Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
JADE
When I wake, I forget where I am, and I reach across the sheets expecting to find an empty bed.
But Devon is there. His arm is draped over my waist, heavy with sleep, and I let myself sink into the weight of it. Into him.
Because I’ve missed this—missed him in bed with me.
Last night comes back to me. The way he kissed me, like he was trying to prove something, and I let him. How after, we clung to each other in the dark, neither of us willing to let go.
I don't know what it means yet. I don't know if sex can repair what's broken between us, but for the first time in over a week, I slept through the night. For that, I’m grateful.
Devon stirs beside me, his breath warm against my hair. "Morning."
"Morning."
He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my temple, and I let myself stay there. In his arms. In this fragile bubble, where nothing has been shattered yet. I wish we could stay here forever.
"I'll make breakfast," he mumbles against my skin. "Pancakes?"
My favorite.
A small smile tugs at my mouth. "You burned them last time."
"I was distracted." His fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip. "You were wearing that little tank top."
“Pah, more excuses."
He laughs, and the sound relaxes me.
This is my husband.
The man who burned pancakes because he couldn't stop staring at me. The man who kissed me in front of fifty people at his eighteenth birthday party because he couldn't wait another second.
We can survive this. We have to.
Devon slides out of bed, and I watch him pull on sweatpants, admiring the way his muscles move beneath his skin. He catches me looking and grins.
"See something you like?"
I throw a pillow at him.
He dodges it, still grinning, and disappears downstairs. I hear pans clattering, and the fridge opening, Devon humming something as he busies himself in the kitchen.
This feels normal.
I stretch and grab my phone from the nightstand. Three texts from Katrina, all variations of are you alive? And call me when you can talk.
I'll call her later. Right now, I want to hold on to this feeling—this delicate hope—for as long as I can.
The shower calls to me, but first I need to pee. I pad into the bathroom, noticing Devon's toothbrush on the counter instead of the holder, and his towel on the floor. Usually, these things irritate me. Today, they make me smile.
We're still us, aren’t we?
I flush the toilet and wash my hands, then reach for my moisturizer on the shelf above the sink. Devon's things are jumbled next to mine—his cologne, his razor, his—
His phone.
My heart stutters to a stop, and I sink my teeth into my lower lip as I agonize over what to do.
It's sitting on the edge of the counter, plugged into the charger he keeps in here for when he showers. The screen is dark, but as I reach past it, my elbow knocks the cord, and it lights up.
I don't mean to look; I swear—I’ve never needed to before.
But the preview of the message is right there, glowing against the black screen.
UNKNOWN: I keep thinking about that night. I know you said it was a mistake, but it didn't feel like one. Not to me. Mila
I reach out a hand to steady myself, my fingers touching the cool tile.
My ears ring, and the room sways, but I force myself to read it again.
UNKNOWN: I keep thinking about that night. I know you said it was a mistake, but it didn't feel like one. Mila
What mistake?
The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I grab the counter to steady myself, my knuckles white against the marble.
Devon told me nothing happened. He looked me in the eyes—held my gaze while he made love to me—and told me nothing happened.
I’m sorry, but what the fuck? He promised me while he was fucking inside me that he did nothing with her.
I pick up his phone with trembling hands. The screen has gone dark again, locked, and I don't know his passcode. I never needed to know it because I trusted him.
Trusted.
Past tense.
My world slides, making my vision blur. This cannot be happening—how many more of his lies can I take?
"Jade! Pancakes are almost ready!"
His voice floats up the stairs, cheerful and oblivious, and bile rises in my throat. He's down there making breakfast like everything is fine. Like he didn't lie to my face. Like I didn't spend the last week tearing myself apart over whether to believe him.
Like a fool, I believed him.
Last night, beneath him, I believed him.
And the whole time there was this—a message from her, sitting on his phone like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
It didn't feel like a mistake.
What did they do?
What did he do?
The bathroom is too small. The walls are closing in, and I can't breathe, I can't think, I can't—
"Jade?"
Devon's voice is closer now, at the bottom of the stairs.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me has hollow eyes and the same goddamn expression I had on our anniversary when I saw him in Mila's bathroom.
Stupid. I am so fucking stupid.
"Jade, are you okay up there?"
No. I am not okay, you cheating, lying fuck!
I set his phone down exactly where I found it. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop it twice. Then I turn on the shower, letting the water run hot until steam fills the room.
I need to think and figure out what to do with this information before I confront him, because if I go down there now, I will destroy everything. I will scream and throw things and demand answers he'll twist.
He's been lying since New York.
The water scalds my skin when I step under it, but I barely feel it. I’m numb everywhere except my chest, where it feels like a gorge is splitting me open.
It didn't feel like a mistake. Not to me.
I press my palm against the tile and let the tears come.
Of course it fucking wasn’t—that bitch has wanted my man to herself for years.
This morning, I woke up thinking we might be okay.
And now this.
Devon is still downstairs, probably burning pancakes again, probably congratulating himself on fixing things with his wife, for duping her into believing him so easily.
He doesn't know I've seen the message—because he hasn’t even seen it himself.
He doesn't know that everything he's fought to keep hidden is about to come crashing down. He clearly wasn’t expecting her to text him, or he would never have left his phone lying around, would he?
Or did he assume I’d just continue being the stupid little wife that believes everything he says? That I wouldn’t bother snooping?
I turn off the water and stand dripping onto the floor.
I have two choices. Confront him now and watch him lie again. Or wait until I have more—until I can corner him with the truth he can't escape.
The anger is a living thing inside me now, slithering around my bones, feeding on every memory of him saying nothing happened.
I grab a towel and wrap it around myself.
Then I walk downstairs to eat pancakes with the man who is still lying to me.