Chapter 35 She Knew How This Story Ended
SHE KNEW HOW THIS STORY ENDED
DAVINA
The couch cushions had absorbed approximately three thousand of my tears, and I was pretty sure I'd used up every tissue in a five-mile radius.
Brooke sat beside me, her hand rubbing slow circles on my back while Ricky had wedged himself into the nonexistent space between us, his small body pressed against my thigh like he was trying to anchor me to the earth through sheer force of dachshund will.
His brown eyes hadn't left my face in twenty minutes.
“Okay,” Brooke said slowly. “Let me make sure I understand this correctly. You and Dallas got black out drunk in Vegas, got married, and worked out this elaborate scheme to stay married for six months to a year, but then you fell in love.” I nodded, shrugging.
“And today, Sam showed up, told you Dallas asked her to start planning your divorce, mentioned he'd requested attorney recommendations, and then informed you that movers would be coming to pack up your stuff?”
“That's the condensed version, yes.”
“And she said…” Brooke's jaw tightened. “She said you were never his type.”
“Among other things.” I stared at the ceiling, my eyes burning and dry after crying myself empty. “Apparently, I've been living in a delusion for the past four months. Building a fantasy life with a man who was just waiting for the appropriate moment to file paperwork.”
“That's bullshit.”
I turned my head to look at her. “Brooke…”
“No, I'm serious. That is absolute, grade-A, premium bullshit.” She shifted on the couch to face me fully, her expression fierce in a way I'd only seen when someone insulted her cooking or suggested that reality TV wasn't a valid art form.
“Davina, I have watched that man look at you.
I have seen the way his entire face changes when you walk into a room.
That wasn't fake. That wasn't performance. That was a man who is stupidly, ridiculously, embarrassingly in love with his wife.”
“Then why would he…”
“I don't know. But you need to talk to him.”
The words landed like stones in my stomach.
Talk to him. Have a conversation where he confirmed everything Sam had said, where he looked at me with pity and explained that I'd misunderstood, where he used gentle words to tell me that our marriage had always had an expiration date I'd somehow missed.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit across from him and watch the truth settle into his features.
“I can't.” I stood abruptly, dislodging Ricky, who let out an indignant yelp. “I can't be here when he gets back. Brooke, please, just help me get my things and get out of here before he comes home.”
“Davina…”
“I feel like an idiot.” The words came out cracked, broken.
“I feel like the biggest idiot on the planet. I stood in front of twenty thousand people and let him defend our marriage, and the whole time, he was planning to end it. I told my family. I introduced him to my parents. I fell in love with him, and he was just…” My voice broke. “He was just managing the timeline.”
Brooke stood too, catching my arm before I could escape toward the bedroom. “Stop.”
“Brooke…”
“I said stop.” Her grip tightened, not painful but firm. “I understand that you're hurt. I understand that what Sam said was cruel and meant to hit every insecurity you've ever had. But you cannot let that hurt make your decisions right now.”
“She said he called her yesterday…”
“I don't care what she said. I care what Dallas has said. I care what I've seen with my own eyes.” Brooke's voice softened. “Give him a chance to explain. Maybe there's some misunderstanding. Maybe Sam got her wires crossed. Maybe…”
“Maybe the joke's on me,” I said flatly, pulling my arm free. “Maybe I'm the punchline to a story everyone else already knew the ending to.”
I walked toward the bedroom, my legs moving on autopilot. The hallway felt longer than usual, the photos on the walls mocking me with every step.
The bedroom was exactly as we'd left it this morning. Sheets still rumpled and his pillow still dented from his head. The closet door still open, my clothes hanging next to his.
I grabbed the first bag I could find and started shoving clothes inside.
“What are you doing?” Brooke appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed.
“What does it look like?” I yanked a dress off its hanger. “I'm leaving.”
“You're running.”
“Same thing.”
“It's not the same thing.” She stepped into the room, navigating around the pile of shoes I'd knocked over in my frantic grabbing.
“Running implies you're scared. Leaving implies you've made a decision.
You haven't made a decision. You've had a panic attack, and now you're throwing clothes in a bag.”
I looked down. “I can't stay here.” My voice was tired now. “I can't look at him and hear him say the words. I can't…”
“Get a grip.” Brooke's voice had hardened, and her expression had shifted from concerned best friend to drill sergeant.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She stepped closer, her finger jabbing toward my chest. “Get.
A. Grip. You are Davina Dodger. You built a fashion empire from nothing.
You host a podcast that reaches millions of women.
You have stood on stages, in boardrooms, and on national television and told the world that you are worthy of taking up space.
Now you're going to let one woman send you running with your tail between your legs?”
“She's his publicist…”
“I don't care if she's the Pope. You don't take her word over what Dallas has been telling you for months.” Brooke grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes.
“Think, Davina. Think about everything he's said to you.
Everything he's done. The way he looks at you when he thinks you're not watching. The way he defended you at that arena, in front of everyone, like he would have burned the whole building down if anyone else said a word against you.”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to remember any of that.
“Talk to him,” she said. “Before you do anything else. Before you pack a single bag or call a single mover. You owe yourself that much. You owe him that much.”
The sound of the front door opening made us both freeze.
“Babe?” Dallas's voice echoed through the house, followed by the familiar thud of his gym bag hitting the floor.
“I got smoothies. The guy put extra strawberries in yours.
I'm pretty sure…” His voice cut off abruptly as he appeared in the bedroom doorway, and the scene that greeted him was not exactly the picture of domestic bliss.
Clothes were thrown across every surface, the bed, the floor, and the arm of the chair in the corner.
A pair of my heels had ended up on top of his nightstand.
The closet looked like it had been ransacked, and in the middle of it stood me, face swollen and red, eyes puffy from crying, hair a disaster.
Brooke stood off to the side, her expression screaming something terrible had happened, and I'm not sure if I should stay or run.
Dallas's hair was still damp from the gym shower, his tank top stretched across his chest, his expression cycling through confusion, concern, and ending with fear.
“What…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What's going on?”