Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
JADE
I stare at the blank screen of my phone, wondering if I feel brave enough to turn it on.
Probably not.
What can Devon say anyway? “Sorry hon, I spent the night with the girl who bullied you all the way through high school, but nothing happened even though I was hammered.”
Yeah, right.
The more I think about it, the less I find it believable. But this is Devon. The man who has worshipped me my whole life. The other part of me, my soulmate. Even though we are so different, him with his fitness and me with my writing, we still make a great team.
A pang echoes through my already empty chest.
Didn’t we?
“More coffee?”
Katrina’s voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts, and I nod, dutifully holding out my empty mug. I’ve lost count of how many coffees I’ve had today, and it’s barely midday.
Katrina sighs as she refills my mug, and I know she’s going to tell me her opinion again.
“Jade, I just don’t know how you’ll ever know if he’s telling you the truth.”
There it is.
What makes her opinion harder to swallow is that she’s single, happily so, and she doesn’t trust men as it is. She’s hardened to this shit, and I know I have to decide for myself how I feel.
But a nagging feeling in my gut tells me she’s right; how will I ever know? I’ll have to trust my husband, and that’s not something I feel I can do right now. How can I when he slept in her hotel room?
My gut twists, an ache spreading through me until it reaches the bottom of my throat, threatening to spill from my lips in a deafening scream. The ache that tells you that you’re not good enough or, worse still, thin enough.
I hate how my insecurity has flared since this happened. It’s never gone away, not really, but at least I thought I was possibly good enough for my husband. Even though everyone wanted him, he chose me.
I didn’t understand it at first. But he spent years telling me how perfect I was; lumps and bumps and all. He never once complained when I got out of breath on hikes, or when I resisted any form of exercise, hating how hot and sweaty I would get…
THEN
“The incredible sex is enough exercise,” Devon says, grinning at me with that cheeky glint in his eye. “This is easy.”
“Really?” I pant, my hands on my knees, the rucksack on my back feeling heavier than it did when we started this hike. “This isn’t a hike; it’s a slow death in the sun.”
“You burn more calories complaining than climbing, babe.”
I would roll my eyes, but they’re sweaty and stinging.
Instead, I rise to my feet and survey my surroundings.
We started off at Laurel Canyon Boulevard, a ‘short hike’ according to my husband, who hasn’t even broken a sweat.
It’s so still and tranquil out here, making me feel so far from the city.
The sun is already high, the air throbbing with heat.
We’re surrounded by dry grass and twisted trees, with the sprawl of Los Angeles below us.
Rooftops shimmer in the heat, a peek of the ocean on the horizon.
Cicadas buzz all around us; the faint sound of traffic reminding us that although we feel far from the city, it’s not that far.
Not really.
But it is an escapism, like Devon said.
“Come on, we’re nearly at the top,” Devon encourages, stretching out his hand for me to take. Suddenly he stops and gazes at me, pulling me close.
I gasp, my brows crashing together as I stumble on the loose stones of the path.
“What are you doing?!”
“I just forgot how beautiful you are,” he remarks, brushing his lips against mine.
“Ew, gross, Devon. I’m all sweaty and—” I begin to protest, but he shakes his head, his hair flopping into his eyes.
“You know, Sweaty Jade is one of my favorites.” Devon cups my face in both hands, his thumbs swiping beneath my eyes. “Never doubt how perfect you are.”
NOW
“I feel sick,” I mumble, pushing the coffee away. Remembering that hike has put me off anything.
Because when we made it to the top, we celebrated. By getting even more hot and sweaty.
“Look, it’s your call,” Katrina says, flopping onto the couch opposite mine. “But you know what I would do.”
I avoid her eyes and glance around us, trying to ignore the emotion swelling in my throat.
It’s so different to our home. Her condo is like something out of a magazine spread, all glass and soft lighting.
The glass coffee table between us has a simple jasmine candle and a stack of PR trade magazines, not a single smudge in sight.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows show West Hollywood in all its glamour: palm trees swaying in slow motion, sending burned shadows across the white sidewalks below, busy streets filled with Teslas and delivery bikes, people striding around with their phones glued to their ears, large sunglasses on their faces.
It makes me miss our neighborhood.
It makes me miss him.
“I think I’ll call him.” I reach for my phone and push the power button. My heart races when it lights up, slowly coming to life.
It beeps repeatedly—so many text messages from Devon.
I know what he’s like usually—I can imagine his pinched expression and maybe his anxiety—but we’ve never been here before. Not in this situation, surrounded by uncertainty on a massive level. I chew on my lip as Katrina rises, leaving the room to no doubt give me privacy.
I’m grateful because I don’t know what I’m going to say to my husband.
He answers on the first ring.
“Baby!”
I close my eyes at his familiar voice, feeling the sting of fresh tears.
“Hey.” My voice is flat. Barely there. I focus again on the swaying palm trees.
Swish. Swish.
“Are you okay?” Devon blurts. “Can you come home? Please. I miss you.”
He’s home. I squint as the sun beams suddenly through the window, and I wonder if it’s a sign. Everything is going to be alright, perhaps?
“I need to know what happened, Devon.”
Time seems to freeze as he sucks in a breath before saying, “Yeah, I know. I get that. You wanna do this over the phone? Now?”
Do I?
I probably need to see him face to face to see if he’s telling the truth. Because if he lies to me, I won’t forgive him. He wouldn’t lie to me though, would he?
God, I don’t know.
It’s strange: you spend years with someone, thinking you know them, then something like this happens, and you’re completely screwed. You wonder who they are, if they’re lying, can you trust them…when all along that was a given. Taken for granted.
I’d do anything to trust him right now.
I don’t have a choice. I have to see him.
“I’ll come home.”
We used to spend hours on the phone before we lived together, I remember as I drive home.
When did we stop that? Probably when it became routine to sit beside one another, scrolling through our phones, drained from life.
I glance out the window, barely noticing the sun-drenched canyons I usually enjoy looking at.
The drive should only take thirty minutes, but Laurel Canyon is busier than usual for this time of day.
I frown—I don’t even know what time it is.
My eyes fall on my dash, and I see it’s nearly two in the afternoon.
How did the time pass so quickly?
I drive mostly on autopilot, muscle memory guiding me home. My knuckles are white as I pull onto our road, my heart hammering in my mouth. This is it—the moment I find out the truth—or that my husband is lying to me.
Please don’t lie to me. Even if I hate the truth.
I suck in a sharp breath when I pull onto our driveway, and Devon is waiting for me at the door.
My heart aches, physically aches, causing pain deep within my chest. Seeing Devon is like coming home; not the house we share, or the life we made together—he is my home.
He is my world.
My lower lip wobbles as I unplug the seatbelt, but I summon my inner bitch and force myself to avoid his gaze. My hands tremble as I open the door, and he strides over to me, pulling me into his arms.
And it feels so good.
Just for a second, I allow myself to inhale his scent; the one that only he can wear. It’s our laundry powder and his cologne, mixed with the faint smell of coffee. His large arms encircle me, and I let him comfort me, his face buried in my neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, his breath hot on my skin.
My eyes ping open, and I push him back, not too hard, but enough so I can see him. He looks pale, with dark circles already appearing under his eyes. He keeps swallowing too, but he’s holding my gaze like he’s got nothing to hide.
“Let’s go inside.” I push past him, not even bothering to shut the car door. Devon pushes it and I hear it slam shut.
I drop my keys onto the side and whirl around, my hands on my hips. I have to be strong because Devon has massively fucked up.
This isn’t on me; it’s on him.
“Jade, I’m so sorry.” Devon opens his arms, holding his hands palm up like he’s already surrendering.
All I want him to surrender is the truth.
“Yeah, you said. What for, exactly?” I pin him with my gaze, my lips pressed together so I don’t start screaming at him for spending the fucking night with Mila Harris.
Devon stares down at the floor, like he’s going to find the answer there. “For sleeping in another woman’s hotel room.”
My eyes narrow. “On our anniversary, you woke up with Mila Harris.”
Devon winces like I’ve slapped him. “Yeah. For that.”
I want to punch him; I'm so mad. “What in the fucking world were you thinking, Devon?”
He shrugs, fucking shrugs, like he doesn’t know the answer. Like he doesn’t have autonomy over his decisions, for Christ’s sake.
“I drank too much, I guess.”
“You guess?” I scoff. “You guess?”
Devon meets my gaze, his eyes wide.
I know why—this isn’t like me. This isn’t like his calm, predictable little wife.
“Jade, let me explain—”
“Did you fuck her?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine anymore. It’s vicious, laced with rage and heartbreak.
Devon blinks, shaking his head immediately. “No—”
“Did she give you a blow job? Huh?”
The images going through my head of my husband being pleasured by that bitch are too much to handle, and tears start streaming down my face. Her big green eyes looking up at him as she takes him fully in her mouth—
“Jade, look at me.” Devon moves forward, and even though I move back, he’s too quick for me. He cups my face in his hands, swiping at my tears. “I would never do that. Never.”
I look up at him through my tears, and I can tell he’s telling me the truth. His eyes glisten as he searches mine, desperate for me to believe him.
“I love you so fucking much, Jade.”
It’s hard to talk through the lump of emotion swelling in my throat, but somehow, I manage it. “I know that. That’s not what I’m questioning.” I reach up and take his hands in mine, kissing his fingers before I can stop myself. It’s muscle memory again—being like this with him.
“Then what?” Devon rests his head against my forehead, his eyes boring into mine.
God, he’s so beautiful.
Focus. Inner bitch.
“You’re telling me you did nothing in that hotel room?”
This is it. I’ve asked the hard questions, but somehow this is the hardest. The vision of her in her robe…
I stare at him, forcing myself to pay attention to everything. This is my husband; I’ll know if he’s lying.
He shakes his head, his gaze locked on mine.
“Nothing happened.”
I’m holding my breath, searching for tells that he’s lying to me. But there’s nothing. No touching his mouth or giving too many details. He’s maintaining eye contact with me too, which he normally can’t do if he’s lying.
My heart soars for a second, but then I remember he still spent the night in her room.
But at least I know nothing happened.
He’s not lying. Relief floods through me, a welcome coolness spreading over my body.
Devon strokes my arms and whispers my name.
“It was our anniversary, Devon.”
“I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
Despite myself, I nod stiffly, still not sure how to feel. So what if he did nothing? He still spent the fucking night in her room—that’s not something I can just forget.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted, and by the look of him, so is Devon.
He reads my mind, like he always does. “Shall we go to bed?”
“We?” I throw over my shoulder as I march toward the stairs. “I’m still so angry with you right now. You can stay down here or in the spare room.”
Devon nods, his shoulders deflating. “Right. But Jade, you believe me, don’t you?”
I stop on the second step, turning once more to look at my husband. His gaze flickers away for a brief second, and he curses.
“Jade?”
I shrug. “I guess I do. Thank you for not cheating on me with the girl who wanted you all the way through high school. Thanks for just spending the night with her and waking up with her on our anniversary. I’m so grateful.”
Then I quietly head upstairs, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Why, if he’s not done anything with her, do I still feel like he has? It’s betrayal, rotten, stinking betrayal, at its core.
I never thought he’d hurt me like this. Too drunk to go home to his own bed.
What else is he capable of?