My Power Showed Me His Cheating An Hour Earlier novel · Chapter 2 of 32

Chapter 2: Room Temperature

A cheap necklace and a vision of the jewelry store make Brenna add a vow reading, and the planner calls to say her mother's veil was signed out of storage.

The reply came right away.

"Done."

No question mark. No "Are you sure, Ms. Pomeroy?"

I stared at the word until the screen went dark.

Then I lay on top of the covers in my clothes and listened to the shower run.

In the morning there was breakfast on the table.

Toast, cut corner to corner. Two eggs, soft. A glass of milk.

Kellan stood in the kitchen doorway with his sleeves rolled up.

"Morning, sleepyhead. You okay?"

I touched the glass.

Room temperature.

My stomach has always been bad. Seven years ago, he learned to take the milk out half an hour before I got up.

Not too hot. Not too cold.

I used to tell my mother about it.

"A man who remembers your milk," she'd said, threading a needle, "remembers everything."

I drank it.

It tasted like nothing.

Larissa's toiletry bag was gone from the bathroom.

Her slippers were gone.

One long auburn hair was still on the cream towel, folded neatly on the rack.

Kellan slid a long velvet box across the table.

"I saw you looking at Larissa's necklace last night," he said. "My girl deserves one too."

I opened it.

A thin chain. A row of small diamonds. A teardrop at the bottom.

The same shape as hers.

Smaller everything.

"Let me," he said, and came around behind me.

He swept my hair over one shoulder.

His fingers brushed the back of my neck.

The kitchen went dark.

A jewelry store on Walnut Street, bright as an operating room.

Larissa on a velvet stool at the counter, holding this exact necklace against her throat.

She frowned at herself in the little mirror.

"Too plain," she said. "And it scratches."

She dropped it on the glass.

The saleswoman reached for it.

Kellan put his hand out.

"Wrap it up."

Larissa blinked at him. Then she smiled.

"For Bren?"

"She was upset last night. This'll fix it."

Larissa tipped her head and pouted.

"Don't be so lazy with her. She's my best friend."

"She won't mind," Kellan said. "If it's from me, she'll love it."

Larissa laughed and dangled it off one finger.

"True. Bren's never been picky. I used to mail her my old dresses from London, and she wore them to work."

Kellan didn't say a word in my defense.

He took out his card.

The store went away.

The chain was cold on my collarbone.

I remembered those dresses.

Silk things with someone else's perfume still in the seams.

I'd worn them to the shop and gotten pollen on them, and felt rich.

That was the year I wired Larissa three hundred dollars every month and ate rice for dinner so she wouldn't have to.

Kellan bent to my ear.

"Do you like it?"

I reached back, unhooked the clasp, and laid the necklace in its box.

"It scratches," I said.

His hand stopped on my shoulder.

For one second, his face went completely blank.

Then he laughed, a little too loud, and ruffled my hair.

"Two days, Bren. Don't do this to yourself."

He kissed the top of my head and left for work.

I sat there until the milk was empty.

Then I went into his study.

The receipt was still in the top drawer, under his passport.

Walnut Street. May 2. Thirty-one thousand dollars.

I took a picture of it.

I took a picture of his passport stamps, too. Heathrow, again and again.

I can't hold up a vision in front of anybody.

My mother told me that the day I turned sixteen and saw my father's hour for the first time.

"It shows you the truth, baby. It never shows you the reason. And nobody will ever take your word for it."

So I spent Thursday finding paper.

My bank app went back six years.

The tuition wire. Twenty-two thousand dollars.

Then the monthly transfers, all the way down the screen, every one labeled "for Lari."

I printed every page at the copy shop on Girard and paid in quarters from the shop's tip jar.

At four, my phone buzzed.

Wells Bradshaw.

"Program locks tonight. Anything to add?"

I typed it out once and deleted it.

Then I typed it again.

"A vow reading. Before the ceremony starts. Me only."

The dots came and went.

"How many minutes?"

Not why. Not what about.

I looked at the stack of paper on my lap.

"Five."

"You'll have six. Mic will be live."

That was it.

I spent Friday at the shop, wiring centerpieces for my own wedding and smiling at customers.

Larissa texted me a string of hearts and "Can't wait to walk you down that aisle tomorrow."

I sent back one heart.

Friday night I slept in the shop, on the cot in the back, with the cooler humming.

I told Kellan it was nerves.

He said, "Sweet dreams, wife."

At seven on Saturday morning, my phone rang.

Wells never called. He texted, in as few words as possible.

"Ms. Pomeroy." His voice was low and flat. "The hotel says your mother's veil was signed out of storage last night."

I sat straight up on the cot.

"By who?"

"The maid of honor," he said. "It hasn't come back."

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