The way his entire body stiffens could win awards for physical manifestations of panic. His hand tightens on the door edge as if he’s considering slamming it shut.
“Oh, it’s nobody, love,” he calls over his shoulder, voice suddenly higher. “They must have the wrong address.”
Nobody?
Love?
I feel a cold sensation spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the rain. As the words register, I notice other details I missed in my initial excitement: the women’s boots by the door, the two umbrellas in the stand, the framed photo on the wall behind him showing Brady with his arm around a smiling blonde.
“Amelia,” he hisses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What are ye doing here? My wife is inside.”
The word hits me like a slap. “Wife?”
He grimaces, running a hand through his perfect hair. “I thought ye knew. I thought we were playing it casual.”
My mouth opens, closes, opens again. Words swim around my brain like frightened fish, none willing to be caught. “You have a wife,” I finally manage, my voice small and unfamiliar.
“Look, this isn’t a good time. Perhaps we could meet for coffee tomorrow and?—”
“You never mentioned a wife, Brady.” My voice grows more pungent as anger begins to replace shock. “Not once in six months.”
He shrugs, and the casual dismissal of my feelings makes something crack inside me.
“Aye. I thought it was implied. These online things, dating apps, they’re just a bit of fun, aren’t they? A fantasy.”
“You wrote me sonnets!” The words burst out of me louder than intended, and he winces, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “You left me audio messages reading me those sonnets!”
His lips twist into what he may have intended as a charming smile but now looks calculating.
“Oh darling, I can keep writing them if you want...”
I stare at him, really seeing him for the first time. The perfect hair, the yellow gold and diamond-paved Rolex, the practiced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I’d thought his messages showed depth and passion. Now I wonder how many other women have received his sonnets.
“You told me you were alone,” I say quietly. “Youtold me you were looking for someone to share your life with.”
“And I meant it, in a way.” He leans against the doorframe, lowering his voice. I can practically see the conniving part of his brain working overtime. “There are different kinds of sharing, aren’t there? Different parts of a life?”
I feel sick. Every late-night conversation, every shared secret, every whispered plan about showing me his favorite places in Scotland. All of it’s tainted now.
“Brady? Is everything all right?” The voice is closer now.
“Fine, darling,” he calls back, his accent suddenly thicker, more performative. “Don’t bother coming out.”
He turns back to me, eyes pleading. “Amelia, please. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”
“And I did?” The words taste bitter.
For a moment, something like regret flashes across his face. Then he straightens, pulling on a mask of polite detachment. “I never promised you anything concrete. We were having a bit of fun. If you expected more?—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand. “Just stop.”
I take a step back, dignity fighting with humiliation. All those hours on video calls, sharing my deepest thoughts, listening to his stories about growing up in Edinburgh, his dreams of writing a definitive history of Scottish folklore. None of it was real?
“I’m sorry you came all this way,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry. “If I’d known?—”
“You’d have prepared a better lie?” My voice is steady now, fueled by growing anger. “Or would you have written me a sonnet about how your marriage is just a technicality?”
His eyes narrow slightly.
