Last straw
1371 Words
CHAPTER 2
ROXANNE'S POV
As I walked out of the hospital, Elise tagged along all the way to my car, eventually sliding a little reservation card into my hand.
"Just in case you get lost," she teased.
I laughed, unlocking the door. "As if you wouldn't just come rescue me."
"I always do." She gave my hand one last reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "Have a great night, Rox."
I smiled, started up the engine, and finally pulled away from Harvey Woods Memorial. The hum of the engine felt like a physical release, a signal that I was officially stepping out of my doctor shoes for the night.
Surprisingly, the evening traffic through Boston wasn’t too brutal.
I cut down Brookline Avenue toward Boylston Street, passing the usual rows of historic brownstones, boutique shops, and little cafés that were already starting to fill up with people wrapping up their workdays.
The setting sun hit the city at just the right angle, bathing the asphalt and brick in this warm, golden light that made everything look a bit softer, a bit more forgiving.
Dangling from my rearview mirror was a small pendant with a photo of my parents and me.
John, Margaret, and a twelve-year-old version of myself, smiling so hard my cheeks looked like they were going to pop.
Just looking at it made me smile. It was my anchor.
A few blocks later, I slowed down at a red light right next to a neighborhood playground.
A tall, bald guy was laughing, pushing a little girl on a swing while her pigtails bounced with every loud squeal.
The sight left a familiar, dull ache in my chest.
I never actually knew my biological parents.
I was told they died in a car accident when I was only five, and they didn't leave any family behind.
Before that, my earliest memories were just the walls of an orphanage, where I was too young to understand why the other kids got visitors and I never did.
But then John and Margaret Barrett walked in.
They couldn't have kids of their own, and they chose me.
John was already fifty, and Margaret was forty-five. To them, I wasn't some charity case or obligation—I was their actual daughter.
They gave me a real home and every single opportunity they could possibly scrape together.
They championed my dream of going to med school and celebrated every minor milestone like it was a massive achievement.
Dad was a firefighter, but somehow, he never missed a beat with me.
He showed up to every school event, sat through imaginary tea parties with my stuffed animals, and would secretly slip chocolates under my pillow when Mom declared I'd had enough sugar for the day. Mom taught at my high school.
She fussed over every little sniffle I got, practically prayed over every fever, and always knew when something was bothering me before I even opened my mouth.
She was the one I ran to for everything—toothaches, school crushes, heartbreaks, and fears.
They loved each other so deeply. Growing up, I just assumed my own marriage would naturally look exactly like theirs.
Lately, though, that dream felt like it was slipping right through my fingers.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, taking a breath.
Maybe tonight could turn things around. Maybe David and I just needed a single evening away from our jobs to remember exactly why we fell in love in the first place.
By the time I pulled up to Sorellina, the sun had almost entirely dipped below the Boston skyline.
The restaurant was just as upscale as David had promised. Warm, soft lighting spilled out of the massive windows, fresh flowers framed the entrance, and some faint instrumental music drifted out into the evening air.
Couples were walking in hand-in-hand, laughing quietly as they disappeared inside.
Despite the nerves fluttering in my stomach, I smiled.
David always knocked it out of the park whenever he planned a special night. It was one of the million reasons I fell for him.
I handed my keys off to the valet and stepped through the doors.
The main dining room downstairs was stunning under the crystal chandeliers.
The low hum of conversation mixed with a soft piano melody, creating this cozy, intimate vibe that instantly took the edge off my racing pulse.
I remembered Elise mentioning that tables here usually had to be booked months in advance. Classic David, planning everything down to the detail so far ahead.
A waiter greeted me with a polite nod, checking the reservation card I handed him.
"Right this way, Mrs. Barrett."
I followed him up the stairs, my heels clicking softly against the polished floors.
Every step felt incredibly loud, and my pulse started to quicken—not because I was scared, but because I was genuinely excited.
Maybe tonight we’d finally get that spark back. Maybe we'd actually laugh the way we used to, instead of talking like two exhausted roommates who just happened to share an apartment lease.
The upstairs layout opened into a secondary dining area with a small, intimate space cleared out for dancing near the back.
The music up here was different—a slow, incredibly romantic jazz ballad that hung heavy and sweet in the air.
The waiter pointed toward a table set right by the windows. "Your table is just over there."
I thanked him and started walking over.
Then, I actually looked past the table toward the couples slow-dancing.
The smile instantly died on my face. Everything inside me just froze.
The warmth of the restaurant evaporated in a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, icy chill that felt like someone had thrown open a door into the dead of winter.
For a terrifying beat, my lungs locked up and I forgot how to breathe.
My heart felt like it flatlined. The entire room tilted on its axis, and my vision went completely blurry.
The waiter actually caught my arm just in time, steadying me before my knees buckled completely.
"Are you alright, ma'am?" his voice sounded muffled, like he was speaking to me from underwater.
I couldn't answer. I just stood there, staring at what was happening, utterly unable to process what I was looking at.
Every single piece of hope I had carried with me from the hospital shattered into a million pieces.
There, right in the center of the small floor, swaying to the slow rhythm of the music alongside three or four other couples, was David.
He wasn't alone.
His arms were wrapped tightly around Leah—his ex-girlfriend turned business partner.
The very woman he assured me was just a "professional associate" now, the one whose late-night business calls had become a permanent fixture in our house.
She was wearing a sleek, backless black dress that contrasted sharply against his tailored suit.
Her head was resting comfortably against his chest, right over his heart, and her eyes were closed in total bliss.
David’s chin was resting lightly on top of her hair. He was holding her close, closer than he had held me in over a year, his hand resting firmly on the small of her back.
They moved perfectly together, completely lost in their own little world, oblivious to the other couples turning circles around them.
The red satin gown Elise had bought me suddenly felt like a joke.
The gold heels, the custom necklace, the makeup—it all felt like a pathetic costume. He had emailed me the reservation, but he hadn't booked it for me. He had booked it for her.
As the jazz song transitioned into a lower, sweeping chord, Leah muttered something into David's ear and he let out a soft, melodic laugh that I could hear even over the chatter of the restaurant.
The betrayal didn't just hurt; it made me physically sick.
The air left my chest in a shaky gasp, and I gripped the edge of a nearby empty table just to keep from collapsing.
I just stood there, a ghost in a bright red dress, watching my husband dance with another woman at the very table meant to save our marriage.
- Writer
