“Excuse me?” I gasp, too stunned for more words.
“There isn’t a chance in hell you legitimately earned that job, my slut of a wife,” Garnar says, spitting each word with vicious vitriol. “With that 10 year gap in your resume, I’m surprised they even hired you at the country club. All you really know how to do is scrub floors.”
That is an insult to homemakers everywhere. We do a hell of a lot more than scrub floors, thank you very much. Although the large gap in my resume was something that would likely need more explanation, what an asshole of a husband I have for jumping to the worst conclusion possible.
But my argument is tricky. I couldn’t tell Garnar that I earned the job exactly, when Hugo rewarded it to me as a prize for beating his score in golf.
I didn’t sleep with Hugo, but my
