JADE
Katrina's guest room smells almost clinical—nothing like our house, which carries traces of Devon's cologne even when he's not there.
Maybethat'swhy I can't sleep. Nothing to do with the heartbreak my husband has caused.
I've been staring at the ceiling for hours, listening to the hum of traffic below and the occasional sound of Katrina moving around in the kitchen. She’d sat and listened to me when I arrived with mascara streaked down my face, choking on sobs.
She handed me a glass of wine and said, “The guest room's yours. Stay as long as you need."
That was six hours ago.
The wine sits untouched on the nightstand. I can't stomach the thought of drinking when my whole body feels like it's been emptied.
My husband kissed Mila.
The words loop through my mind, refusing to leave me alone. Devon—myDevon—pressed his lips to Mila Harris's mouth while I sat at home on our anniversary, staring at a blank page and missing him.
Did he touch her and compare her body to mine?
Nausea creeps up my throat.
Of course it washerhe cheated on me with—the girl who spent years making me feel like I was poisoning her perfect world.
I remember her voice in the locker room: ‘Jade, you're so brave wearing that. I could never.’
I remember Devon's oblivious smile when she'd wave at us in the halls, her eyes sliding over me like I was a bug she wanted to squash.
And now she's had hermouthon my husband, and fuck knows what else.
Ugh!
I roll onto my side and curl into myself; my knees pulled to my chest like I can physically hold myself together. The bed feels strange. I want Devon's arm heavy across my waist, his breath against my neck.
I want to gohome. I want to curl up with my version of Devon, the one who would never, ever do this to me.
But I can’t. He exists now only in my memory.
My phone glows on the nightstand with more missed calls from Devon. A string of texts I haven't opened because I'm not strong enough to read his excuses, his apologies, his fucking justifications about how a kiss isn't really betrayal.
It fucking is. Eventhinkingof Mila likethatis a betrayal.
It is also a betrayal when you look your wife in the eye and swear nothing happened. When you make love to her, promisingnothing happened.
God.
I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the flab sink beneath my palm. This body. This fucking body that's never been enough.
Mila is all thin with bronzed skin, yoga-toned limbs and effortless beauty. Of course Devon noticed and wanted that. He’s obsessed with fitness—he probably admired the fuck out of her. I bet he swept his hands all over her body in awe, wondering why the hell he married me.
He probably fucked her.
The thought is a knife through my soul.
You were never enough for him; you knew this. You've always known.
“Don’t,” I whisper into the darkness, but the voice doesn't listen. It never does.
At some point, I must drift off, because I wake to morning light filtering through the blinds and Katrina knocking softly on the door.
