Jolene had baked Dean's campaign cake at four in the morning, because he was still her husband and she was still that sad.
The Lantern Hotel smelled like gold polish and coffee. Her arms ached from the box.
She followed the laughing down a side hall to the green room. A big window looked in, and the door stood open a crack.
She should have walked on. She looked.
Monica's cream blazer lay on the floor. Her blouse hung open, and her bare breasts were pushed flat against the glass.
Dean stood behind her with his hands on her hips, and his wedding ring was still on.
Monica's hips rocked back and the glass rattled. Harder, she said, and Dean laughed and gave it to her.
Jolene heard the wet slap of it through the window, and something in her chest went cold and quiet.
The cake box tilted in her arms. She caught it, and her hands would not stop shaking.
Jolene: He tells me he sleeps on the couch.
She should have left the cake and gone. But the banquet doors were open, and Dean's voice came through them warm as butter.
So she walked in, because she was still his wife and still stupid about it.
Dean: I want to thank the most important person in this room. Monica, honey, stand up.
The room clapped. Jolene stood at the back with her cake and watched Monica turn pink and pleased.
Dean: Monica gave me what my wife could not. A real family. A baby on the way.
A woman in pearls said bless. Every eye found Jolene and slid away, and her face burned.
Dean: Look, it's Jolene. She even brought a cake.
Dean: She can bake, folks. She just can't make a baby. Isn't that right, Jo? Dry as a bone and twice as bitter.
The laugh started at the front table and rolled back.
Dean walked to her with his campaign smile still on, and his hand closed around her arm.
Dean: You don't get to make a scene in my house. Understand?
His fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks that went white and then red.
Dean: I still have my name on half your little shop. One word and I'll take the rest.
Dean: Nobody will believe the barren bitch who couldn't keep her husband. I'll bury you, Jo.
She believed him. That was the worst part.
He shoved her. Her shoulder hit the wall and her hand came down on a broken champagne glass by the tray stand.
Blood welled up in her palm, bright and real, and the sting made her eyes water.
Roxy: Oh hell no. Get your hands off her, you navy-suited garbage fire.
Roxy came through the crowd like a small bright bomb, earrings swinging, and put herself between them.
Roxy: Breathe, baby. I've got you. Fuck that man and his whole campaign.
Jolene: I'm bleeding on my own cake.
Roxy: Good. Let it be a message.
Roxy wrapped an arm around her and walked her out past the gold mirrors and the whispering tables.
Jolene did not cry. She looked back once, and Dean was already smiling at Monica again.
Jolene: I spent two years asking what was wrong with me.
Roxy: And what did you decide?
Jolene: That I'm done being the one who gets judged. I'm not the problem.
She did not know if she would ever trust her own judgment about love again.
But her hand was bleeding, her cake was ruined, and she was still standing.