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She shrugged. “I’ve seen him unlock his phone a hundred times. It’s not that difficult to figure out what it is from the repeated motion of his fingers. By the way, it’s a pass code, not a password.”
Numbers are Sophie’s jam. I shouldn’t be surprised, yet I always was whenever she revealed some new quirk. That meant she knew my password too. Or, excuse me, pass code. And Mom’s and Dad’s. Which was irritating, because for all her girl genius and alleged disdain of gossip, Sophie was nosy. I wouldn’t be shocked if she had gone through my phone just for kicks. But in this current situation, I was actually glad she was observant, despite her bitchy correcting of my error. That was Sophie though. She couldn’t help herself. I swallowed hard.
“Yes, I want to know. I have to know.” For weeks there had been women making comments on his social media, and for a split second the day before I had seen a Snapchat of him with a brunette before it disappeared from his story.
My sister just stared at me.
“What?” I asked, annoyed. “Tell me the pass code, for fuck’s sake.”
Her eyes widened. I’m not known for swearing. Normally it makes my insides squeeze. But right now I felt like hell, I was totally embarrassed by my behavior the night before, and I was worried I was making the biggest mistake of my life by marrying Bradley. “I projectile vomited last night. I’m not in a healthy head space. I need to know.”
“Okay. Fine.” She rattled off the numbers.
I punched them into Bradley’s phone.
“Once you look at those texts, he’s going to know,” she added. “Whether he is guilty or not.”
She had a point. But it was too late. Because there they were. Dozens of texts between him and someone he had labeled Best BJ. And then someone else known as Tight Ass. Not only was he cheating, he was objectifying these women big-time. He obviously didn’t care about them—they were just fun on the side. Was that better or worse? I wasn’t sure. The texts were all along the same line—crude descriptions of what they had done. What they would be doing.
I can’t believe you let me fuck you in the bar restroom, you dirty little whore. I love it.
I am a naughty, naughty girl.
You like that ass pounded hard, don’t you?
Only by your big juicy cock.
My vision blurred. The room started to spin. The phone fell out of my hand, clanking on the wood floor of my parents’ family room. I was going to throw up and it was coming fast. A tsunami of hurt and disgust along with a fair share of bile rose in my throat. I made it to the powder room, but the stupid motion toilet lid didn’t lift fast enough. I vomited in the sink, shaking with horror.
Sophie came in behind me. “Bella?”
I wiped my mouth on the hand towel and rested my sweaty forehead on my forearm, shaking and heaving. “Oh my God, Soph. Oh my God.” Everything inside me hurt.
Not only had Bradley been cheating, he was doing it without guilt. With glee. It was dirty sex, the kind he wanted to have with me, but we were never quite able to achieve because I was inhibited and he was impatient.
“That bad?” she asked, rubbing my back gently.
“I feel like I need a shower,” I said, raising my head slightly to look at her in the mirror. Sophie was pale, even more so than usual. “He’s having anal sex with women because I won’t.”
Her eyes widened. “Hey, don’t put this on you. Seriously. Just because you won’t do something sexually doesn’t mean he has the right to just go out and get it. Come on, you know that.”
I did. In theory. But I wanted to excel in all aspects of our relationship, and when it came to sex, I was a C-plus at best and I knew it. “Why is it always about the ass?” I wailed, forcing myself to peel my body off the vanity. “Guys act like all girls are taking it up the butt and just loving it. Is that true or a myth designed to get us all to offer up our booties like sacrificial lambs?”
“I imagine some women enjoy it. They can’t all be faking it to please a man. And gay men definitely seem to enjoy it, but to be fair, they have a prostrate that is being stimulated.”
God, my sister and her insufferable logic. I leaned against the wall, unable to hold myself up. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and knew that I had achieved an all-time low. My hair was snarled and tangled. My makeup from the night before was still clinging to my eyelids. I had tear streaks down my cheeks, dark circles under my eyes, puffy, bloated, dull skin.
I would cheat on me too.
Actually, totally untrue. I wouldn’t cheat on anyone, under any circumstances. It wasn’t in my DNA.
The doorbell rang.
I jerked. “Who the heck is that? Is it Bradley?” I couldn’t face him right now, I just couldn’t. I didn’t know how to feel, what to think. I pictured his handsome face, his charming smile, telling me he loved me, and I wanted to legit die. Just throw myself off a balcony and free-fall into the ocean.
“I don’t know. I’ll go see. Why don’t you go to your room?”
Because that was about a thousand steps away and there was no possible way I could make it. But the powder room was suffocating. The small area seemed to be closing in on me and I could smell the sour remnants of my stomach contents even after running the water in the sink. I needed fresh air and fortunately, Maine has an abundance of that. So I stumbled out of the powder room and to the French doors that led to the deck and the clean scent of the ocean.
