He dodges it, still grinning, and disappears downstairs. I hear pans clattering, and the fridge opening, Devon humming something as he busies himself in the kitchen.
This feels normal.
I stretch and grab my phone from the nightstand. Three texts from Katrina, all variations ofare you alive?Andcall me when you can talk.
I'll call her later. Right now, I want to hold on to this feeling—this delicate hope—for as long as I can.
The shower calls to me, but first I need to pee. I pad into the bathroom, noticing Devon's toothbrush on the counter instead of the holder, and his towel on the floor. Usually, these things irritate me. Today, they make me smile.
We're still us, aren’t we?
I flush the toilet and wash my hands, then reach for my moisturizer on the shelf above the sink. Devon's things are jumbled next to mine—his cologne, his razor, his?—
His phone.
My heart stutters to a stop, and I sink my teeth into my lower lip as I agonize over what to do.
It's sitting on the edge of the counter, plugged into the charger hekeeps in here for when he showers. The screen is dark, but as I reach past it, my elbow knocks the cord, and it lights up.
I don't mean to look; I swear—I’ve neverneededto before.
But the preview of the message is right there, glowing against the black screen.
UNKNOWN: I keep thinking about that night. I know you said it was a mistake, but it didn't feel like one. Not to me. Mila
I reach out a hand to steady myself, my fingers touching the cool tile.
My ears ring, and the room sways, but I force myself to read it again.
UNKNOWN:I keep thinking about that night. I know you said it was a mistake, but it didn't feel like one. Mila
What mistake?
The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I grab the counter to steady myself, my knuckles white against the marble.
Devon told menothinghappened. He looked me in the eyes—held my gaze while he made love to me—and told menothing happened.
I’m sorry, but what the fuck? He promised me while he was fucking inside me that he did nothing with her.
I pick up his phone with trembling hands. The screen has gone dark again, locked, and I don't know his passcode. I never needed to know it because I trusted him.
Trusted.
Past tense.
My world slides, making my vision blur. This cannot be happening—how many more of his lies can I take?
"Jade! Pancakes are almost ready!"
His voice floats up the stairs, cheerful and oblivious, and bile rises in my throat. He's down there making breakfast like everything is fine. Like he didn't lie to my face. Like I didn't spend the last week tearing myself apart over whether to believe him.
Like a fool, I believed him.
Last night, beneath him, I believed him.
And the whole time there wasthis—a message from her, sitting on his phone like a grenade with the pin already pulled.
It didn't feel like a mistake.
