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Me:I’m back home.
I wait for a response and the familiar bubble to appear. The longer I stare at the blank screen, the more I grow anxious. Andy is supposed to have arrived in Spain a few hours ago. I close my eyes for a brief moment, but the temptation is a devil’s curse.
My fingers move to the Instagram app, opening the icon to type his name in the search engine.
He rarely posts anything personal, mainly shots he’s taken of buildings or for work. Then, I click on his story. There’s only one, and it’s a picture of a raised shot glass with liquor in it, maybe tequila, taken beside another shot glass held by a female. I recognize the nails belonging to Anastasia.
My stomach begins to churn as I stalk the app for her profile. I can’t find it anywhere until I accidentally stumble on it through the hotels’ website, which has her listed as the public relations manager. With a deep breath, I check her profile, but there’s nothing. Then, I hover over her profile photo to view her stories. It’s a video of her and Andy. They’re taking shots and laughing.
The anger tears through me like a destructive storm ready to destroy everything in its sight. My body trembles, wanting so much to call him and ask him what the fuck is he doing. How is it possible for him to land in Spain, and the first thing on his agenda is to go drinking withher?
It’s almost as if the exchange of ‘I love you’ or the sex between us meant nothing.
As the hurt creates a ripple, tearing me to pieces at the unknown, the familiar feeling of being alone is just as bad.
But this time, I’m isolated once again and trying to control my jealousy over a man I can’t have right now.
At least, not in this very bed.
And perhaps that’s what cripples me the most—the basic freedom to live my life and love who I want.
Easy for some, impossible for me.
Twenty-Three
Jessa
Misery indeed does love company.
For days after I stalked Anastasia, I did nothing but mope around the house. Andy never responded to my text, and I wasn’t going to beg him to talk to me.
I spent nights in bed, crying myself to sleep, even when Benedict slept beside me last night for the first time. My appetite dwindled to nothing, my stomach barely able to hold anything from this constant ill-feeling consuming me. To add to that, I struggled to find the energy to do anything or talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary.
It became difficult to complete the simplest of tasks, my head foggy with this constant ache which refused to leave.
I wrote more in my journal, the pain a muse I didn’t expect after my trip back home. Everything is darker, the clouds supremely gray, the air unbreathable. I’m drowning in my sorrows, and the only one keeping me afloat is my son.
Today is another milestone—Bentley officially turned one.
He woke up in a good mood, and for the sake of my son, I make an effort to brighten my spirits since it’s his special day. All my family FaceTime in, only confusing Bentley as he tried to grab my phone, then put it in his mouth.
The house is buzzing with workers setting up for the grand affair. Outside is a marquee with blue balloons scattered across the pitched ceiling. Tables are set up with pristine white tablecloths and exquisite china, the kind of expensive stuff you don’t want around a now toddler.
I was privy to the guest list last night, noting only three young children were in attendance, and Bentley is one of them. The rest are all of Rosemarie and Benedict’s acquaintances. Rosemarie asked if I wanted to invite my parents, even though it was out of courtesy, to which I said they were unable to attend.
“My dear, why aren’t you dressed?”
The condescending voice is behind me, forcing me to turn around despite my reluctance.
“I was just about to get changed, Rosemarie.”
She’s dressed in a white Chanel suit, of course, with her gray hair tied back into its usual bun. Rosemarie raises her hand toward my loose curl, almost with a look of disgust.
“Please dress appropriately for the event. Unruly hair like this must always be placed in an elegant bun.”
I force a smile, willing my patience to be granted. Rosemarie knows just how to push my buttons, and no doubt today will be a very long day.
Upon leaving the outdoor area to change, Rosemarie is barking orders at the staff for placing the tables too close to one another.
