Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
DEVON
The gym is comfortingly familiar. I rack the barbell after my last set, my muscles burning in a good way, a way that makes me feel like I'm in control of something.
Because I'm not in control of anything else.
It's been three days since Jade came home. Three days of sleeping in the spare room, of awkward conversations over coffee, of watching her move through our house like I don’t exist.
I deserve it. I know I do.
"Locke! You good?" Ray, one of my regulars, waves at me from across the floor. I paste on a grin and give him a thumbs up, even though nothing about me is good.
This is what I do now. I go to work and train clients, then I come home and cook dinner—actual meals, not the frozen shit we used to resort to when we were both too tired.
Last night I made Jade’s favorite: lemon garlic chicken with roasted vegetables.
She ate it without comment, her eyes on her phone the whole time.
I mean—it’s fair.
"Great form today," I tell Ray as he finishes his deadlifts. "Same time Thursday?"
He nods, grabbing his towel. “You sure you're okay, man? You seem... off.”
“All good,” I lie. “I just didn't sleep well.”
At least that part is true. The spare room bed is fine, but every time I close my eyes, I see Jade's face on that video call. The betrayal and devastation. The way she looked at me before she walked upstairs that night. Like she wasn’t telling the truth when she said she believed me.
My phone pings in my pocket as Ray heads to the locker room. I pull it out, expecting a client cancellation or a text from Ross.
It's neither.
UNKNOWN: Are you okay? I've been worried. Let me know you're alright. Mila
Oh fuck. How did she get my number?! I don’t need Mila fucking checking on me, of all people.
I stare at the message. To a stranger, the words look innocent enough. But they're not innocent, are they? Nothing about Mila and me is innocent anymore.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Delete.
The message disappears like it never existed, thank fuck.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and grab a sanitizing wipe, cleaning equipment and trying to busy my fried brain. Nothing works, though.
Mila kissed me, and I kissed her back.
And I told my wife that nothing happened.
The worst part isn't even the lie itself.
It's how easy it was to lie to the woman I love.
How the words "nothing happened" rolled off my tongue while Jade gazed at me, trusting me.
She wanted to believe me. She still wants to believe me—I can see it in the way she softens for half a second before remembering she's supposed to be angry.
And I keep letting her down.
I finish my shift somehow, nod at the right moments, correct form when needed, pretend I'm the same Devon who left for New York with stars in his eyes about Grant-fucking-Carey.
That Devon was an idiot.
When I pull into our driveway, the lights are on downstairs. Jade's car is here. She usually has a shift at the bar on Wednesdays, but she mentioned yesterday—in her new, cold way of communicating—that she switched with someone.
I sit in the car for a minute, gathering myself.
Tell her. The thought pounds through my head. Tell her about the kiss. Get it over with.
But then what? She's barely looking at me now, and she thinks nothing happened. I didn’t technically cheat, either; it was one kiss, a stupid drunken kiss that I stopped before it went further. If I tell her, she'll leave. I know she will. And I can't—
I can't lose her.
The front door opens and Jade stands there, wearing one of my old t-shirts, the faded Metallica one she used to steal when we first started dating. I don't know if it means something or if she ran out of clean clothes.
“Are you coming in?" she calls. "Or are you going to sit in the driveway all night?"
Fucking hell.
I grab my gym bag and head inside.
"I picked up stuff for tacos," I say, holding up the grocery bag from the passenger seat. "Your favorite."
Jade steps aside to let me pass, eyeing the bag like it’s a loaded bomb. "You don't have to keep cooking for me, Devon."
"I want to."
She doesn't respond, following me into the kitchen. I unpack ingredients while she leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me.
"How was work?" she asks finally.
"Fine. Busy." I arrange avocados on the cutting board. "How was your day? Did you write anything?"
Shit. It’s the wrong thing to ask; I see it in the way she flinches.
"No."
"That's okay." I reach for a knife. "There's no pressure—"
"I know there's no pressure, Devon. You don't need to manage me."
I set the knife down, turning to face her. She looks tired. Beautiful and tired and so far away from me.
"I'm not trying to manage you. I'm trying to—" The words catch in my throat.
Tell her.
"Trying to what?"
Fix this. Fix us. Make you look at me the way you used to.
"I'm trying to make things right,” I finish weakly. "That's all."
Jade stares at me. For one second, I see the woman who used to curl into me on the couch, who laughed at my terrible jokes, who made me feel like I was enough exactly as I was.
Then she looks away.
"I'm going to take a shower before dinner."
She leaves before I can respond, and I stand alone in our kitchen, surrounded by ingredients for a meal that won't fix anything, wondering how much longer I can carry this secret before it destroys us both.
My phone pings again.
I don't even look this time. I delete the message without reading it.
But my hands are shaking as I pick up the knife, and the guilt sits heavy in my gut.
I did this to us.