Chapter 24
COOPER
The afternoon is complete chaos with Mason opening all his presents. It’s adorable, and it makes me hope that I’ll have kids one day. But then I look at Brad, and an uneasy feeling washes over me. Do I really want to have kids with Brad?
I glance at my dad, and a wave of sadness hits as I think about how different my life might have been if he hadn’t cheated on my mom. If he’d been home more, a loving and devoted husband and father. I love him, but it sucked going through that. I’d never want my kids to feel the way I did. A lump forms in my throat, and I excuse myself.
I wander into my bedroom and plop onto the bed. Brad’s phone sits on the nightstand, charging. I pick it up, curious. Six text notifications light up the screen. I swipe up but hit the locked screen and need a password. I type in a few guesses, convinced that if I could just get in, I’d find evidence of him cheating again. But nothing works. And the fact that I don’t know his password really irritates me.
I set his phone back down and stare at the ceiling. A few minutes later, Brad comes in.
“Hey, baby. What are you doing up here?” He lies down next to me.
“Oh, I just wasn’t feeling great,” I lie.
He turns on his side and slips a hand under my sweatshirt, his thumb brushing over my skin. “I feel like you’re avoiding me. What’s going on?” But all I can think about is Ryan’s text about his hand under my sweatshirt.
I turn to him, frowning. “What’s your password to your phone?”
Brad scrunches his forehead. “What?”
“What’s your password?”
“Baby, we have passwords for a reason. I’m not giving you my password.”
“Why not? I’m your fiancée.”
“Don’t we all deserve a little bit of privacy?” he says, his voice softening as if he’s trying to diffuse the situation.
“Yeah, I get that you want privacy. But I want to know your password, Brad.”
“I’m not giving you my password.”
“Why not? Do you have something to hide?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “No, I don’t have something to hide. God, where is this coming from?”
“Okay… well, then open your phone and let’s go through it together. You can show me. Who’s texting you on Christmas Day?”
Brad stands, frustration clear in his voice. “Why are you being crazy, Cooper? Where is this coming from?”
“I’m not crazy, Brad.”
“Fuck. Did you talk to Ryan?”
“What?… No.” We stare at each other, the tension simmering.
“Then why are you asking to see my phone all of a sudden?”
“Why are you asking if I talked to Ryan?” I’m genuinely confused. Why would he even bring Ryan up? Does he know about my texts with him?
“You didn’t talk to Ryan?”
“No…” I say slowly, unsure of what he’s getting at.
“Fine.” He grabs his phone and lies back down next to me. He enters his password deliberately, making sure I see it, and then opens his phone, holding it out.
I reach for it, but he pulls back just before I can grab it. “Now get yours. We’ll trade. You can go through mine, and I’ll go through yours.”
Shit. I did not see this coming. Panic consumes me.
“My phone’s downstairs.”
“No problem. I’ll get it. Where is it?”
I sit up quickly. “No, I can go get it.”
“No. I’ll get it. Where is it, Cooper?”
“Um… I’m not sure. Somewhere in the kitchen, probably.” My heart pounds wildly in my chest.
Brad turns on his heel and heads downstairs. I take a shaky breath and reach under the pillow for my phone. Swiping up, I quickly open my text messages. I delete the entire text thread with Ryan—I don’t have time to be selective. It’s all or nothing.
I go to the top of the stairs. “Brad?” I call out. “My phone’s up here.”
Brad appears at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me, and then climbs back up, meeting me at the top.
I hand him my phone. “Sorry, I forgot I left it in the bathroom.”
He gives a curt nod. “Right.”
We sit side by side on the bed, the silence heavy between us. Guilt gnaws at me; I feel like a hypocrite. I wanted to see Brad’s phone because I was so sure he had something to hide—that he was cheating on me. But it turns out, I’m the one with secrets, with text messages to hide, feelings for someone else. He handed over his phone, and I had to lie.
I scroll through his texts, emails, social media accounts. I hate this. It feels gross. What kind of relationship is this if I feel like I have to do this? I’m not even sure what to look for. I know there are secret apps people can download that look like normal apps to hide affairs, but I wouldn’t even know how to check for something like that.
The first time I found out Brad was cheating, he’d left his computer screen open, and I happened to see his messages. The next time, a friend told me she’d seen him out with another woman. I hated her for telling me and chose not to believe her because I didn’t want to. After that, paranoia took over, and I started looking for anything to prove her wrong. I couldn’t find anything—until the woman’s husband found me and told me Brad was sleeping with his wife. The last time, the girl herself called me, upset that Brad had tried to break things off with her. I guess she wanted to get even.
I let out a loud sigh and set his phone on the bed.
He hands me mine with big apologetic eyes. “You satisfied?”
I nod, my lips smacked together.
“I’m sorry. You can have the password from now on.”
I start crying. I hate crying. But the worst part? I think I’m upset that I didn’t find anything. I’m upset that Brad’s not cheating. I wanted to find proof—something that would give me the courage to leave—the shove that I so desperately need.
“Hey, baby.” Brad pulls me into him, his arms warm and secure. “What’s wrong? God, it kills me to see you like this.” He slides his hands up under my shirt, rubbing my back, his touch familiar and steady. He kisses me gently, murmuring that everything will be okay—that I can trust him, that he loves me. And all I can do is think of Ryan, and how I wish it were him holding me, kissing me, whispering in my ear.
I hate that I’m this person. I hate that I’m weak.
Brad’s kisses become more sensual. Pressing them along my jaw now, down my neck. I tip my chin to give him access, but I’m not in the mood. He makes his way to my lips, softly sucking my bottom lip. And I kiss him back. I let him remove my sweatshirt, then my pants. We make out. I let him touch me. I go through the motions because that’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done, and I don’t know how to change. I don’t know how to say no.
My mind drifts back to freshman year, to Gavin. God, he messed me up in ways I’m still uncovering. After him, it was just one wrong choice after another, each guy a faint echo of the last. One decision, one misplaced trust, and suddenly, you’re on a path you can’t seem to escape. Here I am, thirteen years later, too afraid to make the choices I know I need to make.
Brad’s hands explore, moving over familiar territory, but I feel nothing—no spark, no thrill, just an overwhelming sense of numbness. I’m trapped in my own body, going through motions that used to mean something, but right now, they just… don’t. His hand slides between my thighs, and still… nothing.
A tear slips down my cheek, and I choke back a sob.
Brad kisses me, and I kiss him back. His hands roam over me, and I play the part. I move my hands, make the sounds, arch my body into him. And when it’s time to feel the way I usually do. I don’t.
So, I fake another orgasm.
When we’re finished, I lie beside Brad as he starts talking about his next work trip. I’m only half-listening, my mind racing with thoughts of what to do. Why am I still like this? I’ve spent years molding myself to fit into men’s lives, meeting their needs. But what about my needs? Where’s my self-growth? Something has to change.
I have to change.
* * * * * ? * * * * *
January
I roll my luggage into the entryway, stopping to sort through the mail Brad left for me on the console table next to my grandmother’s glass bird. A small smile tugs at my lips. We were close—sleepovers on the first Saturday of every month, late-night talks, way too much popcorn and candy.
She kept this bird in her china cabinet, along with a bunch of other glass figurines. For some reason, I was always drawn to it. I couldn’t even tell you why. But a few hours before she passed, she placed it in my hands and told me she wanted me to have it. I cherish it more than anything.
My stomach growls, reminding me that it’s past dinnertime, and I’m starving. I definitely didn’t pack enough snacks for the flight home.
I pull out my phone to text Brad.
Cooper: Hey, I’m home. Where are you?
Brad went straight from Newport to New York two days after Christmas and got back a few days ago. I thoroughly enjoyed the time away—spending time with Casey, warmer weather, and, if I’m being honest, the space from Brad.
My phone dings, and seconds later, Brad’s laptop chimes from his office. Curiosity pulls me as I read my text.
Brad: Hey, baby. Went out for drinks with Jared.
I glance toward his desk. His laptop is open. Just sitting there.
Brad never leaves it open when he’s not home. I walk into his office and sit down, ready to play detective, praying the password for his phone is the same for his laptop.
I freeze. Wait. Why isn’t the screen locked?
Brad isn’t careless. He plans everything. Always.
Another ding from my phone, followed by the laptop. But I don’t need to check my phone—the text message pops up on the screen.
It’s from Ryan.
Ryan: You home yet?
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, my breath catches, and a wave of nausea washes over me.
Oh my God. Brad’s somehow connected my phone to his computer without me knowing.
My brows knit together. Did he want me to see this? With shaking hands, I click into the text messages, my fingers trembling as I navigate to the text thread with Ryan’s name. I click it.
Shit. Every single message since Christmas Day is there. My pulse pounds in my ears as I scroll through the many flirtatious, explicit texts between Ryan and me this past week—not to mention the ones where Ryan asked when I’m leaving Brad. I feel even sicker wondering when Brad set this up. Was it before Christmas Day? Has he seen the texts where I got off to Ryan’s messages while Brad was asleep inside? That would explain his sudden possessiveness and paranoia.
I’m frantic to understand the extension of this invasion. I pull up the settings, trying to figure out exactly what he’s connected to—can he see my emails, my socials?
Another ding.
Brad: I’ll try to be home by 10. Don’t go to bed without me. I’ll want you when I get there.
My mind races. How long has he known? And if he knows, why is he acting normal?
Because he’s jealous .
A cold sweat breaks out across my skin.
He knows.
He fucking knows.
He wanted me to see this.
He wants me to panic.
This isn’t just about jealousy. He needs to control the situation. Control me.
A chill creeps over me. Brad isn’t overtly aggressive, but he has a temper. A nasty one. And he’s capable of being downright calculating and manipulative. The thought makes my stomach tighten.
I can almost feel his anger simmering below the surface, waiting—patiently.
Dammit. What the fuck is he planning?
I make a beeline for the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine off the rack. I rummage frantically through the drawers for the opener, pouring myself a full glass. I down it like I've been stranded on a deserted island.
I pour another. I walk numbly into the living room and sink into the sofa, setting the glass on the coffee table. Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I let my head hang heavy in my hands. A low groan escapes me as I grip my hair. “Oh my God.” My voice is barely a whisper. My eyes fill, but I’m too numb to cry—too scared. “Fuck.” I sit up, breath shaky, hands unsteady, and take another sip. I slump back, staring into the abyss.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but at some point, the wine bottle ended up beside me, nearly empty. I chew on my thumbnail, eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Brad to walk through and… And what? What am I even waiting for? A fight? For him to take me to bed—another round of emotionally detached sex where I’ll fake yet another orgasm? What the fuck am I actually waiting for?
I glance at the time—10:15. He should be home any minute now. A sense of dread hovers over me.
Another ding.
Ryan: Can’t wait to see your beautiful face on Monday.
A feeling of warmth rushes through me as I read Ryan’s text, and despite my heavy buzz, clarity hits, quick and sharp. I don’t have to be here, waiting for Brad. I stand, calm and steady, and walk to the kitchen, pouring the last of the wine into a travel mug. I grab my luggage, put on my boots, bundle up, and, with my phone in hand, I walk out the door.
And I don’t look back.