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5

T he next morning was uneventful. Miles had zero clue about my whereabouts the night prior and I plan to keep it that way. I started my day like normal, getting up with Miles to share a cup of coffee together before he headed to work. I busied myself with some chores and got frozen chicken out to thaw for dinner. Now, I’m lounging in bed with Princess, reading the next installment in my book series. All while my husband is none the wiser that we had a small girls’ night.

I half expect the man I had an encounter with to say something if he truly knew Miles from work, but it’s possible he would be too embarrassed to mention it.

While a small part of me felt guilty for lying—no, not lying. Omitting . I was omitting information—about my nightly routine, it was for the best. Miles has a tendency to blow things out of proportion. Truly, he’d win an award for most dramatic fights in a relationship. He could turn even the smallest inconvenience into a Shakespearean tragedy.

Yet, my mind keeps wandering back to what the stranger said to me last night.

“ You’re not Mr. Kowalski’s Poppet?”

There’s got to be well over a few hundred people in the city named Kowalski. Hell, our graduating class alone has three who shared the last name, and they were all unrelated. And while I like to think I’m more unique than the average human, I look like every other generic white bitch in this city. Surely, he confused me for whatever fair skinned, blonde Barbie he’s been playing sugar daddy with behind his wife’s back. Heavens help him whenever the wife finds out, because hell hath no greater ferocity than a woman scorned.

Luckily, I don’t have to worry about that with Miles. We might have our issues, but he’s still good to me. He kisses me goodbye every morning before leaving for work. I get tea brought to me in bed every night that’s sure to give me the best night sleep of my life. He’s always there to support my hobbies, even if he doesn’t understand them. Miles works so damn hard at his job, becoming the youngest junior executive at his start-up company. I don’t have to worry about picking up a job because he basically makes two salaries, which is fucking ridiculous if you think about it. I didn’t even know start-up companies made that much money. The only time I have to worry about him is when he works late, and that’s only because I’m concerned about his safety.

My phone buzzes, causing the mattress to vibrate slightly. The motion makes Princess stir. She glares in the direction of the movement, gets up, and does exactly three circles before lying back down in her signature donut shape.

I already know who it is based on the vibration pattern. I purposely added specialty notifications to Miles and Brooke’s contacts, so I know which is trying to contact me when I’m deep in chores or reading. Miles has three short buzzes, followed by three long buzzes, finished with another set of short buzzes. Brooke is one, continuous buzz that lasts approximately five seconds.

This notification had one buzz, so it’s unmistakably Brooke.

Petty Bitch of the West

Bitchhhhhhh. Any updates today? *looking eyes emoji*

Mary Jojuana

Silent on all fronts.

Petty Bitch of the West

Soooooo…does this mean I can get more girls’ nights with my best friend??

Mary Jojuana

*eye roll emoji*

Petty Bitch of the West

Don’t even! I miss you and Miles doesn’t let you have fun like we used to *teary eyed emoji*

I stare at the last text.

I still have plenty of fun. It’s not always with Brooke, but I still go out with Miles. We go to movies and grab late night dinners. The only difference is I don’t gossip with Miles like I would with Brooke. Mostly due to the fact that he doesn’t care and he never listens. He always complains, “ Why do I listen and give you advice when all you do is bitch?” And, in that instance, he doesn’t understand that I want to vent for the release, that not every complaint warrants an immediate fix.

And that’s the thought that makes me realize I do need girls’ nights. Even if they’re once a month. Having my female connections are an important part of who I am and that’s one of the few things I can’t get from this marriage.

Mary Jojuana

Fine, but only once a month AND I have to approve where we’re going ahead of time…

Petty Bitch of the West

Oh, bitch. BET.

I roll my eyes as I put my phone back on the bed, a smile forming. I’m already calculating how Brooke will find a loophole in this arrangement to go do all the most scandalous things she can find.

Picking up my book, I only get a few pages in before the phone is buzzing again. This time in sets of three—Miles.

My Love

On time tonight. Dinner better be ready when I get home.

Mary Jo

Yes, love.

Sighing, I place my knife-shaped bookmark into the spine of my book.

Serial killers and secret society stories will have to wait until bedtime.

Sliding off the bed, I reach my arms up over my head. I can feel every joint creak in protest of being prone in one position. A telltale sign I was laying down for far too long and need to move my body. And fucking hell, does it make me feel old.

I’m almost thirty. I can’t keep abusing my body like I was ten years ago. Plus, I’ve noticed recently, on the nights where I really knock out, I’m groggier and sore the next morning. Which is so odd. I would think a harder sleep would equate feeling better, not worse. When I’ve brought up the concern to Miles, he shrugs it off. “ I don’t know. Maybe you need to take better care of yourself as you get older .”

I make a mental note to find a Pilates studio to try out later this week. Something to get myself active again.

Nuzzling Princess’ fuzzy head, I head towards the kitchen.

“Come on, girl. You want some dinner?”

Princess’ head pops up from the bed, her upper lip trapped between her jaw, tongue slightly out. I tap my knees and she comes bounding off the bed in my direction.

Princess dances around my feet as I fill her bowl. Her nightly ritual for dinner consists of tippy-tappy happy feet, followed by low rumbles of appreciation while vacuuming down her food in one go. For a dog who barely weighs thirty pounds and has the word “miniature” in her breed, she’s filled with crazy energy.

Busying myself with serving up dinner, I mentally prepare myself for the conversation I need to have with Miles.

The lingering touch of the man who invaded my space last night still sits at the recesses of my mind. A nagging ache reminding me that type of interaction is far from normal. Even after taking an hour-long shower when I returned home, scrubbing my body head to toe, I can still feel his unwanted touch on me.

There’s two ways this conversation could play out.

One, Miles has no idea who the man is and is more concerned about my safety than the unwanted advances of a stranger.

Two, Miles absolutely knows who that man is and that opens up another bundle of questions I’m not sure I’m ready to ask yet.

There’s also the issue explaining how I came across this guy. It’s not like I can be honest about my whereabouts, as horrible as that sounds.

Stirring the pot of bubbling chicken and rice soup, I run through all the options to explain how I could have interacted with someone in that context yesterday.

After allowing the soup to simmer on low for twenty minutes, I decide the best course of action is choosing the most obvious option.

I ran into this person at the grocery store during my errands run today. Safe, yet believable. Nothing out of the ordinary on my end except the encounter. There’s no reason for Miles to become irate at that fact or cause any unwanted arguments.

The front door clicks open as I’m reaching for two bowls in the upper cabinet. A chilled breeze sweeps through the space as Miles enters, his jacket slightly damp and his hair soaked.

“Welcome home,” I sing over my shoulder, not taking my eyes off the soup or it’ll surely burn with my luck.

Miles grunts in response. The only other sound from him is the rustle of his jacket and shoes being removed.

I keep my attention on the stove top, careful to not burn dinner in its last minutes of cooking.

Miles joins me in the kitchen to grab a short glass and places a swift peck on my cheek. He stops by the wet bar to pour some whiskey, then heads towards the bathroom. No doubt, ready for a shower after a long day at work.

Taking a large spoonful of soup, I taste my creation. A hum rumbles through me, echoing the deliciousness. Miles is going to love this new recipe. I pull the pot aside to allow it to cool and walk towards the bathroom.

Rapping my fingers against the door, I wait for Miles to answer me. When he doesn’t, I crack the door slightly. “You okay, babe?”

The shower curtain is closed with steam forming on the window across from me. The small space smells of bergamot and leather. I can make out Miles’ silhouette against the shower curtain, his large frame taking up most of the shower area.

I slink into the bathroom, closing the door behind me to keep the steam from escaping. Putting down the toilet lid, I take a seat, crossing my legs like I always do when we have these bathroom talks. This is the perfect time to ask about the creep at the club last night. Of course, I’m not going to say that verbatim, but it’s an easy white lie.

“I met someone interesting at the store today,” I begin.

“Oh?” Miles asks.

I pick at my fingernails, pieces of food stuck underneath. I’ll need to scrub my hands before bed tonight.

Carefully slipping one nail under the other, I begin scraping out the little bits of vegetable from my nail bed.

“I didn’t catch his name, but he stopped me while shopping and asked if I was Poppet Kowalski.”

A loud thud echoes through the tiny space. I watch Miles’ silhouette bend to pick up what appears to be a shampoo bottle that fell to the floor. He doesn’t acknowledge the falling object as he begins to lather his hair. “That’s interesting.”

I frown, a piece of carrot being particularly stubborn under my nail.

“He looked like a businessman. About your height. Grey suit with gold rings. He gives off totally mafia boss vibes. Sound like someone you work with?” I press.

Miles’ body turns to face away from the shower, his head tilting back as water cascades over his scalp. He hums while the water does its job, rinsing the soap from his hair. I take the time to trace his shadow, noting every dip and bump of his body. I’m particularly fond of the bulge currently being shown off by the casted shadow. Miles’ cock stands at attention for me, even when his brain doesn’t.

Maybe I could suck the answer out of him , I wonder to myself as I remove the last bit of food from my fingers.

The water cutting off pulls me from my wandering thoughts. Miles drags the curtain back, revealing a drenched body of masculine proportions. The sight makes my mouth water.

No. Bad Mary. We’re here for a reason. Stay on track.

My gaze follows him as he steps out and begins drying his body.

“So?” I ask, prompting him to answer.

“So, what, babe?” he deadpans.

My siren smile falls. Any desire is quickly drenched by the chilled response.

I cross my arms, annoyed that he’s avoiding the question. “The man. Do you know him?”

Miles wraps the towel low on his hips, the cut V of his groin peaking over the top, begging to be licked.

It takes every ounce of me to not hate fuck him right here in the bathroom. He’s being such an ass right now when he could just answer the damn question.

He grabs the empty glass from the shower and walks out of the bathroom. “No, I don’t know him. That could be literally hundreds of people in this city, Mary.”

I hop off the toilet and race after him.

He refills his whiskey at the bar.

I take the bottle from his hand, placing it at the very end of the bar, out of reach. Grabbing the glass from his grasp, I gulp the amber liquid down in one go.

Miles scowls at me, still saying nothing. He knows I’m acting out to get his attention because he’s not giving me the answer I want.

I slam the glass back onto the bar top, not breaking my stare from him. I wipe my mouth with the back of my other hand, licking my skin free of any residual whiskey.

Holding my chin high, I look him straight in the eyes. “Swear it.”

Miles scoffs. “What?”

“Swear on our marriage that you don’t know the man. Because he was pretty certain that he knew me. Followed me around and everything. Super stalker vibes and not in the good way.”

“You’re crazy,” Miles murmurs.

“Excuse me?”

He rolls his eyes, turning to walk back to the bedroom. Heat floods through my body, anger mixing with embarrassment. Did he seriously accuse me of being the problem here?

“I’m not doing this tonight, Mary. I’m going to bed.”

And with that, he closes the bedroom door. Not another word spoken between us. I still don’t have any real answers as to what happened with the strange man from last night.

Tonight, I guess I’m eating dinner alone.