Chapter 8 #2
Our first official date was when we attended the annual Belmont Valentine Ball, and we posed for dozens, if not hundreds, of photos together. All of them turned out great, and McKenna looked amazing, but the snapshot of us sitting on a fancy settee together is the one that means the most to me.
In it, we’re leaning against each other and laughing with glasses of champagne in our hands. We were halfway to wasted by this point, but in that moment, we looked so happy and carefree, and messy.
It’s one of the few pictures I have of us where we’re not perfectly put together and focusing on our angles and getting the right shot over just being in the moment and having fun together.
My gut churns with something I can’t quite place. It’s not anger or even sadness, but the longer I look at the photo, the stronger the feeling gets.
“Fuck it,” I say to no one and sit up, my phone clutched in my hand.
I know with every fiber of my being that this is wrong and I should just put my phone down and go back to tossing and turning until I eventually fall asleep, but I can’t.
This is the only part of the clusterfuck that is my life right now that I have any sort of control over. And I need answers, even if I don’t want them.
A little flutter of nerves interrupts the sour feeling that’s been growing in my stomach as I open my texts, and I can practically hear my brain screaming “Abort!” when I tap on the thread I’m looking for.
West: I need to see it
I’m not expecting an answer since it’s two in the morning, and I have a brief moment of panic after I hit send, but it quickly fades, and I’m noticeably calmer as I exit out of my texts.
There. It’s out in the universe and I can’t take it back, so there’s no point freaking out about it. And if I change my mind in the morning or whenever he gets back to me, I can just delete his texts without looking at them.
Relief washes over me, my tight muscles relaxing as I put my phone back on my bedside table and lie down.
Ping.
I instantly go on high alert at the text notification, and stare at my phone like I’ve never seen it before as the light on my screen slowly fades until it goes back into sleep mode.
What the fuck? Is that him? It can’t be. He wasn’t supposed to answer me until tomorrow. Why is he awake and not sleeping like a normal person?!
Ping.
Slowly, I pick up my phone and check the notification bar in the off chance that it wasn’t him and someone else decided to text me at two in the morning.
Unsurprisingly, they’re from him, and I bite my lip as indecision wars inside me.
I could just ignore him and deal with the texts in the morning, but I already know that’s not an option.
I read a poem in one of my lit classes about a guy who hides the heart of someone he killed in his house, and all he could hear was the heart beating and reminding him of his crime and the evidence he hid.
My phone would become that heart, and I’d spend every waking moment between now and when I eventually give in and look at the texts thinking about them and hearing phantom phone notifications.
I could delete the thread without opening it, but I already know I’m not going to do that. I didn’t do it when he sent the first ones, or after we messaged, I’m not going to do it now. My brain won’t let me. I can’t not read them.
More nerves flutter around in my chest, and I open the text thread.
Unknown: If you’re sure
The next text is a video file, but the thumbnail for it is small and dark, and I can’t really make out anything on it.
My thumb hovers over the video, and it’s like my emotions all grow and feed into each other until they blend and merge into an overwhelming crescendo that blocks every other thought outside of finally seeing the damn video and putting the what-ifs to rest.
I tap on the video, then tap it again to expand it so it fills my screen.
The video was taken in a hallway, and it looks like the main floor of Baxter House. The video plays for a few seconds, then a couple stumbles into the frame, their arms wrapped around each other as they make out, their kisses loud and messy.
They’re angled so I can’t make out any of their features, but I don’t need to see their faces to know the woman is McKenna.
I recognize the shimmery black dress and jeweled heels she’s wearing, and combined with the hallway, I know the video was taken during the Baxter party she went to with her friends before the break.
They continue to make out and stumble a few paces, then they separate, and I’m able to see not only my fiancée’s face, but also the face of the man she cheated on me with.
“In here,” the guy says and reaches for her hand.
She takes it with a flirty giggle and lets him pull her into an alcove where they immediately start kissing again.
They’re not being quiet or careful, and my stomach goes even more sour when she hikes her leg up around his hip and he slides his hand under her skirt.
The video ends a few seconds later, and I slowly lower my phone.
What does it say about me and my relationship that I just watched a video of my fiancée cheating on me, and all I feel is resignation and a bit of relief.
I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I’ve known things aren’t okay between us for a while now. We’ve barely talked since we got back to school, and we’ve both been finding reasons we can’t meet up when we used to make spending time together a priority.
And at least now I know the truth, and I’ve seen proof, so there’s no doubt in my mind that it happened. I can’t just pretend it’s not true and ignore it.
Absently, I flip my phone around in my hand a few times as my brain goes into hyperdrive again.
I have no idea who that guy in the video is. I recognize his face enough to know I’ve seen him around campus, but I can’t place him for the life of me.
And that’s pissing me off more than it should.
Again, what does it say about me that I’m angrier that my fiancée cheated on me with some random than I am about the fact that she cheated on me at all?
I’m not under any delusions that I’m some amazing catch and any woman would be lucky to have me, but I’m not awful. At least I don’t think I am. I’m sure my exes have plenty they could say about why they either dumped me or cheated on me, but I’m not a bad guy, and I try to be a good boyfriend.
But obviously my best wasn’t good enough if some random could woo my fiancée into cheating on me at a party, especially if she’s doing it out in the open like that.
McKenna, like most people at this school, is all about appearances, and every aspect of her life is carefully crafted to show the world exactly what she wants them to see.
Cheating might be a common thing in relationships, but it’s still frowned upon, especially if the one being cheated on didn’t do anything to “deserve” it, and as far as I know, I haven’t done anything heinous enough to warrant her sucking face with another guy at a party.
A thought hits me out of nowhere, and I freeze, the phone I was flipping falling to the bed with a soft splat.
Whoever took that video goes to Silvercrest.
I don’t know why it never occurred to me that they’d go to my school, and now that I know they could literally be anyone on campus, I have no idea what to think or feel about any of this.
I should be pissed that one of my classmates decided to fuck with me instead of either minding their own business or just telling me what they saw.
And I should probably be freaked out that one of my classmates even went through all of this trouble to fuck with me because cloning my old number and overriding my notification settings elevated things from a prank to a message.
I just have no idea what that message is.
A dull pain forms behind my eyes, and I gently rub my fingers over my temples. I’m getting a stress headache, and it’s only going to get worse the more I keep thinking in circles.
With a resigned sigh, I throw back my covers and climb out of bed. I have a stash of sleeping pills in my bathroom for when I get like this. I don’t like taking them because they leave me fuzzy-headed the next day, but whatever.
It’s not like I haven’t been a distracted mess without the pills; I might as well take a couple so I can actually get some sleep and get rid of this headache before it turns into a migraine.
Hopefully I’ll wake up with more clarity and will be in a better place to figure out what I’m going to do about McKenna—and all the other shit I’ve got going on.