Page 57 of Unwrapped

“I’m a planner.” She laughs and squeezes his forearm. “You’ll get used to me.”

He gives her a polite smile, but doesn’t answer. I look at him, waiting for him to say something. Anything. But he seems to be content to let her keep making plans.

Camille has also stopped making any effort to include me. Occasionally, she’ll glance my way and offer a little smile, the kind adults give children when they’re discussing something they assume is over their heads. I could probably tolerate that on its own. I could even tolerate her flirting with Vince, if I absolutely had to. But watching her lean closer to him, watching him sit there and let it happen, is becoming unbearable.

She’s laughing about something again when she leans closer to Vince, and her hand disappears beneath the table. Vince stops in the middle of reaching for his water. He glances down, then shifts his chair back a few inches. I can’t see exactly what she’s doing, but from where her arm is angled, I have a pretty good idea. Camille keeps talking, completely unfazed, while Vince picks up his glass, looking more uncomfortable than I’ve seen him all evening.

That’s it. I put down my fork and push back my chair. “You know what? I think I’m going to excuse myself.”

Vince looks up immediately. “Soph?”

“I’m done. Thanks for dinner.”

“But I picked up ice cream,” he says. “Why don’t you stay for dessert?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Camille looks only mildly surprised, and she recovers quickly. I think she’s glad to get Vince to herself. “Well, it was very nice to meet you. Good night, Sophie.”

“Night.”

I pick up my plate and take it into the kitchen. Vince starts to say something else, but I keep going. I hear Camille laughing at something as I leave the kitchen. Of course she’s laughing. She’s having a wonderful evening.

I’m so angry that I want to turn around and tell Vince exactly what I think of his stupid dinner right in front of her. I want to ask him what the hell he expected me to do while Camille practically climbed into his lap. Sit there and smile? Pass the potatoes?

But what’s the point? Vince told me yesterday that it’s over. He made it clear that we can’t be together, and why, and I understood his reasons, even if I hated hearing them.

So I guess this is something I’m going to have to get used to. Other women coming over. Vince going out on dates. Maybe eventually finding someone he wants to be with.

God, I hate even thinking about it.

I go upstairs, march into my bedroom, and slam the door.

Let him explain that to his date.

I’m writing so hard the pen digs into the paper of my journal. I hate him. I hate her. I hate everything about tonight. My handwriting is practically unreadable.

Touching him under the table. I know she was.

God, it was only yesterday that Vince was inside of me, that I was coming around his cock and he was telling me I was his good girl. Now I’m upstairs while a nice lawyer in a silk blouse sits with her hand on his thigh, and Vince thinks I should be fine with this.

From downstairs, I hear Camille’s laugh. It carries up the stairs. A few muffled words from Vince, then her laugh again. I set the journal aside and listen. More talking, lower now. Then the front door closing. A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my door.

“Sophie?”

“Go away.”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“What’s there to talk about? You had a great date. Hope you two had fun.”

“Soph, please.”

I blow out a hard breath and cross my arms over my chest. “Fine. Come in.”

The door opens and Vince stands in the doorway. He runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he says.