Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
JADE
Katrina's guest room smells almost clinical—nothing like our house, which carries traces of Devon's cologne even when he's not there.
Maybe that's why I can't sleep. Nothing to do with the heartbreak my husband has caused.
I've been staring at the ceiling for hours, listening to the hum of traffic below and the occasional sound of Katrina moving around in the kitchen. She’d sat and listened to me when I arrived with mascara streaked down my face, choking on sobs.
She handed me a glass of wine and said, “The guest room's yours. Stay as long as you need."
That was six hours ago.
The wine sits untouched on the nightstand. I can't stomach the thought of drinking when my whole body feels like it's been emptied.
My husband kissed Mila.
The words loop through my mind, refusing to leave me alone. Devon—my Devon—pressed his lips to Mila Harris's mouth while I sat at home on our anniversary, staring at a blank page and missing him.
Did he touch her and compare her body to mine?
Nausea creeps up my throat.
Of course it was her he cheated on me with—the girl who spent years making me feel like I was poisoning her perfect world.
I remember her voice in the locker room: ‘Jade, you're so brave wearing that. I could never.’
I remember Devon's oblivious smile when she'd wave at us in the halls, her eyes sliding over me like I was a bug she wanted to squash.
And now she's had her mouth on my husband, and fuck knows what else.
Ugh!
I roll onto my side and curl into myself; my knees pulled to my chest like I can physically hold myself together. The bed feels strange. I want Devon's arm heavy across my waist, his breath against my neck.
I want to go home. I want to curl up with my version of Devon, the one who would never, ever do this to me.
But I can’t. He exists now only in my memory.
My phone glows on the nightstand with more missed calls from Devon. A string of texts I haven't opened because I'm not strong enough to read his excuses, his apologies, his fucking justifications about how a kiss isn't really betrayal.
It fucking is. Even thinking of Mila like that is a betrayal.
It is also a betrayal when you look your wife in the eye and swear nothing happened. When you make love to her, promising nothing happened.
God.
I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the flab sink beneath my palm. This body. This fucking body that's never been enough.
Mila is all thin with bronzed skin, yoga-toned limbs and effortless beauty. Of course Devon noticed and wanted that. He’s obsessed with fitness—he probably admired the fuck out of her. I bet he swept his hands all over her body in awe, wondering why the hell he married me.
He probably fucked her.
The thought is a knife through my soul.
You were never enough for him; you knew this. You've always known.
“Don’t,” I whisper into the darkness, but the voice doesn't listen. It never does.
At some point, I must drift off, because I wake to morning light filtering through the blinds and Katrina knocking softly on the door.
"Hey." She cracks it open, peering in. "I made coffee. And there's something you should know."
Oh God. What now?
I push myself upright, my head pounding. "What?"
Katrina's mouth twists. "Devon called me last night."
Wait, Devon called my best friend?
I stare at her. "What?"
"He wanted to talk to you. I told him to fuck off, obviously, but—" She sighs, leaning against the doorframe. "He was crying, Jade. Like, actually sobbing. He said he'd tell you everything and begged me to convince you to hear him out.”
I try to imagine Devon—stoic, proud, hates-showing-weakness Devon—breaking down on the phone with my best friend.
"What did you say?" My eyes are wide. Katrina is a force to be reckoned with. He must’ve been feeling brave—or incredibly stupid.
"I said if you didn't want to see him, he backs off. No questions." Katrina crosses her arms. "But I also said I'd talk to you. So, I'm talking."
I drop my gaze. “I don't know if I can face him yet."
"I know." She moves into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, her hand finding mine. "You don't have to decide anything right now. But he sounded... wrecked, Jade. Like, genuinely fucking destroyed."
"Good."
The word comes out harder than I intend, and Katrina's eyebrows lift.
"I mean it," I say, though my voice wavers. "He should feel destroyed. He lied to me and made me think I was crazy."
"I know."
"He kissed her, Katrina. While I was alone at home writing his fucking anniversary card."
"I know, honey."
The tears come again, hot and relentless, and Katrina pulls me into her arms. She still smells like Chanel No. 5, and I cling to her like she's the only solid thing left in my world.
"I hate him," I choke out. "I hate him so much."
"I know you do."
"But I love him too. How fucked up is that?"
Katrina doesn't answer because there's nothing she can say. She holds me while I cry, stroking my hair, not saying a word.
Later, after coffee and toast I struggle to keep down, I find myself at the small desk in the corner of the guest room. Katrina's laptop sits open, but I don't have the energy to check emails or scroll mindlessly through social media.
Instead, I pull out my phone and open the Notes app.
I haven't written anything in…God only knows how long. Every time I've tried, the words have dried up, blocked by anxiety and self-doubt and the creeping suspicion that my marriage was crumbling beneath me.
But now?
Now the words won't stop.
I type with trembling fingers, not caring about grammar or structure, or whether any of it makes sense:
He kissed her, and I felt my body become the enemy again. I’m soft and lumpy where she is solid and smooth.
I looked in the mirror this morning and saw every reason he might have wanted someone else. My chubby face. The thickness of my thighs. My flabby belly.
He lied to me.
I don't know who I am without him. That terrifies me more than losing him does.
Maybe that's the real problem.
I stop typing, tears streaming down my cheeks.
I want to delete what I’ve written, but I don't.
I can’t.
Katrina finds me an hour later, still staring at my phone.
"Devon asked if you'd talk to him tomorrow," she says gently. "Face to face. He said he'll tell you everything—no more lies, no more excuses."
I don't look up. "And you believe him?"
"I believe he's scared of losing you." She pauses. "Whether that's enough... that's your call."
I think about the boy who kissed me at his eighteenth birthday party. The man who held my hand at our wedding and promised to love me forever.
The stranger who looked me in the eye and lied while he thrust into me.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'll hear him out."
Katrina nods slowly. "I'll be there the whole time. If he tries anything—"
"I know." I finally meet her eyes. "Thank you."
She squeezes my shoulder and leaves me alone with my crazed thoughts.