Roman Crazy Read Free Page B

have a few preferred names running through my head right now.”
    Daniel’s deep intake of breath put a twisted smile on my face.
    â€œBaby, don’t do this,” he begged, turning the barstool so that I faced him. Baby. I’ll baby him. Did he call her Baby, too? Who else was there? Or is there? Had I really been oblivious to it for all these years? What gift on the twisted ladder was I on? I thought back to the diamond studs he gave me on a random Tuesday a few years ago. Then the Louboutins that I came home to after a Junior League meeting.
    Most recently, the Mercedes sedan that I woke up to in the driveway after his trip to Tahoe.
    â€œOh you slick son of a bitch,” I sneered, the phone still at my ear. Daisy was across the ocean, on pins and needles, so instead ofending the conversation with her, I kept going, plucking the celery from my Bloody Mary and taking a big, loud bite off the end. “The secretary. Ha! Can you believe it? Cliché.” Looking him dead in the eye, I took another huge bite, this time showing my teeth.
    â€œAre you fucking kidding me? Who would cheat on you? You’re the wife that men want to nail on the side!” Daisy exclaimed, loud enough that Daniel heard.
    â€œShe doesn’t mean anything, Avie,” he whispered. He focused on the shiny bar top, his finger absently swirling along the grain.
    â€œDon’t you dare call me that, Daniel,” I snapped, stabbing him with my celery, flicks of tomato juice spotting his pristine Bespoke shirt. “You lost the right to cute nicknames when you decided to stick your dick in your secretary.”
    â€œAvery, watch your mouth,” he began, but the bartender—who’d been buffing the same glass for twenty minutes—slammed it down onto the bar, startling us both. She smiled at me, motioning me to continue. Daniel seemed surprised that anyone on the other side of the bar would have an opinion. I doubted she’d work here long after this.
    â€œWhatever it was or is with her, I know that nothing he says will make me stay,” I said to Daisy, and ended the call with the promise to call her back after this dog-and-pony show to fill her in.
    â€œYou don’t mean that,” he said, smiling. Taking my hand, he traced my palm seductively. Or what I imagine would have been seductively, in a different time, in a different place. “This is us. We’re a team, remember?”
    How could I forget? Choices were made, decisions were cemented, and paths were chosen. But no one said I had to stay running on that particular hamster wheel.
    â€œWe’ve been through the ringer, you and I. This was just a stumbling block.”
    â€œHow many?”
    â€œAvery, don’t do this. It doesn’t matter.”
    I waited. Waited for something in my belly to flare up. To make me truly consider continuing to live this life. Bitsy’s jeweled, Lexused, Provenced life. It never came.
    Scooting back the stool, I stood, rolled my shoulders, and simply stated, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
    But there wasn’t anything simple about it. In those six words, I welcomed back a piece of Old Avery .
    I was never big on marching. I gracefully glided most days. Today was not that day.
    With every ounce of confidence I could muster, I strutted my high, tight, Burberry-wrapped ass right past the dinner crowd of couples that likely heard the whole argument. I was sure my next Junior League meeting would be full of whispers and side eyes.
    I was out the front door and into the sunshine without a glance backward. As I slid into my penis-gifted Mercedes, however, I realized that without the strut, I didn’t feel confident at all. The strut was for Bitsy, Daniel, and the rest of the country club set, and frankly, to get me out the door without making a fool of myself. But now, alone, wrapped in tan leather and walnut paneling . . .
    I didn’t have a clue what to