Chapter 36 Alessia
All the air leaves my lungs and all I can do is blink and stare.
At the eyes I used to gaze into when we made love.
The lips I used to kiss, thinking they were the only ones I’d ever want to kiss again.
The shoulders I once pressed my face against when he promised me forever.
The arms that held me when I crumbled to the floor, another negative pregnancy test clutched in my shaking hands.
The same arms that, all along, had been holding someone else, too.
I’ll never understand that level of cruelty.
The cruelty of a man who can promise forever and tell me he loves me in one breath, then watch me struggle and cry myself to sleep night after night.
A man who can look me in the eye and say I’m his whole world while secretly carrying on an affair behind my back.
I don’t understand how someone lives with that kind of lie.
How you can possibly exist with that much deceit inside of you knowing you’re wounding your spouse.
And the truth is, I hope I never do. Because understanding it would mean rationalizing it.
Finding some way to make it make sense. And I never want to make sense of something that sick.
Something that twisted. Something that downright wrong.
My chest burns, and when I blink, a single tear drops onto my phone—right over his face, obscuring his features that I used to think were handsome.
Now, all I see is a boy who couldn’t be a man. A boy who was too weak to walk away before he broke my heart.
The sting is still there, but it’s duller now.
I don’t miss him. For a long time after he filed for divorce, I did—despite knowing he cheated; despite knowing he got his girlfriend pregnant, I still missed him.
But with time, I realized I was never mourning him.
I was mourning the idea of him. The illusion of what we’d built together.
The man I thought I married, not the one he really was at his core.
Because if someone loves you unconditionally, they don’t leave when things get hard.
They stand beside you. And Brian hadn’t.
Not when I needed him most and not when he told me he was filing for a divorce.
And all the ways I thought he was on my team—supporting me, standing beside me through the pain of infertility, through the struggles of being newly married, of finding my way in New York City—he wasn’t.
I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hands frantically. I haven’t cried over Brian in months. And these tears aren’t about him, about me, or about us. Tonight, I’m not crying for me; I’m crying for her.
I wipe at my eyes, dragging the sleeve of my hoodie over my face as I sniff, grounding myself back in the present and reminding myself that this isn’t about getting proof for me anymore. This is about getting proof for her.
I glance at the gym entrance then scan the parking lot, my pulse spiking as I spot his familiar car. I draw in another deep breath. It’s really him. This isn’t my mind playing tricks on me. This isn’t some sick coincidence. His new girlfriend has paid to have him watched.
I flip back to the case details, scrolling to the section that shows who booked the request. I don’t feel relief when I get that confirmation.
Confirmation that the woman he cheated on me with paid for this.
Because now he has a baby with her. And if my math is right, that baby is only a few months old.
I don’t feel victorious at seeing this. I don’t feel smug, justified, self-satisfied or happy to know that she’s getting hurt the same way that I once was.
I feel even more pain than I thought was possible.
Like my heart’s breaking all over again for this stranger.
Because if she’s hiring someone like me, then she’s already in the place I was once in—questioning, doubting, searching for answers she probably already knows in her gut.
And worse for her, she’s postpartum. A brand-new mother. So sensitive and vulnerable.
I swallow hard and wrap my fingers around the leather of my steering wheel, trying to ground myself.
For a moment I consider storming out of my car, marching up to him, and demanding answers.
Shake him and ask what the fuck is he doing!
? Why? How could he do this again? What made you this way? What made you such a small man?
But I can’t do any of those things because this isn’t about me anymore.
Because if I do that, I compromise myself.
I ruin the company’s reputation. And I jeopardize the woman who hired me, who, no matter how I feel about her, deserves the truth and the chance to safely get away according to her own terms.
I square my shoulders, straightening in my seat. Pulling out my camera, I check the time.
7:30 on the dot.
The gym doors swing open, and there he is. A gym bag is slung over one shoulder and he’s wearing sunglasses to shield against the setting sun. He’s dressed in nothing but basketball shorts and a cut off t-shirt and looks completely oblivious to being watched for now.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself as I discreetly hit record, tugging the hood of my black sweatshirt up over my head to avoid being spotted. I’m good at this. I know that much. And unless he’s specifically looking for me, he shouldn’t notice me watching.
His eyes sweep the parking lot as if he is looking for someone though. But whatever he’s searching for he doesn’t find. Then he moves to his car, climbs inside, and I follow, years of experience guiding my movements.
I stay far enough behind that he won’t notice me, but close enough that I won’t lose him. And just like his girlfriend said, he pulls into the smoothie shop next door.
I park near the front, keeping my camera steady as I film through the window.
He goes inside and places an order. Strawberry banana, it looks like.
My stomach immediately betrays me with a loud grumble.
Of course it does. Because of course I’m sitting here filming my cheating ex while being reminded I never ate dinner.
And the food I made tonight is sitting at home.
With the man I love. Which, inconveniently, is exactly where I’d much rather be.
When he steps back outside, he does another slow scan of the parking lot, eyes flicking around, before heading to his vehicle. And that’s when I notice it. A second smoothie. Tucked under his jacket. Like he’s hiding it.
Don’t do it, Brian.
Don’t do this to her.
I follow.
Left turn. Then a right. Through a neighborhood where I almost lose him, until he slows in front of an all-brick house. I park in a driveway a few houses down, zooming in through my camera lens, my heartbeat thumping in my chest as I watch.
He steps out, walks up the front path, that second smoothie still in his hand, completely unaware of the fact that I was following him. Then he knocks twice. I hold my breath. And a woman answers.
Dark brown hair. Soft, kind eyes. For half a second, I wonder if she’s maybe just a friend? Perhaps a coworker? But then she flings her arms around his neck and presses her lips to his in a kiss and I know. I know.
My hands are shaking now but I keep recording, breathing in deep, steadying myself even as nausea twists my stomach. I don’t stop filming until she pulls him inside and shuts the front door.
I lower the camera, turn off the video, then I open the car door and barf. All over the gravel street, narrowly missing the inside of my car.
When I finish, I wipe the back of my mouth with my hand and grab my water, taking a long sip. I swish it around, then spit. Then I force my hands to steady on the wheel. I reverse out of the driveway and drive a few houses down before pulling over again, this time parking along the street.
There are still two hours left on my clock. I need to wait. Watch. See when he leaves. But my mind won’t stop spinning. It keeps replaying every second of what I just saw like a horror movie I know I’ll never be able to forget.
A notification buzzes on my phone. It’s a message from a blocked number. My stomach clenches because I already know who it is. Messages from the PI portal always come through as unknown to protect our identities. It’s her. I
I take another deep breath, trying to keep the remaining contents of my stomach down.
Blocked Number: Hello. Checking in. Have you seen Brian yet?
My fingers hover over the screen. I could say I’m so sorry. Or I know how this feels and it’s going to be hard at first, but you’ll get through this, I promise. Or I wish I didn’t have to send this to you. I wish I could tell you that you were wrong.
But I don’t send any of those responses. Because this isn’t personal. It can’t be. This is my job. And no matter how much my chest aches with the old, familiar pain, she deserves to know the truth without my emotions attached so that she can decide what she wants to do next.
I upload the footage that I’ve captured so far and attach it to my reply.
Anonymous: Here’s what I’ve recorded. I’m waiting outside the house for him to exit.
I hit send. No extra words. No condolences. Just the truth in black and white. That’s what I wanted when I was in her shoes. That’s what I craved. And a few minutes later, when my phone buzzes with her response, I know that’s what she needed too.
Anonymous: Thank you.
Just two words. Like she knew. Like she expected this. But then again, most of them do. That’s why they hire me.
I don’t respond. Just keep my eyes locked on the door, willing Brian to leave.
Come on, you asshole. Don’t do it. Walk away before you start. Have a conscience for once in your fucking life. Go back to your woman. Go back to your child!