The Book Club Betrayal

The Brown Sugar Book Club started as therapy.

Seven Black women, one bottle of wine, and whatever novel Oprah was recommending. Fifteen years later, we're more family than friends.

I'm Valerie. Fifty-four. Married twenty-eight years. Thought I knew what my story looked like.

Then I found the texts on Marcus's phone.

"Girl, you look like hell."

That's Jacquie, blunt as always. We're meeting at my house this month—Colleen Hoover's latest, something about betrayal.

"Marcus is cheating."

The room goes silent.

"I found texts. Her name is Ashley. She works at his company."

The wine glasses hit the table. The interrogation begins.

"How long?"

"Eight months."

"You confront him?"

"Not yet."

"What are you waiting for?"

"I don't know." I refill my glass. "Maybe I'm hoping it's not real."

"It's real, baby." Patricia touches my hand. "The question is what you're going to do about it."

The next morning, the doorbell rings.

Package delivery—something I ordered in my retail therapy spiral. The driver is young, maybe thirty, with shoulders that strain his uniform.

"Mrs. Harrison?"

"That's me."

"Sign here." He hands over the tablet, and his fingers brush mine.

"You okay?" he asks. "You look... sad."

"Bad week."

"I'm sorry." His smile is gentle. "I hope it gets better."

His name is DeShawn.

I find this out because he delivers two more packages that week (thank you, Amazon Prime). Each time, he lingers a little longer.

"You ordering for the whole neighborhood?" he jokes on day three.

"Retail therapy. My husband is having an affair."

I don't know why I tell him. Maybe I just need someone outside my circle to know.

"Damn." He shakes his head. "Man must be crazy."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean look at you." His eyes travel down my robe, back up. "Why would anyone step out on that?"

I should be offended.

Instead, I feel something I haven't felt in years: desired.

He comes by the next day with nothing to deliver.

"Took my lunch break in your neighborhood." He holds up a sandwich. "Wondered if you wanted company."

I should say no. I'm married—technically. This is inappropriate.

"Come in," I say.

We sit in my kitchen.

He tells me about his life—full-time deliveries, part-time classes, dreams of opening a gym. I tell him about mine—decades of suburban routine, children grown and gone, a marriage that's apparently been a lie.

"What are you going to do?" he asks.

"Divorce him, probably. Take half his pension and the house."

"And in the meantime?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He moves closer. "If he gets to have someone on the side, why don't you?"

The logic is terrible.

The temptation is not.

He kisses me first.

Young, confident, hands cupping my face like I'm something precious. He tastes like the lunch he brought and something sweeter.

"We shouldn't," I gasp.

"Probably not." He kisses my neck. "Tell me to stop."

"I can't."

"Then let's not stop."

He lifts me onto my own kitchen counter.

The counter where I've made twenty-eight years of family dinners. The counter my husband passed every morning without seeing me.

DeShawn sees me.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, pushing my robe open. "So damn beautiful."

"I'm fifty-four—"

"And I'm hard as hell thinking about you. Age is just a number, Mrs. Harrison."

"Valerie. Call me Valerie."

His mouth finds my breasts.

Sucks each nipple until I'm writhing, then moves lower—kissing my belly, my hips, the tops of my thighs.

"Can I?" he asks.

"God, yes."

He eats me out on my kitchen counter.

Loud, messy, enthusiastic. His tongue is relentless, his fingers skilled, and I come screaming while gripping the granite.

"That's one," he says, grinning up at me. "How many more do you want?"

"As many as you can give me."

"Challenge accepted."

He fucks me right there, standing up.

My legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping my ass, the counter shaking with every thrust.

"So tight," he groans. "So good—"

"Harder—"

"You sure?"

"I want to forget my husband exists."

He gives me harder. Harder until I'm screaming. Harder until I come twice more. Harder until he finally lets go, pulling out to spill on my thighs.

"So," he says after, cleaning us both with paper towels. "Same time tomorrow?"

I should say no. Should go back to being the good wife, the upstanding book club member.

"Make it noon," I say. "I'll have lunch ready."

DeShawn becomes my secret.

For three weeks, while I plan my divorce and gather evidence, he comes by on his lunch break. Sometimes we talk. Mostly we don't.

The book club notices the change.

"Girl, you're glowing," Jacquie says. "What's your skincare routine?"

"Revenge," I say, and they don't know whether to laugh or worry.

I confront Marcus on a Sunday.

Show him the texts. Watch his face crumble. Let him make his excuses.

"I want a divorce," I say calmly.

"Valerie, we can work through this—"

"We can't. And honestly?" I smile. "I don't want to."

The divorce is quick.

He gives me almost everything—guilt will do that. The house, the pension, the savings.

On my first night as a legally single woman, there's a knock at the door.

DeShawn with champagne.

"Heard you were celebrating."

"How did you know?"

"Book club gossip travels." He grins. "Jacquie is my cousin."

"What?"

"Who do you think suggested I take this delivery route?"

I should be angry.

Instead, I laugh until I cry, then pull him inside.

"You planned this?"

"The book club did. Apparently they've been waiting for Marcus to mess up for years." He pours two glasses. "I'm just the... happy beneficiary."

"And now?"

"Now I'm not your revenge anymore." He clinks his glass to mine. "If you'll have me, I'd like to be your future."

The Brown Sugar Book Club meets at my house the next month.

DeShawn serves the wine.

"This is inappropriate," Jacquie says, grinning.

"This is chapter two," I counter.

The book we're reading? Something about second chances and younger men.

Art imitates life.

Life imitates art.

And sometimes, revenge is a story worth writing.