The Other Woman |Charlie Barber x Reader|

~Sunday at the Country Club~

"Come on, it'll be good for you!"

The car rumbles as it travels across one of the bridges connecting the city to the rest of New York. It was a miracle that the heavy flow of traffic hadn't started to pour in yet, considering how many people liked to get away on the weekends. Sitting behind the wheel, your best friend continues to try her best to convince you, despite already having gotten you into the passenger seat of her shiny white Mercedes-Benz.

Her curly brown hair--pulled back out of her face in preparation for the day ahead--bounces with life every time the car hits a slight bump in the road. You always envied her ability to appear so effortlessly flawless, though she always insisted that you carried that talent with you as well. Her hands clutch the leather-bound wheel as she guides her car around the corner. Despite her naturally sophisticated appearance, you can't help but smile at the sight of the chipped green polish adorning her nails.

"I'm fine," you insist with a roll of your eyes, letting your head fall back against the headrest of your seat. "You act like I've been self-isolating for the past few days."

Ophelia gives you a look when the car stops at a red light. "In my book, you have been. I told you not to let that asshole get to you and now look at you. You can't stop thinking about him."

You frown. "That's a stretch. I'm not always thinking about-"

"Which is exactly why going out can't hurt," she interrupts with a grin. "You're decent at tennis and you like food so the country club is perfect."

"That country club is filled with rich, stuck-up old men." You grumble, detesting the idea of walking around there in a short, white tennis skirt. "Why would I want to go there to be constantly judged and ridiculed?"

"If you wanted to be judged and ridiculed, you could come to my parent's house for Thanksgiving," Ophelia mutters with a hint of bitterness in her tone.

She came from a wealthy family of old money. They always talked about how hard they worked to achieve their status and insisted that Ophelia take the same path. Her father--as much of a cliche as it was--wanted her to become a lawyer. You could imagine the look on his face when Ophelia told him she was dropping out of law school for interior design. That had to have been one big blow to his massive ego.

You drop your gaze, picking at your nails which Ophelia had painted red before leaving. "Then let's just get breakfast at Eliza's downtown."

"No. You need to talk to people who aren't over the age of 90." She shoots back.

"Did you not hear me? The country club is full of old people." You huff at her. "Besides, I talk to plenty of younger people for work."

Ophelia smirks, not taking her eyes off the road. "For work. That doesn't count."

"According to who?"

"You know. Them."

You chuckle and look away from your nails, figuring you should stop picking at them before Ophelia could swat at you for it. As you let your shoulders relax, you realize that she did have a point. Ever since your first session with Charlie Barber, you couldn't stop thinking about him. The look on his face when he was forced to confront you, the words he had uttered, and the way your hand had felt in his. Oh, how dirty you felt thinking about a married man like that.

The road branches off and the car rolls past a familiar set of wrought-iron gates. Tall grass becomes short and neatly trimmed as the pavement guides you past the decently-sized but well kept golf course. White carts roll by, filled with men who were much too serious about the game for it to be considered healthy leisure. In the distance, the sun bounces off the ripples of water floating lazily in the fountains. A sea of green, well-manicured lawn stretches out as far as the eye can see. It sits in contrast with the unusually blue sky speckled with clouds.