they were real.
His eyes met mine. “Hi, babe. Why are you standing there like that?”
I hadn’t rehearsed a speech. My first words flew out of my mouth like a spray of flaming arrows. “How could you?”
He met me on the landing. “What are you talking about?”
“Seriously?” I punched him in the chest. Hard. It felt good. Then I kicked him in the shin.
He winced. “For God’s sake, Natalie. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” I jabbed an index finger into my clavicle. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk, Natalie?”
“No! I’m not drunk!” At least not anymore. I was as sober as a judge. Sobriety driving both my anger and actions. I stretched out my arms like a barricade as Matt grew more incensed.
“You’re acting ridiculous. Please get out of my way.”
He attempted to brush past me, but I grabbed him by his tie, gripping it so tightly I almost choked him.
“Jesus, Natalie. Let go of me! I can’t breathe.” He tried to free himself, but my strong husband was no match for my adrenaline-fueled strength. Still clutching the tie, I fisted my free hand and began to pummel him. Each punch harder, each thud louder.
“Stop it!” he choked out. “You’re hurting me!”
