I looked in the mirror this morning and saw every reason he might have wanted someone else. My chubby face. The thickness of my thighs. My flabby belly.
He lied to me.
I don't know who I am without him. That terrifies me more than losing him does.
Maybe that's the real problem.
I stop typing, tears streaming down my cheeks.
I want to delete what I’ve written, but I don't.
I can’t.
Katrina finds me an hour later, still staring at my phone.
"Devon asked if you'd talk to him tomorrow," she says gently. "Face to face. He said he'll tell you everything—no more lies, no more excuses."
I don't look up. "And you believe him?"
"I believe he's scared of losing you." She pauses. "Whether that's enough... that's your call."
I think about the boy who kissed me at his eighteenth birthday party. The man who held my hand at our wedding and promised to love me forever.
The stranger who looked me in the eye and lied while he thrust into me.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'll hear him out."
Katrina nods slowly. "I'll be there the whole time. If he tries anything?—"
"I know." I finally meet her eyes. "Thank you."
She squeezes my shoulder and leaves me alone with my crazed thoughts.
Chapter Nineteen
JADE
Katrina's living room feels tiny with the three of us in it.
I sit on the edge of the white sofa, my hands clasped in my lap so tightly that my knuckles ache. The afternoon sun streams through those massive windows, and I wish I could close the blinds. I want to wallow in the darkness.
Devon sits across from me in the armchair Katrina positioned there deliberately—far enough that I don't have to smell his cologne, close enough that I can watch his face for lies.
He looks awful. Stubble shadows his jaw, and the circles under his eyes are so deep they look bruised. His hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching like he's fighting the urge to reach for me.
I hate the part of me that wants to fix him. That aches because he aches.
No, Jade. Let him suffer.
Except forcing the thought doesn't bring me any satisfaction. It only makes me feel worse.
Katrina stands near the kitchen, arms crossed, radiating silent fury. She's made it clear she'll intervene if Devon so much as raises his voice.
"Thank you for seeing me," Devon says. His voice is hoarse, like it’s been scraped raw by unseen claws.
I don't respond—I can’t.
He swallows hard. "I know I said I'd tell you everything. So, I'm going to. No more lies."
