Chapter 10: Dinner Time

Wednesday, June 26, 7:28 p.m.

Debbie: The salon was a marathon. None hours, no breaks, every client talking about kids, husbands, vacations. My feet throb in the too-tight flats I’ve worn since morning, shoulders knotted from leaning over sinks. But my mind’s been elsewhere all day. Restless ... fair game. Jenna’s words loop like a broken record, her perfume still clinging to my memory, jasmine and something expensive. I’m flushed from the way she said Holly hit the jackpot with him. And Shane. Always Shane.

I turn the key, push open the door, and stop dead.

Garlic, seared steak, buttery roasted asparagus. The air is thick with it, warm and rich, curling around me like a hug. Candles flicker on the dining table, their soft golden glow dancing across my wedding china (George’s china) set for three. The crystal glasses catch the light, throwing tiny rainbows on the linen tablecloth. Holly’s in a faded red apron, hair in a messy bun, grinning like a kid on Christmas. Shane’s at the stove, back to me, stirring something in a cast-iron pan. His shoulders flex under the worn gray T-shirt, arms strong from all that mowing, the faint scent of cut grass and sweat still clinging to him.

Holly spins, arms wide. “Surprise! Celebrating your freedom!”

My heart slams against my ribs, a sudden drumbeat in my ears. Shane turns, eyes locking on mine. That smirk, steady, knowing, like he’s reading every dirty thought I’ve had all week. He knows something. My pulse jumps, heat crawling up my neck, pooling low in my belly.

“Freedom?” I manage, voice steadier than I feel, though my mouth is dry.

“Duh,” Holly says, rolling her eyes. “You’re divorced. Or close enough. Sit. Wine’s breathing.”

I drop my purse with a soft thud, kick off my heels, bliss as the cool hardwood kisses my aching soles. The table’s perfect, candles, folded linen napkins, the good glasses George never let us use. Shane pours red into mine, the liquid glugging softly, his fingers brushing the stem. A spark shoots up my arm. I sit, legs shaky, the chair’s velvet cushion cool against my thighs. Holly’s cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, her skin glowing with that post-sex sheen. Shane’s calm, confident, the faint stubble on his jaw catching the candlelight. They’ve been up to something.

Shane: We eat. The steak’s perfect, juicy, medium-rare, the garlic butter melting into every bite, the asparagus crisp with a lemony tang. Holly dominates, park stories, the Tilt-A-Whirl barf kid, some lifeguard drama. Her laugh fills the room, bright and sharp. I toss in the Mrs. Williams bikini bit, edited for company. “Bent over to show me a ‘spot’ by the pool. Nearly gave the neighbors a show.”

Holly snorts, fork clinking against her plate. “Jenna’s shameless. Mom says she’s restless.”