His Favorite Mistake

Chapter 8

The key slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a sharp metallic sound.

I stared at it for a second before bending down. My hands felt unsteady as I picked it up and pushed it back into the lock. I turned it slowly, then pressed the handle down. The door opened.

A young man in a neat navy delivery uniform stood on the porch. He held a folded white garment bag over one arm and a small tablet in the other hand. He looked polite, professional, and slightly hurried.

“Good morning, ma’am. Delivery for Mrs. Vance?”

I blinked, still expecting to see Frederick.

“Yes… that’s me.”

He held out the tablet. “Please sign here.”

I signed with a slightly shaking hand. He checked the signature, nodded, and then carefully handed me the garment bag.

“These are Mr. Vance’s clothes. He requested they be returned to the house this morning.”

I took the bag. The fabric felt smooth and expensive under my fingers.

"Where is he?" I asked. My throat did something strange halfway through the sentence. The words came out thin. The delivery man took in my swollen eyes, messy hair, and nightgown and quickly looked away.

The delivery man kept his expression neutral. “I’m not sure of his exact location, ma’am. He placed an order for some new pieces from our collection yesterday evening and instructed that these particular items be dropped off here this morning. That’s all the information I was given.”

I tightened my grip on the bag. “Where was his location when you collected it?”

He gave a small, careful smile. “I’m afraid I can’t say, ma’am. I only handle the deliveries. Mr. Vance’s assistant arranged the request. Have a good day.”

He nodded once more, then turned and walked back toward a small white van parked by the curb. I stood in the doorway watching until the van pulled away and disappeared down the street.

I closed the door and locked it.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

A message from Frederick.

Get my clothes from James.

That was all.

No greeting. No "Good morning." No "Esther."

James. He called the delivery man James. As if I was supposed to know who James was, as if I should know the name of the man who now handles his dirty shirts. I read the message again. Get my clothes from James. I had been standing in the doorway in my nightgown waiting for my husband to come home.

I carried the garment bag into the living room and laid it across the arm of the couch. For a moment I only looked at it. Then I slowly unzipped the bag.

The first thing that reached me was the scent. His perfume was there, familiar and expensive, but mixed with something else. Something warmer. Heavier. The unmistakable smell of skin and s*x.

I pulled out the white shirt.

Near the collar, just above the second button, was a lipstick stain. Not soft pink. Not mine. Terracotta. That bold, burnt-orange matte that young girls wear when they want every man to look.

I wear rose. I wear nude. I have never dared to wear orange.

I brought the fabric closer before I could stop myself.

It wasn't my perfume. Mine is peony and clean linen. Light. He bought it for me in Paris last year. I still spray it on my neck every morning, even when he doesn't come home.

This was heavier. Sweet vanilla and sweat and that sticky terracotta lipstick smell that stays after kissing too hard. Cheap body spray trying to smell like perfume. I have handled this shirt a hundred times to iron it. I know where the collar frays. I have never smelled it like this.

My stomach turned.

I dropped the shirt back into the bag as if it had burned me. My hands were trembling now. I picked up the entire bag, carried it to the bedroom, and left it on the floor near the wardrobe. I couldn’t bring myself to hang the clothes. I didn’t want them near anything of mine.

I needed to wash.

I went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I turned the shower on and let the water run until steam began to fill the small space. Then I stripped off my nightclothes and stepped under the hot stream.

The water hit my shoulders and ran down my back. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the cool tiles.

I remembered how it used to feel when he still reached for me. The weight of his body. The way his hands would move over my skin like he couldn’t get enough. The low sound he made when he kissed the side of my neck. Nights when he would pull me against him even in his sleep, as if he needed me close.

Those memories felt far away now.

I had been waiting for months. Waiting for a touch that never came. Waiting for him to look at me the way he used to. My body still remembered what it felt like to be wanted. That was the part that hurt the most. The hunger hadn’t disappeared. It had only become quieter and more shameful, something I carried alone.

Tears mixed with the water running down my face. I didn’t try to stop them. I just stood there under the stream, arms wrapped around my own body, crying while the water washed over me. My shoulders shook. The sound of the shower covered the small broken noises that left my throat.

By the time I turned the water off, my fingers had gone wrinkled and my eyes felt swollen and tight.

I stepped out of the shower and reached for a clean towel. I dried myself slowly, then wrapped the white towel around my body, tucking the end firmly above my chest. The soft cotton clung to my still-damp skin. My hair was wet and heavy, dripping cold water down my neck and shoulders.

The towel was too short. It rode up when I walked. Frederick used to say it was his favorite towel for that reason. He would pull the tuck loose with two fingers and say, "Oops." Now the white cotton just clung to me, cold against my skin as I caught my reflection, knees still pink from hot water, chest rising too fast, that ugly crying face I hid from everyone, and I thought, "When did he stop looking?"

I stepped into the bedroom, and the cooler air hit my bare legs.

My phone was lying on the bed where I had left it.

It buzzed once.

I walked over and picked it up.

A notification from Frederick’s social media account sat at the top of the screen.

He had posted a new photo. Two minutes ago.

My thumb was wet. It slipped once on the screen before I got it open.

It was a photo of a table. Dark restaurant. Two wine glasses. One almost empty. One with a bright terracotta lip stain on the rim. The same shade as his collar.

His caption: Finally, some peace.

The comments were already pouring in.

Aww, Mr. & Mrs. Vance.

Esther is a lucky woman!

Couple goals!

They thought it was me.

I just stood there in the quiet bedroom, water still dripping from the ends of my hair onto the white towel, staring at the photo of a table I never sat at, being congratulated for a love I wasn't invited to.