35. Chapter 35 Mind Games
Jenna: June
It’s been a few weeks since I left my husband. A few weeks of hell living at my mom’s like I’m a teenager again. Shuffling the girls between houses. Crying into my pillow so no one hears. Wondering if I fucked up all our lives.
And Dylan? It’s been six months since I ripped my own heart out. Six months of aching for a man I was never supposed to love. Six months battling an addiction I may never kick—because you can’t unlove the one person who made you feel something real.
Every day, it’s a battle inside, not to reach out, not to think about his touch.
His kiss. God, his kiss. Every day, I draft messages I’ll never send.
Silent screams of everything I wish I could say.
Desperate to fill the emptiness he left behind.
But I never hit send. I just stare at the screen, praying the pain will finally fade. It never does.
And sure, breakups are hell. But it’s worse when they’re a secret.
When you can’t tell your best friend. When you can’t tell your husband that you no longer live with.
The loneliness is suffocating—just me and my secrets, and years with Jacob, knowing deep down he was never right for me.
Now, without Dylan, separation was supposed to bring clarity.
Instead, it’s just another layer of unbearable waiting. And more unknowns.
My mind spins in endless loops, each thought playing tricks on me. Was any of it real? Did he love me, or was I just a challenge? Maybe Dylan wanted the version of me without complications, responsibilities, or scars. Maybe I was an escape from his own burdens, the same way he was for me at first.
I grab my phone again. My fingers tremble as I type.
You broke me. My heart. Even my damn pussy. I haven’t had an orgasm since you. Have you moved on? Are you happy? Because I want you to be miserable without me. I’ve been waiting for you to call me, tell me to leave my husband, to fix us. And I hate that I ended it.
My thumb hovers over the message. Every word filled with torment, but I let out a shaky breath and delete it. Sometimes, I wish I’d hit send by accident. Instead, the heartache just grows louder.
God, I miss him…
I. Miss. Him.
I miss him, I miss him—I fucking MISS him.
Hey GOD? Universe? Anyone? Did you hear me? I said I fucking miss him.
These words are stuck on replay, as if thinking them hard enough, screaming them loud enough, could bring him back.
But he’s not coming back. Because he was never mine.
And it was never about the sex, or his handsome face and annoyingly hot body, though those things didn’t hurt.
It was the way he saw me. The way he looked at me.
Like I was more than a woman who does dishes and folds everyone's laundry.
The way he desired me. Not just for my body, but the woman underneath.
How do you let go of that?
The phone rattles on the counter, and my heart leaps. I lunge for it, hoping for a split second it’s Dylan, but it’s a message from Mom.
Not him. Never him.
And the doubt creeps in again, darker this time. Was it all a lie? Would someone fake what we had for sex? He could have had anyone. Why me?
I watch the rain fall on the window as my new mantra repeats in my head. Let him go. Let. Him. Go . In the background, a podcast about heartbreak and healing is on: “What did he give you that you can’t give yourself? What would you tell a friend in your position?”
Blah. Blah. Blah. None of it helps. Self-help can’t fix a shattered heart.
And right now? I’m just a woman sitting on her mother’s couch, trying to believe this pain won’t last forever.
“Do I have a hole in my butt?” Ava comes rushing into the kitchen, bent over, pointing to her cute little behind.
I laugh. “Don’t we all?”
“No, Mommy, look,” she cries out, pointing to the tear in her favorite reindeer pajamas.
“Don’t worry, I can fix it,” I say, wishing I could stitch my own life back together that easily.
Every day is a battle not to text him. Some stubborn part of me refuses to believe this is the end. Sooner or later, we’ll talk again.
I look down at the date on my phone. “June 18.” Dylan’s birthday. My pulse quickens. Thirty-four years ago, the most unforgettable human being was born. A man I had the privilege of loving.
Surely a simple birthday text can't change anything. He probably won’t even respond. Still, the options swirl in my head. Each one more torturous than the last.
Option one: Do nothing. Things stay the same. Hopefully, I stop missing him.
Option two: Text him. He doesn’t reply.
Option three: We talk again—as friends. Except we can’t be friends.
Option four: We become lovers again. End up in the same heartbreak. Or worse, Jacob finds out.
My fingers tremble above the screen as I stare at Dylan’s name. It’s just a message. Just a few words. Minutes feel like an eternity before I finally type:
It’s been 190 days, and my feelings for you haven’t faded. I still think about you all the time… wondering how you are. Some days it feels like the last year wasn’t real. Like you weren’t real.
I know I said we needed to end things, but sometimes I struggle with the ‘why.’ Why do I have to keep breaking my own heart? Why did we say goodbye? Why can’t we be friends?
I miss you. Did Gabriella have her baby? Did Amelia finally get engaged to Johnny? Did you sell the ranch? I’m rambling. Just wanted to say happy birthday.
Before I can second-guess myself, I tap the button.
Send.
My chest tightens the second the message delivers.
What if he doesn’t reply? What if he hates me?
Three agonizing days pass without a response from Dylan, and I wonder if I’m doomed to keep making the same mistake. Reaching out when I should let go. Wanting what I shouldn’t. Creating more chaos when I swore I’d finally accept peace.
Every time my phone buzzes, my stomach sinks. But I try to keep busy. Izzy’s crazy dating stories entertain me. My girls keep me on my toes. And I’m still doing marriage counseling, even though Jacob and I live apart.
I know, I know. It's insanity doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results. But the truth is, I don’t know how to let go yet. Maybe it’s the kids. Maybe the finality of divorce terrifies the hell out of me. Or maybe I’m still hoping we’ll magically just figure it out.
Either way, the weight of this lie feels unbearable. I imagine blurting it out to Izzy, slipping it between bites of salad, like, “ Hey. By the way, I’m a lying, cheating whore who had an affair for months.” But she’s Jacob’s sister.
Thankfully, Lily’s birthday today offers a welcome distraction.
She wakes me up early, bouncing on my bed. “Mom! I’m twelve. Can I open all my presents now? Please, please, please!” Surprisingly, the girls, and even our bulldog, seem to be handling the back-and-forth custody arrangements better than I expected.
I hug her tightly, kissing her cheeks twelve times, one for every year she’s been alive, plus one for good luck. Ava jumps on the bed next, holding Boner Dong, laughter filling the room. But we’re missing someone. Jacob.
Through the unplanned dance party on my bed, I hear my phone buzz on the nightstand. I roll toward it and pick it up.
Jacob: Hey, start the party without me. Work emergency. Be there as soon as I can.
Disappointment flickers, but I shove it aside. Jacob’s job always comes first. It’s something I’ve had to accept. Lately, though, every time I look at my girls, I wonder if this is the life I want for them. The loneliness. The secrets and double life.
Lily’s sleepover party is a whirlwind of laughter and energy with ten tweens giggling over boys and Taylor Swift.
Izzy plays nail artist while glow-in-the-dark tents, balloons, and cotton candy mocktails turn the living room into a dream birthday.
Jacob even surprises the girls with Taylor Swift tickets.
For a moment, it almost feels like we have arrived at a new normal, whatever the hell that means.
Over the last few weeks, Jacob and I finally figured out a routine that doesn’t make me want to rip my hair out.
The kids seem happier too. Or at least they haven’t asked when I’m going back home with Daddy today.
Izzy shoots me a look. She’s smiling, but it can’t hide the sadness in her eyes. A reminder that nothing about this has been easy for the kids, for me, for any of us.
The next morning is pure mayhem, which is exactly what I need. A dozen pancakes on the griddle, parents lingering outside for small talk, and the aftermath of a chocolate syrup war. Jacob’s waiting to take the kids back to our house for the week, when my phone lights up on the kitchen table.
“When are you going to fix this cracked screen?” Jacob asks, handing me my phone.
“It gives it character,” I say with a shrug. “Plus, I’d probably just drop it again.”
He steals a bite of leftover cake. “Or you could try being more careful,” he jokes. “Who’s texting anyways? Your replacement husband?”
I stutter as I open the message. “Just… Izzy.” I manage a forced laugh.
Not Izzy. Him. Panic surges through me.
This isn’t happening. What if he wants to meet? What if he’s moved on? What if he breaks my heart all over again?
The message sits there, unread. I can’t deal with this now. Not with Jacob standing so close. I toss the phone inside my purse.
Jacob glances over at me, his brow furrowed. “Everything okay?”
I swallow the guilt in my throat before replying. “Yeah. Izzy texted. She wants to grab coffee.”
He rests against the counter, watching me for a moment longer. “You know we have counseling tomorrow,” he says, his tone heavy. “We need to figure out what’s next, whether you move back in or…”
“Or we call it,” I finish, my voice flat, like we're deciding whether to fix a busted old appliance or toss it out.
“Yeah,” he mutters, agreeing. “I guess we need to decide soon. We can’t continue like this. It’s not fair to the girls… or us.”
I couldn’t agree more. I exhale, nodding, the pressure rising in my chest. Jacob’s been showing up to therapy, even scheduling his own sessions, and saying all the right things.
Hell, he even uses that cheesy marriage app our counselor suggested.
And I should be grateful. But I’m not. I feel…
empty. Like nothing’s changed. Like we’re still pretending and worlds apart.
At the end of the night, I try to quiet my thoughts with a little reading in bed.
I turn the pages, but nothing helps. No book in the world can ease the pain of no longer kissing my girls every night.
Of hearing about their day through a screen.
Of missing all the little moments I had before I blew up our family.
I bookmark my spot with a sock I find in my drawer, and put the book on the nightstand.
Then I turn on the TV, doing my best to ignore the unread elephant inside my phone.