Page 5 of Buttons

Sent.

I return to tidying, but my composure is now thinned, stretched over sudden nervousness. I have no idea that the text is the beginning of the end. All I know is that a strand of hair is out of place, so I fix it.

Chapter 3

Elowen

After work, I arrange for a babysitter to watch the kids so Julian and I can meet Trey and their friends for drinks. Normally Julian prefers upscale restaurants after work, but he’s more willing to let loose when his college friends are in town. Which is why we’re at the Nusty Nickel, a gritty dive bar on the east side of town.

Julian guides me through the bar’s door, his palm flat against my lower back. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a romantic gesture or a possessive one. Probably both. I just wish it was romantic more often than not.

The dim lights catch on exposed brick walls and vintage beer signs. Even though the place is packed, I immediately spot them in the corner booth. There’s Carmella’s perfect silhouette, Trey’s boisterous gestures, the others nodding along to whatever story he’s telling. As we approach, I feel a shift in Julian’s gait. Hisenergy spikes, his focus locking onto the booth before we’ve even reached it.

My throat tightens. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, straighten my blouse, and follow my husband toward the people he chose before he chose me.

“There they are!” Trey’s voice booms across the bar, drawing glances from nearby tables. He half-rises, scotch at the ready. “The Plazas have arrived! Now the party can start!”

Carmella turns, and I feel myself shrink. Her black dress hugs every curve like a second skin, her makeup flawless despite the hour. The blouse I spent forty minutes choosing suddenly feels like something grabbed from a clearance rack.

We have history. Not me and Carmella specifically, but in a triangle of sorts among the three of us. Julian knew Carmella before he knew me. They had a “thing” just before Julian started dating me. He didn’t cheat, to be clear. In the end, he chose me completely, so it all worked out.

“You look lovely,” Carmella says, her eyes flickering down and up in a quick, dismissive glance. I don’t buy it for a second.

“Thanks,” I manage. “You, too.”

Pleasantries over, her gaze drifts past me to Julian as he greets her, his hand sliding from my back to my waist to guide me into the booth.

“What are we drinking?” my husband asks.

Trey slams his glass down. “The eighteen-year Macallan, my friend. Life’s too short for the cheap stuff.”

“Says the man who once drank tequila from a shoe,” Julian replies, and the table erupts in laughter.

I laugh too, but a beat too late. Feeling awkward, I scan the drinks menu, though I already know I’ll order red wine. The choice is taken out of my hands entirely when the waitress arrives. Julian orders a whiskey for himself and a Pinot Noir for me.

“Actually,” I interject, “I’d like the Cabernet tonight.”

Julian’s fingers press into my side, not painfully, but to correct me. “Are you sure, honey? The Pinot Noir is better here.”

“Oh, for sure,” Carmella agrees, raising her own glass of the same. “You should try it, Elowen. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried the Pinot Noir.”

“So, how’s the luxury market coming along?” Gage, one of Julian’s college friends, asks. “Heard finding the right developer to back has been a nightmare.”

Julian launches into the bottlenecks of green infrastructure and his hunt for a collaborator, specifically a ruthless man named Robert Thompson. Since I dislike Mr. Thompson, I look down at our water glasses, watching the water droplets run down the glass paths. Even so, I remember the hundreds of hours Julian spent researching this real estate pivot, and I feel proud of his focus. I sit back in the booth, believing we are partners in this business venture. When the waitress sets down my wine, I take a sip and smile to be polite, though I want the red wine instead.

“You should have seen Jules in college,” Trey says, gesturing with his glass so widely that amber liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. “Even then, he had that killer instinct. Remember that economics competition junior year?”

“God, yes.” Carmella laughs. “When you convinced the opposing team that their data was flawed?”

“Strategic misleading,” Julian says, but his smile has that sharp edge I recognize from when he’s proud of himself. He leans forward, engaging her directly, the space between them seeming to shrink while I sit frozen in the periphery.

“Ellie,” Carmella says suddenly, using the nickname I’ve never offered her, “Julian mentioned you’ve been redecorating. I’d love to hear about it.”

All eyes turn to me. I straighten, grateful for the inclusion. Perhaps I’m too self-conscious, but my husband huffs under his breath, which I take as annoyance.

“Just the living room,” I say. “I found this beautiful sectional that works better.”

“She wanted gray,” Julian says, his tone indulgent but dismissive. He glances at Carmella and rolls his eyes.“I told her black is better for resale value.”