On Second Thought(39)

God, if only we could do that party over. I’d make sure Kate’s glass was full. Nathan would still be alive, and I’d be engaged.

When the bill came, I grabbed it, handed over my Visa and subtly checked my phone.

Nothing from Eric. Maybe he was home by now.

“What are you guys doing tonight? Anything fun?” she asked.

“Oh, no plans yet.” I forced another smile.

The cute waiter came back with the bill. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “but your card’s been declined.”

My mouth fell open, and humiliation burned its way up my chest and throat, into my cheeks. “Oh...uh, right! I...I forgot, our card number was hacked. I’m so sorry. I was supposed to throw that one out. Here.”

Our credit card had not been hacked.

I dug in my wallet and handed him two twenties. “Sorry. Keep the change.”

Eric had canceled the card. I knew it in my bones.

Holy guacamole. Fear pricked my knees. “Listen, I should check in on my sister, so I’m gonna cut this short,” I told Rachelle.

“Of course,” she said. “Give her my best, okay?”

“Will do. See you Monday!” My heart thumped erratically.

I’d like you to move out.

I raced home, burst through the front door and went straight to my laptop—the latest Mac, a Hanukkah gift from Eric—and logged into our bank account, the one I used to pay the household bills.

My password was accepted, thank God. The dread didn’t lift. Ollie whined, and I petted him automatically, waiting for my bank account to appear. Our bank account.

There.

Checking Account Ending in 7839: Balance: $35.17.

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead and back.

Last week, there’d been more than twenty grand in there.

Savings Account Ending in 3261: Balance: $102.18

Last week, fifty grand and change. My breathing was fast and shallow.

All our—his—other money was held in a conservative stock portfolio. He kept some aside to play with; it was what he did for a living, after all. He liked to take some chances on new companies, always on the lookout for the next Google.

I sat back and tried to take a calming breath.

Back when Eric started making more than I did, I insisted on paying for half of our expenses (except rent, because there was no way I could’ve afforded our second apartment). But I paid for half the gas, half the electric, half the building fees. I didn’t want to seem like a kept woman, even if his job on Wall Street had boosted us into another tax bracket. And now, please. I didn’t earn enough at Hudson Lifestyle to live in the area the magazine covered. The irony was not lost on me.

When we bought the house, Eric told me to save my share of the down payment “for when we have a baby.” Logistically, I couldn’t manage a tenth of it, let alone half. I’d worried—a little, anyway—at the time, wanting a more modest house, but Eric had smiled, kissed me and said, “Honey, we can easily afford this.”

By which he’d meant I can easily afford this.

Otherwise, I never thought much about money. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The name on the deed...only his. We’d never changed that, had we? Had that been deliberate? My God, had he done that on purpose?

I never once questioned that it was our money, our house, our families.

Once or twice a year, I’d wrestle Eric for the check and say, “This one’s on me,” and we’d laugh, and he’d let me pay.

I realized I was sweating.

I did have my own savings account, which I checked now. The balance was the same as last week: $12,289.43. Not a lot to show for a decade of work.

My heart should probably be broken, or I should be furious, but right now all I felt was numb.

He didn’t mean this. A day or week from now, he’d be on his knees, begging me to forgive him. He loved me. He had always loved me.

But there was a voice in my head that sounded a lot like Candy’s, and it was saying Eric was doing exactly what he wanted to do.





Chapter Ten

Kate

On the twenty-second day of My Exciting Adventures as a Widow, I found myself in a gas station bathroom, peeing on a stick.

Why? Because I was fun, that’s why.

Still no period.

So I had to be knocked up, right? Right?

I recognized my own desperation. Eleven pregnancy tests had told me I wasn’t pregnant. I opted not to believe them. Fuck ’em! So what if the Mayo Clinic, WebMD and the National Health Service of Great Britain said they were 99 percent accurate? If that was true, I’d have my period, so clearly, I was pregnant.

“I am going to have your baby, Nathan,” I said aloud, setting the test on the sink to do its thing. My voice bounced off the tiles on the bathroom walls. “You and I are going to be parents, honey!”

Keep on the sunny side, right? That was me! Widowed but not broken.

Why the gas station? Well, let’s just say I was tired of irrationally hiding my used pregnancy tests at home. Having to do jazz hands to keep the lights on took away from what should be a special moment. Also, what if Brooke stopped over, unannounced, as she was prone to doing these days, and rifled through my trash (which she hadn’t done, but still, it was possible) and found a pregnancy test, and her hopes got so high, and then I had to dash them?