"You're the only woman who can make me come this hard."
I'm standing frozen in front of our bedroom door as Beckett has phone sex—fucking phone sex—with someone.
Uncertainty floods me as I quickly evaluate the options. Did he call a service? Is this one of his fantasies? Does he do this all the time? Am I okay with this?
"I'm coming for you, goddamn it. Oooh!" he groans as he, assumedly, comes on our bed sheets.
Right as I'm about to burst through the room and ruin his orgasm, Beckett adds, "I miss you too, baby. I'll see you this weekend. I love you, too. Bye."
Ikickopenthedoor like a fireman ready to extinguish some flames.
Beckett is satisfyingly startled, flinging himself halfway up in the bed, naked from the waist down, noise-canceling headphones wrapped around his ears.
"Amelia!" he yells, removing them, ejaculation stains on the stomach of his shirt.
"What in the actual fuck are you doing?" I shriek.
"I was jerking off. What happened to your hair?"
"Do not deflect. I heard every filthy word you said. Who the hell were you talking to? You said you loved her!"
"I–I don't know what to say."
If this were happening in a movie, I would find it comical: his limp dick flopping around as he chases me out into the kitchen. But this is my life and there’s nothing remotely funny about this.
Violence is never the answer.
Which is why I feel an ounce of shame when my open palm connects to his cheek.
"How could you do this? You've been cheating on me?" I shout as my hands shake when I tear his iPhone out of his trembling fingers.
"Amelia," Beckett heaves, his freckled cheek turning pink. "Can you calm down for a second and let me think?"
"Time to come up with a lie? I heard you. You love someone else. What's there to think about?"
"What are you even doing home so early?" The tone is accusatory, and I see red.
Violence is never the answer.
But in this moment, I feel justified when I hurl his iPhone through the air and it hits him dead on the nose.
I'mparkedoutsidetheemergency room, waiting in my car for Beckett to get his cartilage fracture mended.
At least he had the decency to allow me to drive him to the hospital instead of the police station. Because undoubtedly my actions warrant some type of discipline.
Maybe he can forgive me one day for this. Maybe once his nose has healed. But I will never forgive him for what he's done.
An hour later, Beckett walks out with white bandages on his face and the beginnings of two black eyes.
I should feel bad, but I don't. At least not right now. I'm sure I will soon, but all I can think about is how our relationship is over.
He opens the door and plops onto the passenger seat. He's sitting in dried blood, and instead of worrying about his well-being, I'm praying the stains come out.
"How bad is it?" I ask.
"It'll heal, but will look a lot worse tomorrow."
Everything will look worse tomorrow. His nose, my life, the future.
