1. Charlotte

1

CHARLOTTE

T he morning that everything fell apart, I woke up thinking it was going to be a perfect day.

To be fair—most of my days are good. Not that I don’t have my moments like everyone else—a broken heel or a morning where I oversleep—but for the most part, my life has fallen into place exactly the way I wanted it to.

A comfy job working as an IT manager that lets me wear jeans to the office? Check.

A great group of friends who love getting brunch on the weekends? Check.

A condo apartment close enough to Lincoln Park that I have a good view from my balcony? Check.

A handsome boyfriend to share that apartment with, who also has a good job and shares a similar taste in what to watch on Netflix after a long day? Check, check, and check.

There have been times in my life, of course, when I’ve wondered if living a life according to a list like that is really making me happy. In college, I knew friends of my friends who did things like drive to the Grand Canyon on a whim, or book the next flight out of an airport without knowing where they’d end up. People who would take spontaneous weekend road trips and just pick a direction. People who didn’t Google the menus of restaurants before they went there, so they’d already have some idea of what they wanted to order.

I’ve never been spontaneous, impulsive, or exciting. And I’ve always consoled myself that even if I do lead a pretty routine existence—it’s worked out for me so far. Those other acquaintances, the ones who do all those impulsive things—they have maxed out credit cards and piles of student loan debt. They’re complaining about being sick of dating apps and waxing nostalgic about the days when you could meet the love of your life over a loaf of sourdough at the farmer’s market.

So maybe being boring isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Jaz, one of my best friends, is waiting for me in the lobby when I step off the elevator five minutes after five p.m. She works for the same company that I do, in the HR department, and we usually catch a ride or walk home together, since she lives a block away from me.

“I have a stop to make,” I tell her as I stow my badge in my purse, my designer mules clicking against the tile floor as I hurry towards the rotating glass door at the front of the building. “I need to pick up my dress for tonight from Velvet Luxe.”

“Ooh, fancy.” Jaz wiggles her eyebrows, catching up to me as we step out into the crisp Chicago fall air. “What’s the occasion?”

“My anniversary with Nate.” I can’t keep the smile off of my face. “Five years. He got a reservation at Alinea for us. I’ve always wanted to go—I’m so excited.”

Jaz whistles through her teeth as we stop, and I check my Uber app—these shoes weren’t made for walking. They’re cute, but I swear I was getting blisters today just sitting at my desk. She shrugs on a black leather jacket, tugging her hair over her shoulder. “Man, I need to find a boyfriend who will make reservations like that for me. I can’t remember the last time Jay and I went out on a date. He’s always so busy. Remote work doesn’t mean more time off, that’s for sure. And these game developers always have him in crunch for one thing or another.”

“Make a reservation for yourself.” I grin at her. “Or all of us. We could have a girls’ night out. Celebrate our friend-a-versary—the whole group of us.”

“Technically, that passed back in August,” Jaz says, laughing as a black Toyota pulls up to the curb. “We all met at Northwestern, freshman year.”

“Okay, so a belated celebration.” The driver comes around to open the door for us, and I slide inside, Jaz following right behind me. The interior of the car smells like clean leather and pine, and I breathe in, letting myself relax back against the seat. This is the beginning of what I’m sure is going to be an amazing weekend.

Tonight is the special dinner Nate planned, and then tomorrow, I have a beer tasting booked at his favorite pub, followed by bar-hopping. Sunday, I even skipped my usual weekend brunch with Jaz and the rest of our friends, in favor of a lazy afternoon in. I’m hoping to order takeout, have lots of sleepy sex, and maybe take a long hot bath before I have to jump back into the week.

“Well, tell me what you think of it, and we’ll discuss it next weekend. Since you ditched us for this one,” Jaz teases lightly.

“You’d do the same thing if it were you.” I can tell from her tone that she’s not actually upset, though. An anniversary is a big deal. And especially this one, when I’m pretty sure there’s a chance that Nate is going to propose. Jaz and I and the others have been speculating for weeks now, ever since I saw a jewelry store catalog in the mail. Nate isn’t really the present-buying type, unless it’s a very specific occasion, and he’s never gotten me jewelry. So for a jewelry store to have his address, he must have been doing some shopping.

“Hopefully, he steps up his game this weekend, so you don’t fall asleep mid-sex,” Jaz retorts, and I shake my head.

“That was one time. Once . And I’d just worked an eighty-hour week. I think Ryan Gosling himself could have been down there, and I’d have fallen asleep.”

“Not a chance.” Jaz laughs. “I’m just saying, it doesn’t sound like he’s exactly rocking your world every night. Or even most nights. Any night?” She raises one perfectly threaded eyebrow, and I sigh, sinking back further into the seat.

“I mean—it’s not that exciting,” I admit. “I guess it’s pretty standard, all things considered. But that’s just how sex is. It’s fun and feels pretty good, but it’s not like—I don’t know.” I shrug. “All the stuff you see in movies and read in books. All those crazy fantasies. No one actually does that.”

Jaz gives me a smug look. “No one?”

“Oh, come on.” I narrow my eyes at her. “You? Seriously? You’re telling me you’ve had that kind of sex?”

I see the Uber driver glance back at us in his rear-view mirror as I say it, and I wince, my cheeks flushing. “Not that we need to talk about this right now,” I mumble. “Actually, we’re almost there.” I lean forward, gesturing to the sign a half a block ahead of us—white-painted and scalloped with the boutique’s name written in wine-red script.

For as long as I’ve had any reason to buy special-occasion dresses—graduation, friends’ weddings, nights out—I’ve been coming to Velvet Luxe. Not being a very adventurous person in any facet of my life, I was more inclined to go to a designer store like Dior or Chanel for those kinds of clothes—but one of our friends at Northwestern who was a fashion student used her trust fund to open it five years ago, right after we graduated. And, being good friends, we all made sure to get our dresses exclusively from her.

“Zoe!” Jaz calls out as soon as we step into the shop. She and Zoe have always been super close—they bonded on day one in our dorm over their three-letter names, and became inseparable shortly after, despite the vast difference in their career paths. She immediately goes behind the counter, giving Zoe a brisk hug, before turning back to look at me. “I hear you have a special order for Charlotte.”

“I do.” Zoe grins, tucking the pin between her teeth back into the cushion on the counter. “I’ll go grab it.”

A few minutes later, she emerges with my dress. It’s absolutely stunning—a form-fitting, knee-length creation of cranberry-red velvet, with thin straps and a slit up each side that goes to mid-thigh. The neck is cut into a low scoop that reaches an inch below my breasts, reinforced with inner corsetry so that they’ll be supported, with just the sides and a little bit of the lower curve showing.

Jaz whistles. “If he wasn’t already going to propose, he will when he sees you in that. Ring or no ring. Damn, Charlotte, that might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever bought.” She looks pointedly at my outfit for work today, which is pretty similar to what I wear most days. A pair of dark slim-cut jeans, a button-down shirt in varying colors and patterns, and sensible shoes. Today it was the leather mules with a heel just a little higher than usual. That turned out to be a mistake.

Getting out of my comfort zone usually does.

“I was surprised, too,” Zoe says with a grin. “But if you’re going to pick any night to go all out like this, this is the one. Five years together and Alinea? Girl.” She zips the dress into a sleek black garment bag with Velvet Luxe printed on the top, and hands it to me. “He’s going to have to pick his jaw up off the floor when he sees you.” She twirls a dark ringlet that came loose from the messy bun atop her head. “Do some big curls tonight —old Hollywood style. Lipstick to match the dress—” She kisses the tips of her fingers dramatically. “Perfection.”

That smile spreads across my face again, and I don’t even bother trying to fight it. “I’ll take a picture and send it to the group chat,” I promise. “And now—” I wince, looking at my watch. “Shit, I have to go. I’m running five minutes behind.”

Zoe rolls her eyes. “You and your schedules.” She looks at Jaz. “You wanna hang for a minute? We could go get tapas. I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.”

“That sounds great.” Jaz wiggles her fingers at me. “Have fun, Charlotte. Send pics. Of the dress and the ring,” she adds with a wink.

I laugh, waving at them both as I call a second Uber, and hurry out to the curb.

I’m not actually sure that Nate is going to propose, for all that I’ve gossiped about the possibilities with my friends. We haven’t talked about it much, outside of a few conversations where we discussed if it was ‘time’ based on how long we’ve been together. We’ve had all those talks about how we line up on various things, though—not directly saying the words do we want to get married, but discussing all the things that need to be talked through before promising to spend the rest of our lives with each other.

And we agree on those things. We both want to stay in Chicago, living downtown until our mid-thirties, when we’ll look into buying a house in the suburbs. We agree on kids—we’d be okay if we didn’t have them, but are open to the idea of one, no more than two. We both abhor debt and pay our credit cards in full every month. We agree on the places we want to travel to most—Spain, Japan, and England, in that order. Public schools over private, so our kids don’t grow up to be snobs. We both value our alone time and our time with our friends. And if he has any issues with our sex life, vanilla as it is, he’s never said anything. He seems satisfied, and I?—

I have to admit, I’m curious about what Jaz was about to say in the car, on the ride over to Velvet Luxe. I can’t believe that she’s really ever experienced anything as crazy as the kinds of things that show up in fiction. I don’t believe that’s real—I’ve never known anyone who experienced it. If my friends’ dating life is anything to go by, I’m lucky that Nate usually goes down on me just about every time—even if it’s usually only for a few seconds and never does all that much for me. But I think that’s on me, not him. I’ve never really been all that sensitive. Toys work well for me—but I’ve never found a man who really lights me on fire by touching me.

I just don’t think that’s reality.

Nate isn’t home yet when I get up to our shared condo. I toss my keys in the porcelain bowl on the entry table, carrying the garment bag down the hall to our bedroom. It’s neat as a pin, as always, decorated minimally, with the modern aesthetic we both like. A platform bed, two rosewood nightstands with black iron touches, and a matching rosewood dresser, a large television mounted on the wall above it. There’s a dark grey ottoman at the foot of the bed that matches the dark grey bedding, and I lay the garment bag down on it, kicking my shoes off as I pad across the hardwood floor to the closet.

I have a pair of heels that will be perfect for this dress, but I never wear them. They’re buried somewhere in the back of the closet, and I reach up to push a stack of Nate’s weekend chinos aside to see if the box got shoved behind them, only to almost be hit in the head by something that comes tumbling off the shelf.

I catch it reflexively, feeling the velvet texture against my palm. My heart trips in my chest, and I look down at the small box in my hand.

He’s actually going to propose . My pulse kicks up another notch. This is good, right? This is what I want.

I shouldn’t open it, I know that. I should let it be a surprise. But I’m curious, and I nudge the seam of it with my thumb, opening the box a fraction before letting it close again.

What if it’s not a ring? I reason, staring down at it. What if it’s—earrings, or something? That would be a good reason to look—if I think it’s one thing and it turns out to be something else, I might seem disappointed. I don’t want Nate to think I’m unhappy with my gift, just because I thought it was a ring.

He’s also going to be home any second, so I have to make up my mind. Actually, he should have been home already—but he works late fairly often. Today, of all days, though, I thought he would be on time.

Taking a deep breath, I flip open the top of the box, and my eyes go wide.

It is an engagement ring. An absolutely stunning one. The center diamond is pear-shaped and an exquisite quality, sparkling brilliantly even in just the light of our bedroom. There are three small round diamonds on either side of it, and it’s set in yellow gold. Classic, with a unique twist. Exactly the style I showed him the one time that we did talk about rings, a little over a year ago.

It’s perfect. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel my heart racing in my chest, nervousness prickling over my skin.

Nervous—excitement. Yes. Excitement. It’s a big step forward, one of the biggest we’ll make, so of course, I feel some apprehension too, but?—

The sound of the front door closing almost makes me jump out of my skin. I close the box hurriedly, shoving it back behind the stack of chinos as I grab the shoebox out of the closet—at the very back, where I thought it might be—and close the closet door just in time to hear Nate’s footsteps stop outside the bedroom.

He walks in a moment later. He looks as handsome as always—the picture of the clean-cut, all-American lawyer. Perfect charcoal grey suit, swept back dark brown hair, clean-shaven jaw. He sets down his messenger bag by the dresser, and smiles at me. “How long before you’re ready to go?”

“Forty-five minutes? Plenty of time before our reservation.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” He chuckles, walking past me to drop a kiss on my cheek as he shrugs out of his jacket. “I’ll change once you’re done; it won’t take me long. I might go fix myself a pre-dinner drink.”

“I’ll save myself for the wine pairings.” I grin at him, carrying the garment bag into the bathroom. I can hear Nate just outside the door, getting out of his work clothes. “Don’t forget, I have something special planned for you tomorrow, too.”

“That’s right, your anniversary surprise.” He pauses. “I might have other plans on Sunday, though. I’ll let you know. An old friend is in town for the weekend, and I don’t want to miss the chance to grab a beer with him.”

“Oh?” I try to keep my tone neutral, even as my heart drops a little. I tell myself I’m being unreasonable. Asking to have him to myself for a whole weekend is a lot. Especially if it means missing out on seeing a friend.

“No one you know,” he says breezily. “Oh—shit. Work’s calling. I’ll be out in the living room, Char.”

“Okay.” I hate that nickname, but he started calling me that early on in our relationship, and it stuck. It’s not that bad, and after all, one of the cornerstones of a healthy relationship is picking your battles. A silly nickname isn’t a battle worth fighting.

I know for a fact what Jaz is going to say when she finds out Nate is ditching me on Sunday. But that means I’ll be able to meet them for brunch, so it won’t be that bad?—

I reach for the seamless underwear I bought to go under the dress, only to realize that in my hurry to hide the ring and act natural before Nate came into the bedroom, I didn’t grab it. I check the time, reassured that I still have plenty to spare, and hurry back into the bedroom naked to find where I put it.

What if Nate walked back in? The thought flickers into my head as I dig through my top drawer for the Nordstrom bag, and I feel that small, disappointed swoop in my stomach that I sometimes do when I think about our love life. I’d like to think that we’d be late for dinner, if he walked into our bedroom to find me standing naked in the middle of the room, that he’d grab my hair and bend me over the dresser, unzip his suit trousers, and take me just like that. That he’d whisper in my ear that if I’m going to come, I should do it quickly, so we still have a chance of making our reservation.

I feel a throb of heat between my thighs at the thought, a tingle there, and I squeeze them together briefly, grabbing the bag out of the drawer as I try to shake the thought loose.

Because, the fact is, if Nate walked in right now, nothing would happen. He’d comment that I wasn’t dressed yet, and then move on with whatever he came to the bedroom to do.

And that’s fine, I tell myself as I head back to the bathroom. Men don’t actually behave like that. Maybe , in some relationships, at the very beginning—but definitely not after five years. Having a stable, loyal, companionable relationship is much better than one that would just fizzle out anyway?—

Something catches my eye, as I walk past the bed. Nate’s phone—his personal phone, not his work cell—is on the nightstand. He doesn’t usually leave it out—he tends to be picky about his things being put away—but I don’t think anything of it, until it lights up a second time, and I glance over at the screen.

I don’t mean to snoop. I’ve never felt that I have a reason to. I’ve never worried for a second about Nate’s fidelity. But his phone is unlocked, the text bubbles popping up on the screen, and I see a woman’s name.

Valerie.

Valerie.

Valerie.

It pops up a fourth time.

Someone from work, I tell myself. A friend. A cousin he never told me about.

But my gut tells me there’s something off.

A fifth message.

Before I can stop myself, I dart forward, sweeping the phone off the nightstand as I duck back into the bathroom and close the door, leaning back against it. I tell myself that I’m not going to find anything. That this is all perfectly innocuous. That I’m going to feel foolish and guilty as soon as I read the messages.

But if I don’t, I’m going to wonder all night. And I don’t want to spoil our anniversary by my own silly anxieties.

I slide my thumb up the screen, opening the texts. And despite all my arguments with myself otherwise, I have a horrible feeling about what I’m going to see.