Page 2 of Holding Penalty

I’m staring at irrefutable proof that my fiancé is cheating on me, and I don’t feel anything.

I’m still. Calm, even. My lungs have started back up, pulling in slow, deep breaths. My eyes blink steadily. My grip on Crew’s phone is secure and still. My hands aren’t shaking or anything.

What are you supposed to do in a moment like this?

Crew takes his phone back, sliding it out of my grip. My hand stays hovering in front of my face for a beat before I return it to my lap. I sit perfectly composed, numb, still unsure what I should be doing or thinking right now.

“It’s great that you’re being so cool about this, babe,” Crew says. He sounds nervous, but relieved. “You see, the thing is …”

A sudden flash of inspiration hits me. I know exactly what I should be doing right now. In fact, there’s no doubt in my mind about the precise course of action I should take this very second.

Crew is still talking. His voice is more assured, like he’s building up confidence in whatever explanation he’s giving. But I’ve tuned him out.

I hitch my knee, lifting my foot off the limo floor. My right hand dips down to slide the shoe off my left foot. My shoe with the long, pointy heel.

I shift the shoe in my hand, getting the grip right. Getting the direction of the heel right.

With each movement of my body, I’m feeling less on autopilot, more in control. Now, I feel fully lucid. Fully intentional.

Yeah, when my arm lifts to raise the shoe above my head, it’s all me.

With a rush of force, I bring it down. The sharp heel smashes into the screen of Crew’s phone, shattering it.

Crew chokes on whatever line of bullshit he’s spewing, and I do it again. Smash, smash, smash. My cheating piece of shit fiancé is too stunned to move his phone, and I get plenty of good whacks at it. Satisfaction pulses through me every time I feel my heel crash through the glass screen.

“Piper, what the hell!” he finally exclaims, the late verbal ejaculation an ironic counterpoint to the premature sexual one that led to this moment.

He pulls his phone away. I frown at the disappointing sensation when my improvised weapon finds only empty air.

Welp, since I don’t get to smash the hell out of his phone anymore, there’s no reason for me to stay in this limo.

“Pull over!” I yell, knocking on the divider that separates us from the driver.

The limo rolls to a stop, pulling to the side of the road.

“Piper, what are you doing?” I ignore Crew’s question, sliding my shoe back on and pushing my door open.

“Piper! You—” he calls after me, but I slam the door behind me, cutting off his sentence.

The air outside is humid and still. Inky dark clouds hang motionless in the black sky above. We’re on a long stretch of empty road, still about twenty minutes outside the city.

I take a step away from the car and wobble. The heel of my shoe snaps, the one that was just so useful moments ago. I sigh. She gave her life for a worthy cause.

I love these shoes, too. As a matter of fact, I maxed out a different credit card for them a couple years ago.

The night out I bought these shoes for was way better than the night I bought this stupid dress for.

The limo door opens behind me, and Crew sticks his head out. “Piper, get back in the car.”

I don’t answer. I just walk down the side of the road, toward the city. Okay, I’m more hobbling than walking, thanks to my broken heel. But I’ll hobble all the way home before I even think about sharing a confined space with my fiancé right now.

Ex-fiancé?

The title flashes in my head. The reality of what just happened sharpens, and a pang of emotion slices through me, anger and betrayal and disappointment and rage and hurt … with an undercurrent of relief?

My stomach clenches. This isn’t the right moment to take stock of my emotions, or of the ramifications of what just happened. I need to get home first.

I keep walking.