Her heart beat into her throat, her hands were damp. She was too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe loudly. 'He saw me… they said they'd kill me,' she thought. But she heard Devon protest.
"He must really care for me" her heart concluded.
Slowly, she let go the handle of the door and took a step back. Another, and another, until she was far away that she would walk unnoticed, then, she found her way to the bathroom.
By the time she walked out of the restroom she had pulled herself together, convinced herself the old man really didn't see her, how could he? He can barely see what's two feet in front of him.
She applied a bold layer of make-up to hide her tear-stained eyes and busted ego.
"Babe! Where have you been, you were gone so long – I was starting to worry." Devon rushed to her side. He paused for a beat when he got close, seeing her heavy make-up, he reached for her hand.
"I'm fine, just had to use the rest room," Carmella replied flatly, pulling her hand away from his.
"Really! You're, okay?" he looked down at his now-empty hand, stunned for a moment.
She simply nodded and cut past him into the crowd, not bothering to say more.
Devon stared at her, a frown forming between his brows. Something felt off about Carmella tonight – he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Just then, Martina – Devon's younger sister, approached Carmella with two glasses of red wine in hand. She had never liked her and if she was here, it couldn't be good.
"Happy birthday, Carmella," she said with a sweet smile on her face, her eyes barely concealing mischief. Carmella knew better than to trust her – she probably dropped a smiley or some newly popular drug inside.
She locked gazes with Devon, searching for a flicker of guilt, hesitation, or a shred of remorse, but the more she stared, the more numb her hands felt, she could not take her mind off the conversation she had just overheard, her mind wandered until her hand slipped and the glass crashed into the ground, the sharp echoing sound pulled her back into consciousness.
The party paused, everyone fixed on the source of the crash. Devon wasn't having it as he handed her another drink from a table of drinks lined with several glasses that stood behind her. Before raising a toast.
With every gratitude, and every I love you, she couldn't help but doubt if he really meant it – if only she didn't hear the conversation in the private room, if only Marco hadn't shown up to ruin things – that was when it all came crashing back, his parting words from 5 years ago.
The words settled like rocks in her belly, she did not cry – not right away. First, the numbness came, then the burn from behind her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek, then another, and another, silent and stubborn it went on. As if her eyes betrayed the words she hid inside.
A generous display of affection – the crowd thought, but to her a soft river of knowing, the echoes of a moment passed. It was the remembering that hurt, a hateful truth materializing.
Devon walked up to her, brimming with pride, his words must have meant a lot. He pulled her close and put on a show for all to watch as he kissed and held her like a baby…
As he cradled her, his phone rang and he took it without hesitating. "I'll be right there," he yelled as he let go the baby he cradled, storming off like a hero off to battle.
Just as he approached the door, Martina tripped and shoved Carmella into the table of drinks behind her and watched with an amusing smirk on her face.
A loud crash of glass filled the room, with cups shattered on the ground and Carmella seated right in the middle of them, her hands nicked by the broken glasses.
The sudden commotion drew everyone's attention once more to the center of the room, including Devon, He stopped looked back and saw his wife sitting in a mine of broken glass and without hesitation, without a second thought, he walked out of the room.
Carmella listened to the whispers swirl around her as she watched her husband's hurrying back grow smaller with every step he took; she couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh. So, this is love – she thought, suddenly she could see the signs and wondered for how long they've been there.
She picked herself off the floor, glass embedded in her skin, yet no one offered a hand. Of course not, they were all friends of the Moretti's not hers. The way they looked, they must all know something she doesn't, that her husband is a mobster.
By the time Carmella drove herself to the hospital it was already late into the night. The ER was quiet, and nearly empty.
She had just finished getting her hands treated and bandaged, when the automatic doors hissed open in front of her, spitting the cold night's breeze. Just under the yellow flickers of the faulty lamp, a man ducked on, held by a woman in red.
What she didn't expect was to run into her husband strolling in on another woman's shoulders, with blood dripping from his head and a few nicks and bruises covering his arm.