Calling out that I’ll just be a second, I stumble into my best friend, Nancy’s bedroom. I use the age-old excuse that I have to check my messages. It’s not like I’ll be missing anything important at this godforsaken party. Liam’s not even close to his usual drunken stupor; there won’t be any fireworks for at least another half hour.

I sift through the ocean of coats tangled and clumped together on the new mahogany bed that Nancy can’t shut up about, and rescue my bag from the dank abyss. I dip my hand inside and it resurfaces clutching my cell phone. I flip it open, chewing on my lower lip. Nothing new.

The phone is dropped once again into my bag. I plop my bag back on the bed and am about to reenter the living room when a small slip of paper slides out of my husband, Dane’s jacket pocket. How ‘bout that.

Glancing around cautiously, I pick up the paper and unfold it. Among the creases and smudge marks is a phone number, scrawled hastily across the pale blue lines, along with the name “Jasmine” sitting proudly underneath.

Jasmine Stevens. That little bitch.

I wrap my fingers around the siding of the bedroom door, eyes fixed on her. Jasmine, a new intern from Nancy’s real estate office, is sitting cross-legged next to Dane, sipping a glass of wine, her bright hair giving me a headache. I see more tinsel and glitter than I do hair, and frankly, it pisses me off; who’s she trying to impress? She laughs with that annoying little cackle laugh most girls her age have. It’s pretty annoying. I already said that, but that just means it’s now doubly annoying.

Dane isn’t looking at her, and he can’t see me. Right when I think I might be wrong, though, she puts her hand on his knee. He smiles at her slightly, then stares back down into his Coke, his cheeks a little bit redder than they were a second ago.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is a dead man. A dead man, plain and simple.

I slink back into the room and grab the slip of paper. I rip it up into at least thirteen pieces and shove it hastily under Nancy’s bed.

Thirteen’s an unlucky number. Damn it. I’m just about to grab a tiny scrap and rip it up once again when I stop myself. Can’t be a pessimist, I tell myself. Stop it.

---

After a nearly intolerable number of fake compliments, bad hors d'oeuvres, and even worse wines, the party is drawing to a close, and Dane and I are getting ready to leave. It was a pathetic attempt at being one of those fancy parties, so Dane kisses Jasmine on the hand slightly and I hug her. She feels like an eel, with all the moisturizer and make-up she’s slathered all over herself. I quickly excuse myself and make a mad dash for the bathroom, my heels clacking against Nancy’s freshly washed linoleum floor.

Once I’m done washing all the Jasmine Germs™ off of me, Dane and I walk out into the cold November air. The weathermen have lied again, claiming that it would rain, that we would potentially be rocked by thunderstorms bigger than our homes. Yeah, yeah, okay.

Dane shoves his key into the ignition and flicks on the headlights. As we start towards the direction of our house, he glances at me a little nervously.

“Baby, um, are you okay?” he stammers.

“Fine,” I answer coldly, staring out the window, my arms folded across my chest. Before now, I would’ve hated to treat Dane this way. He’s the only man who’s let me call him Sweetie-Bear and the like in public, and I’ve gone out with a lot of men. I used to trust him.

“You just seemed kind of…out of it, y’know?”

“Out of it.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, Cate, if this—”

I cut him off with a long sigh, then prepare myself to launch into my tirade. “What the hell would you know about being out of it, Dane?”

He seems taken aback at the ferocity I’ve dished out, and I continue before he can fit a word in edgewise. “Why don’t you ask your little friend Jasmine about me being out of it? I mean, what the hell, Dane?”

He stares at me with his wide brown eyes. “Cate, what’re you talking about?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know, you son of a bitch!”

“If you told me what the hell you’re talking about, I wouldn’t have to act like I don’t know!”

“Shut up, Dane,” I snap. “I’m sick of you lying to me!”

He turns toward me, oblivious to the road in front of us. “Lying to you? Cate, I…”

“Dane!” I shriek, cutting him off again, grabbing frantically at the steering wheel. A truck glides in front of us, the driver permanently attached to the horn. He turns. We both start screaming. He can’t stop. He won’t stop.

Great.

---

This is what Madame Whosamacallit tells me. Being the bored soul that I am on a hot summer day, I decided to venture into a psychic's office with my best friend Laurie. Laurie went first, and was promised endless amounts of good fortune and a faithful husband. She has a boyfriend, Derek, and I think they're absolutely perfect together, and according to the psychic, they'll be that way forever.

Thinking that I'd get some of the same things, I eagerly slapped my twenty-five bucks on the table, only to be bombarded with that little gem of a future. Wonderful. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

---

That night, I peek over at Dane, whose arm is draped across my body. I cautiously pick it up by his wrist and place it across his stomach. He flinches a little at the sudden movement that wasn’t so sudden and rolls over, both hands tucked under his head. My cutie. Not Jasmine’s. He'll always be mine, no matter what some damn psychic says.

---

Two months later, Dane and I file for divorce. He caught me cheating on him with our neighbor, Ackley Fredrickson.