Chapter 6
Chapter Six
JADE: THEN: FRIDAY NIGHT
It doesn’t matter how many times I will the words to flow magically from my fingers; they don’t.
People think it’s easy—writing, but that’s because they’ve never tried to write a book.
I know what’s trending on , what tropes are selling, the length my book should be, and how much a good cover matters.
I know a great editor and have a team of loyal readers who are happy to read my first, second, and even third drafts.
But no one else can write for me.
I’m not even the kind of author who plans either; I am hopelessly at the mercy of my brain and whatever it feels like doing that day.
I sigh heavily and shut the laptop, feeling beyond shit at how empty the pages are.
I shoot a text to my bestie, Katrina, who is a lifesaver with me being miserable over my writing. Or lack thereof. She replies instantly.
KATRINA: You need inspiration. Like Grey’s Anatomy. And Indian food. I’ll be there in an hour!
I smile to myself and stretch, wondering how Devon is getting on. He would have landed by now, at least, so I’ll probably hear from him soon. I tidy up a little and stick a bottle of white wine in the fridge—Katrina’s favorite—and then shower.
Less than an hour later, Katrina turns up with Indian food and a grin. We stick Grey’s Anatomy on and open the wine.
“So, where’s Devon tonight?” Katrina asks, eating a forkful of food.
She won’t gain any weight; she never does.
The girl eats like a hungry Viking, but you’d never know it.
She’s all slender with blonde hair and blue eyes, but she’s far from a bimbo.
She’s a senior publicist at a boutique publicity firm, and she’s incredible at what she does.
It’s how we met. I had hired the firm to help me promote my first book, and Katrina was the person I was allocated.
What started as scheduled check-ins turned into hour-long phone calls about everything but the book.
Somewhere between the press release and the launch, she became one of my closest friends.
“He’s in New York,” I answer with a sigh. “It’s a fitness conference he’s been dying to go to.”
Katrina frowns as she chews on her food, then asks, “Isn’t it your anniversary tomorrow?”
I laugh. “Yep, but I understand. He got a free flight, a free place to stay, and a free ticket to the conference.”
Katrina continues to frown. “Well, that sounds great, but…it’s your anniversary.”
I shrug. “It’s important to him.”
“You’re a great wife, you know that?” Katrina continues eating. “I’d be a nightmare.”
I smile and dig into my curry, wondering when Katrina will meet someone and settle down. She always claims she’s too busy with work—and I guess that’s true to an extent, but she’s just beautiful inside and out. She deserves love and happiness. Doesn’t everyone?
“You’d be a great wife.”
Katrina snorts. “I’d be a psycho, and you know it. Remember Teddy?”
I grin and then collapse into helpless laughter. “That guy was…”
“Something else, right?”
“Only you could scare a biker, Katrina.”
She throws her head back, laughing. “He was with another girl at the bar, Jade! Seriously! He told me his mom was sick.”
“Lying prick.”
“So, he deserved it,” Katrina adds with a nod.
Katrina had keyed a message into his bike: ‘Hope she was worth the ride.’ Then watched from the bar opposite when he saw it, losing his shit. Remind me never to piss her off.
“Did he ever reach out to you again?” I question, polishing off my food. I was hungrier than I realized.
Katrina laughs. “Fuck, no. I blocked his number.”
I shake my head and glance at my phone. I thought Devon might have contacted me by now. I try to ignore the anxiety uncurling in my stomach and focus on Katrina.
“So, how’s the book going? Or is it just dead?”
“It hasn’t even breathed yet,” I tell her with a groan, pushing my plate away.
The smell of Indian food fills the air. “I tried, I swear I did. But nothing happened. It’s like there’s no creativity left in my body.”
Katrina tilts her head, scraping the last of the food onto her spoon.
“Romance is so popular because we don’t fucking get any.” She waves her spoon at the TV. “That’s why we need inspiration from fiction to create fiction. It makes zero sense. I hate men.”
“They’re not all bad.” I refill our wine.
“Oh yeah? What’s the most romantic thing Devon has done for you?” Katrina demands to know, and I frown, thinking.
“Well, he proposed to me using my favorite book as a box.”
Katrina pauses. “Right, okay, but other than that?”
I knit my brows together, thinking. Romance tends to take a backseat when you’ve been together a while, I guess.
“He gets me flowers sometimes.”
“Like, on your anniversary? Or your birthday?”
I shake my head. “No, not just on occasions. Sometimes he will just buy them on a Saturday morning because they reminded him of me.”
“Well, fuck. Maybe you got the last good one.” Katrina stacks our plates and carries them into the kitchen. “When is he back?”
“In four days,” I say with a sigh, lifting my glass to my lips. The crisp, cold liquid is a sharp contrast to the spicy food, but I love it.
“Let me guess, you’ve taken on extra shifts at the bar?” Katrina sinks onto the sofa beside me and picks up her wine glass from the coffee table.
“I—”
Katrina puts her hand up. “No lies, please.”
I sip more wine and pointedly avoid her gaze.
“Jade?”
“Alright, yes, I took extra shifts. But nothing is coming to me no matter how much I stare at that screen! I can’t write. Maybe I should quit.”
Katrina rolls her eyes and turns up the TV volume.
“You’re so hard to be friends with.”
“What?!” I laugh as she side-eyes me.
“You’re the best writer I know, and you want to quit?”
I scoff. “I’m not the best writer you know!”
“I said it, didn’t I? Can it. Dr. Shepherd is on.”
That shuts us both up.
Devon finally calls me, and I’m grinning like an idiot when I hear his voice.
He’s slurring, so I know he’s been on the sauce, which he can’t handle as well as he used to.
He tells me about the guy he was so excited to meet behaving strangely, and I feel sad for him.
That’s who he wanted to meet, to become the success he’s always dreamed of being.
But then something else happens while we’re on the call. Someone speaking to Devon, and the phone moving away from him.
“Uh, Jade, I gotta go…”
“Who is that?” I ask.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Then the call ends.
I stare at the phone, unable to believe he’s hung up on me, replaying his last words through my mind.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
No ‘I love you’ or ‘goodnight.’
Just…that.
I’m still pissed that he hung up on me, but I finish my wine and go to bed.
Fuck it. Tomorrow is another day, right?
Our anniversary.
My eyes find the silver frame that holds our wedding photo inside, and I can’t help but smile. Devon wouldn’t have meant to hang up on me—he’s not a dick.
I eventually fall asleep, remembering that beautiful day.
I wake up in the middle of the night, desperately needing the bathroom. But before I slide out of bed, I check my phone to find a message from Devon.
DEVON: Sorry, babe, Grant Carey came over. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Love you.
Ah, there we go.
So, his idol came back over to talk to him, and he went into fan mode. Devon doesn’t believe he can do something by himself—that he’s good enough to just grab the bull by the horns and go for it, but hopefully Grant Carey gave him some good advice.
He’s got some money saved from his grandad’s death, but I know he doesn’t want to use that unless he has to. It’s not much either, but it could put a deposit down on a business rental at least.
Still, I don’t like that he hung up on me.
The next morning I’m up bright and early, staring at my laptop with a hot cup of coffee beside it.
Today is the day—I need to write something.
I start describing a woman walking to the coffee shop on a blustery day, only to be interrupted by my phone ringing.
It’s almost eight in the morning, so it must be eleven in New York.
I bet it’s Devon calling to wish me a Happy Anniversary.
Except I don’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” I answer, my brow furrowed. I hate answering calls from unknown numbers—it triggers my anxiety. Usually, it’s just spam or someone trying to sell me something, but still…
“Hey, is this Jade?” a male voice asks, worry lacing his tone. Maybe it’s his first cold call.
“Yes?”
I prepare myself for a sales spiel, but I’m surprised when he says, “It’s Ross here, Devon’s colleague.” He sounds uncomfortable, and my stomach drops.
What’s happened?
“Is everything okay?” I ask, my heart pounding.
Has he been in an accident? Is he sick?
“Yeah, uh, well, it’s just that I’m not sure where Devon is, so I wondered if he’d called you at all?”
I pull my phone away to double check I’ve not gotten any missed calls or text messages.
Nothing.
“No, he hasn’t,” I reply hastily. “When did you last see him?”
“Last night at the mixer.”
Oh my God.
Panic rises within me as I grip the phone tighter.
“Last night? You mean he didn’t stay at the apartment?”
What the hell?
Devon texted me last night after he hung up—God! What’s happened?!
“Uh, no.” Ross sounds awkward now, and I shake my head. “I’ve tried calling him…”
“I’ll call him now, thanks, Ross.” I don’t even wait for his response; my fingers trembling as I swipe the screen to reach my husband’s name in the contacts.
I hit call and wait, listening to the ringtone dragging on.
Please answer Devon.
He’s missing in New York.
New York!
What if he was mugged, or worse, stabbed? Left for dead in the street?
Nausea rushes up my throat, but I take a deep breath, waiting until my husband answers the phone.
Except he doesn’t.
So, I call again.
Then I video call him, wondering if there’s something wrong with the audio call, because sometimes that happens, right?!
“Hello?”
Oh my fucking God.
I nearly scream when the image of my husband fills the screen, looking relatively uninjured and quite alive.
“Devon!” I say with a gasp, my shoulders slumping with relief. “Where are you?”
I scan his surroundings, trying to work out where he is. He’s in a bathroom, by the looks of it, but wait…what is that hanging on the wall behind him? Is that a fucking bra? My eyes fall on a bottle of perfume next.
Wait a fucking minute. He’s in a woman’s room.
“Is that perfume? And a bra?!”
Devon moves around to see what I’m seeing, and his phone shows a woman standing behind him in a silky robe, smirking at me, a woman I fucking recognize.
“Is that fucking Mila?!” My ears ring in protest, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t breathe around the fucking lump in my throat.
Devon reappears on the screen, but I can barely see him through my rage.
He’s with Mila Harris. It’s been at least eight years, but I’d recognize that bitch anywhere.
“Uh…yeah, it’s Mila. We bumped into each other last night,” Devon explains, his eyes wide.
No fucking shit, Devon.
“I can see that,” I snap. “What I want to know is why you’re in her fucking bathroom, Devon!”
This cannot be happening right now.
“Devon came over to walk with me to the conference!” Mila calls from behind my husband, and my blood boils.
She’s defending him to me. His wife? Hell no.
“Devon, what the fuck?” I demand, trying to remain calm, “She’s in her robe, and you look like you’ve just woken up. Oh my God.”
I hang up when the realization hits me.
My husband spent the night with Mila Harris.