“Wholesome? She doesn’t get to monetize a prim and proper Southern belle image, then fuck someone’s fiancé. She needs to be held accountable. Outed.”
“Outed how?” I ask, picturing something crazy that only happens in urban myths—like a billboard on Peachtree Street or an ad in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
“Funny you should say that,” she says, looking proud of herself. “So on my flight, I made a list of all her brand partnerships…. I also found a mutual friend of ours in the PR world. I reached out and told her I needed a tastemaker in Atlanta to help with a project. Guess who she suggested?”
“Lainey! No! Stop! Berlin’s family is as connected as Grady’s—”
“And? So?”
“So I don’t have the stomach for this kind of conflict.”
“Well, I do.” She blinks her long jet-black eyelashes. They look like extensions, but they’re natural—like everything else about her.
I sigh, part of me wanting to unleash Lainey’s wrath on both of them. As powerful as Berlin and Grady might be in Atlanta, Lainey has more cachet and a much bigger platform.
“I just don’t want you to do something crazy,” I say.
“It’s not crazy to hold someone accountable. She knows Grady has a fiancée, right?”
I nod. The social circles we move in aren’t that big—everyone knows everything. “I just don’t get it,” I say. “Why would he propose? And then do this?”
“Because he’s a man. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too.”
I get a nauseatingly graphic image and groan. “Do you think she’s the only one? Or do you think there have been others?” I ask, as the possibility of sexually transmitted diseases crosses my mind for the first time.
“Who knows? Who cares? One is too many.”
“I know, but I’d feel a lot better if this was the only time. Like a fluke…”
“A fluke?”
“You know what I mean—”
“No, I don’t. And you need to stop it right now.”
“Stop what?”
“Searching for ways to somehow excuse this—”
“I’m not doing that—”
“Swear to me. Swear you’ll never take him back.”
“I swear,” I say.
It’s mostly true, but a very, very narrow path to forgiveness has crossed my mind—one that would also involve a ton of groveling and therapy.
“So how do you want to confront him?” Lainey asks.
“Can’t I just call him?”
She shakes her head. “No. It has to be face-to-face. And you need to look hot when you do it,” she says, giving me the once-over. “No sweats.”
“You want me to get dressed up?”
“Yes. And put on makeup. And do your hair.”
“Jeez, Lainey. That’s a really tall order.”
“No, it’s not. You can pull it together. And the good news is—your skin is glowing and you’re in the best shape of your life—”
“Yep. The silver lining to getting cheated on while you’re engaged.”
“There are a lot of other silver linings here.”
“Such as?”
“Such as—you found out now. Before you married him. It’s a blessing in disguise. You dodged a bullet.”
“Then why does it feel like I took a bullet to the heart?”
Lainey nods, giving me a look of pure sympathy. “I know it hurts. There is nothing worse than betrayal. Nothing. But this is who he is. This is his character. He’s a dick.”
“He can be difficult,” I say. “But I didn’t think he was a cheater—”
“It all goes hand in hand. The rules don’t apply to him.”
I sigh and nod, thinking of all the white lies I’ve heard him tell and all the lines and corners I’ve seen him try to cut, often getting away with it.
