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Another attempt to see Tank backfired tremendously. Not only has he not added me to the visitor’s list, but there was a woman there to see him. A very busty, beautiful woman, I might add. I saw them leaving a private conference room together while I practically begged the policewoman to let me see him.
I can get over the beauty, maybe, but what kills me is that she knows what’s going on in Tank’s life right now.
And I don’t.
Who is she anyway?
Is she his wife or a girlfriend? And if so, does that make me the other woman? Is he just like all the other men, a fucking lying piece of shit?
And then comes the one thought that hasn’t left my mind since Hannah told me about the arrest: why didn’t he tell me his real name? Was he hiding it from me?
Of everything we shared about our lives, our families and hobbies, he never told me his real name, the one on his driver’s license and birth certificate. The one on his dog tags.
If he can keep that from me, then there’s a lot of other shit he could be keeping from me. Like a wife. Two-point-five kids. A house with a white picket fence.
“Well, fuck,” I half-laugh, half-shout to myself. Here I am, thinking I’m being progressive and open-minded because I don’t care that Tank is a biker or an ex-con when the truth is that he’s just a lying fucking cheater like all the rest.
I bawl my eyes out, a big ol’ ugly cry that I’m happy no one is around to see, not even Josie. She’d give me so much shit for crying over a man that she’d mock me and tell me, ‘I told you so’. But I let it all out, crying so hard that my shoulders shake and my chest heaves under the force of the grief.
It should feel cathartic, crying over something I lost, something I never actually had in the first place, but it doesn’t feel healing at all.
I feel stupid, used, and sad.
I feel angry.
Pissed off.
And then I feel sick to my stomach. So stick that I toss the letter aside, practically leaping over the coffee table as I rush to the bathroom. Sinking to my knees, I hug the bowl and empty out the oatmeal and blueberries I ate for breakfast and then some. It goes on and on until there’s nothing left but bile, and then I frown.
The same thing happened yesterday, but I didn’t eat breakfast yesterday.
The day before that, I was sick as soon as I opened my eyes.
The same thing happened the day before and the day before that.
“Shit. Oh no,” I murmur to myself as panic sets in. “Don’t freak out yet, Soph. Let’s diagnose first.”
I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly, but I nearly puke again from the smell in the bowl. I push up to my feet, flush the toilet and rinse my mouth and face, taking a long, hard look at my reflection. Pale with hollow cheeks, a sure sign of weight loss, which isn’t completely abnormal since I’m heartbroken and unemployed.
But the nausea and the dizziness could be anything until you add exhaustion for no apparent reason and tender breasts. I hate that I’m even thinking of what I’m thinking, but I’m an adult and a medical professional, which means I can’t ignore reality forever.Just a little while longer,I tell myself as I head back to the living room, where my phone is with my period tracker app.
“Well, shit.” It’s not definitive proof, but the likelihood is greater than I’d like, considering I’m a side piece. A homewrecker.
I switch over to the message app and send one to Josie. “Forget the wine when you come over. Bring extra cake and two pregnancy tests. Will tell you everything when you get here.”
I drop the phone and step back, knowing Josie’ll have about a million questions even though I promised to tell her everything when she gets here later.
I fold Tank’s letter and freeze. Part of me wants to toss it in the trash, but something stops me. I don’t want to think about what thatsomethingis, so I tuck it back in my purse and hang it up on the hook by the door, and since I can’t cleanse my soul or my heart, I might as well clean my house.
It’s pretty tidy, so it takes about an hour, which gives me enough time before Josie arrives to shower and change into hot pink leggings with a pale pink tank that’s lightweight and airy.
The front door opens a little after six in the evening and my best friend is here, staring at me with an expression of shock written on her face. “You’re a nurse,” she says in an accusing tone. “A nurse. A grown woman. And you’re on the pill, aren’t you?”
I smile and nod. “All true. What’s your point?”
“My point?” Her voice grows louder. “My point!”
I roll my eyes and point at my best friend. “You’re doing that repeating thing you do when your system starts to malfunction.”
