CHAPTER 13
Quinn
“I
’ve been fucking her for a year” keeps looping in my head, mixing with the wine and adrenaline, making me dizzy. He might not have said the words, but he’d implied as much.
The audacity of him. Sleeping with Brittany behind my back, lying about it, twisting it until somehow it was my fault. If I hadn’t called his bluff, he probably would’ve told me out of spite. Josh never once took accountability.
But the part that makes me sick? The friends.
His boys. Their girlfriends. Our friends.
They knew. All of them knew and said nothing.
Six years of birthdays, parties, group chats.
My phone used to buzz like it was my lifeline.
Back then, it felt like belonging. Now it’s just noise.
I didn’t just lose Josh. I lost all of them.
I’m furious at myself for staying when I knew better. But hindsight is cruel—it’s easy to see at almost thirty what I couldn’t at twenty-three.
I stand and steady myself against the ugly purple wall, take a few test steps, then wander the living room, bottle in hand. Not sure where I’m going—down the hall or straight into a spiral. It’s anyone’s guess, really.
I gulp another mouthful, warmth spreading through my veins. Temporary relief. I close my eyes for a second. Just long enough to breathe.
When I open them, I’m at the sliding door, staring out at the pathetic backyard. The air smells like damp soil and rusted barbecue metal. Out here, it’s more dirt than grass. More broken promises than plans.
Turning back, I clip the coffee table, catch myself, but the Glasshouse candle I spent far too much money on tips to the side before crashing onto the cement paver. I pick up the remnants and can’t help making the connection to the state of my life; a sad metaphor I never imagined for myself.
I head back inside and drift down the hall, ending up in front of the spare room.
I push the door open and sit on the unmade bed.
Yellow wallpaper peels, and the carpet’s a graveyard of stains.
This room was supposed to be a nursery. We were going to strip the walls, replace the flooring, and start fresh.
He couldn’t even change a fucking lightbulb.
Memories crash in—fights, tears, nights I slept in here alone.
The thought that Brittany might’ve sat here too makes me gag.
I stand and start making the bed, more for control than a general order of things.
Halfway through, I trip on a cushion and land on all fours.
Wine splashes down my shirt, before it drips onto the carpet.
Perfect. I grab a cushion and dab at the stain, but after a few half-hearted swipes, I give up and brush myself off.
I crank the speaker, blasting music loud enough to drown my thoughts. In the hallway mirror, hazel eyes stare back—glassy, tired, flushed. Cheeks streaked pink from the alcohol, skin slick with sweat. I find my abandoned bottle of wine and lift it, finish it off.
But anger slams into me again when I step into our bedroom. Their bedroom now, in my mind. I see her everywhere. On the sheets. Against the wall. The images won’t stop. I rip off the sheets, choking on fury. I want it all gone. The bed. The pillows. The entire room.
I pull out my phone, blur through a furniture site, hit purchase without even checking the price. New everything. New start. Done.
I nod to myself, shaky, and grab a chilled bottle of rosé. Garage. Tools. I dig through boxes until I find a hammer, screwdriver, or something sharp. Storm back to the bedroom.
The screws won’t budge. Nothing works. The heat in the room builds with every failed attempt, every unsaid word. He cheated. He lied. Everyone knew. The pressure in my chest cracks and I snap.
Fuck this.
I pick up the hammer and before I can stop myself, it flies at the wall.
The plaster splits. The sound punches the air from my lungs, reverberating from floor to ceiling.
A puff of chalky dust rains down, dry and bitter in my mouth.
One swing for every dig at my body, every event he skipped, every time he scrolled through his phone while I begged for eye contact.
I keep swinging until there’s a hole in the wall. My shoulders shake. My knees give out.
And then I’m crying. Hard, ugly sobs tear through me, leaving me gasping. Chest aching like someone’s pulling my ribs apart.
I call Sophie. She doesn’t answer. I leave a broken voicemail—half-apology, half-confession. Hang up before I fall apart completely.
I stumble to the couch, collapse into the familiar softness. The smell of plaster dust and old fabric rises around me. Eyes burning. Anger still pulsing—
Right up until exhaustion drags me under. My body gives out, heavy as stone, and I pass out, not caring about the hole in the wall or the mess I’ve become.