I can’t help but wonder if we’d have kissed by now if I hadn’t been so . . . preoccupied.
“I saw someone. It was upsetting, and I overreacted.” I blurt it out so we can be done with it and move on.
He stops twisting the corkscrew. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
He sniffs through his nose. “All right then.”
I love that he doesn’t press on.
I grab two wineglasses. He pours. We cheer.
“Thank you,” I say when the dust feels like it’s settled enough. “For tonight, I mean. I needed that.”
“I know you did,” he says. “And you’re welcome. We should do it again sometime.”
“As long as your wife is okay with it,” I say. There I go again, running my mouth. I’d blame the wine this time, but I only had two glasses at dinner, hardly enough to throw a wrench in my filter.
“Pretty sure she’d be just fine with this.” He chuffs into his wineglass before taking a sip.
And then I remember the divorce papers.
He had them drawn up.
He signed them.
How could I have forgotten?
We stand beside the sink, our reflections in the dark window behind us catching my eye.
We’d look good together, Niall and I. If we were an item, we’d be that annoying couple who seems to be perfectly in sync at every move. The couple that never fights. That finds contentment in the smallest of moments.
It would be so easy to fall for him.
I don’t know how Kate could’ve ever let him go.
They don’t make them like him anymore.
I get the impression from her journal that her expectations were sky-high. Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but what marriage is? And Niall isn’t perfect, but he’s pretty damn close.
Her loss.
I finish my wine and rinse my glass. I could stay here and have another, we could share a little more conversation, let our gazes linger in all the right places, but then we would probably kiss. That’s what you do when your feelings are bottled so tightly they could burst at any moment. The bottleneck breaks, and you lose all sense of self-control. And while I want to kiss Niall more than anything in the world, I also don’t want to rush this.
He might have signed the papers, but Kate hasn’t.
I place my palm on his chest, which feels more solid than I expected it to. “Thanks again. For tonight.”
Niall’s deep-set eyes are glassier than usual. Whether he’s tired or disappointed, I can’t quite tell.
“Good night,” he says.
“Good night, Niall,” I say, turning to leave.
On the way back to my room, I think about all the sweet things Niall has said and done for me, all the playing house, all the times it felt like we were the married ones.
And I realize now, perhaps I got ahead of myself.
There’s a chance he doesn’t have feelings for me. There’s a chance that I’m nothing more than a cheap substitute for the real thing. A stand-in. A living, breathing cardboard cutout. A cure for loneliness.
I don’t know Kate, but I know that I will never be her.
I’ll only ever be me.
CHAPTER 11
I decide on a whim Wednesday morning to search for Brienne’s Instagram account. It takes all of two seconds, and the profile is wide open. Perhaps she isn’t as savvy as I initially assumed?
Just a few days ago, she shared a photo of stacked moving boxes and geolocated herself at the Harcourt. Not to mention her entire profile is an open book—practically an invitation for stalkers.
I browse through the rest of her photos, pausing on one of those cliché close-ups of a fresh manicure, her nails painted a familiar-to-me shade of “Barefoot in Paris,” only that isn’t what concerns me about this picture.
She’s in her car, as evidenced by the steering wheel behind her hand. But when I zoom in, I find the distinctive silver four-ring emblem that could only belong to an Audi—like mine.
I place my phone down and give myself a second.
Grabbing a nearby notebook a moment later and a pen from a drawer in the coffee table, I flip to a clean page and start making a list.
Same name
Same city
Same haircut
Same rose gold filigree earrings
Same Goyard bag
Same taste in music
Same car
Any of these things on their own would be nothing more than coincidence. But all of them together?
I just don’t understand why she hasn’t stolen my credit or tried to access my bank account.
It doesn’t make sense. Nothing about this case of identity theft is typical. Most people steal identities for monetary reasons, and yet she hasn’t so much as touched a single penny of mine despite there being literally millions of them.
My grandparents left me everything, and for years, I’ve hardly touched any of it. They put me through college. Gave me my first business loan so I could open my insurance agency. Left me their house. From the age of eight, I’ve never wanted for anything, and since they’ve departed this earth, I haven’t had the heart to tap into the generous fortune they placed in my name—not in any notable amounts anyway.
My grandfather always said, “Money talks, wealth whispers,” and it’s a motto I’ve always tried to live by.
I rummage through the rest of the other Brienne’s pictures, and at some point I stop gasping every time I realize we shop at the same places—or rather, she shops where I used to shop—and that her signature drink also happens to be a Sazerac.
I pore over her photos again, trying to pick up on any other nuances I can find and adding to my list whenever applicable. Almost in a trance, I’m catapulted into her familiar world, and by the time I stop to take a break, I realize it’s nearly two in the afternoon.
My battery flashes low, and I place my phone on the charger. I force myself to step away, literally and figuratively, but it’s only when I’m making my way outside to grab the mail that I realize her photos, while disturbing and unoriginal, paint her very much as a creature of habit.
Particularly on Thursdays.
When she goes to Italia Fina for happy hour.
From 3:00 to 6:00 PM.
CHAPTER 12
I arrive at Italia Fina at half past three on Thursday and order a Sazerac from an unfamiliar bartender, before claiming an empty booth in the corner of the bar. Once settled, I spread out my laptop and notebook, opening a few random documents and spreadsheets—all props.
And then I wait.
The place isn’t nearly as busy as it used to be. Maybe there’s some new happy hour hot spot that opened recently that I’m unaware of. But there are enough patrons here that I don’t stick out like a sore thumb while simultaneously maintaining a clear view of the main entrance and the entirety of the twenty-six-foot bar.
By the time I finish my drink, it’s almost four, and there’s still no sign of the other me.
I check her Instagram again.
She hasn’t posted anything since yesterday—a close-up of yesterday’s cappuccino complete with a foam heart—and then I scroll through her most recent photos. Every Thursday for the past nine weeks, she’s been coming here.
There are still two “happy” hours left, so I order another drink from a server who walks past, and then I scan the room before turning back to my laptop screen.