I fell asleep in his arms, while he whispered about his love for me and our future together.
And for the first time in so long, I woke up the next morning still in his arms.
We stayed in bed for hours, he told me everything...or he said he did.He told me about his plan to get unravelled from her family.That he had already told her it was done...that he fell in love with someone else, but he would make sure she understood.That I was the only one he saw, loved, held, and worshipped.
I cried some more about being the other woman...about being the bad guy.
And he promised me that it was her, that Victoria was the villain in our love story and that he would make it all ok.
I should have let him go then.I should have known better.
I should of...
But he stayed, he explained, he promised.
I wish I had known then what I know now.
Because love doesn’t feel like logic when it feels like the very thing keeping you alive, and so I let him stay, because I was already broken, still believing he could be the one to save me.
And I loved him so fucking much.
Chapter 9
I don't know how long I was in the bathroom stall of the hockey arena.Time stretched and collapsed on itself, the buzz of fluorescent lights above me drilling into my head, intensifying the pressure building from getting sick.My thighs were starting to cramp from crouching.It felt like my cheek could have left an imprint against the cool metal wall where I’d leaned too long.But eventually, I pulled myself together enough to stand.
I waited until I thought the bathroom was empty before I slipped out, praying for anonymity, for silence, for just a few seconds to breathe before facing Clara, Jackson, and all the ugly truths waiting for me outside these cinderblock walls.
But I wasn’t that lucky.
She was there.
Victoria.
Leaning casually against the sink, as if she’d been waiting just for me.The soft, composed look she’d worn when she was smiling at Clara was long gone.Now her face was sharp angles, her green eyes gleaming.
She looked at me like I was gum stuck to the bottom of her designer shoe.
The bathroom smelled faintly of disinfectant and floral spray, too sweet, too fake, almost nauseating.The noise of skates, kids, and whistles from the rink filtered faintly through the heavy door, distant but constant, like a reminder of the normal world I no longer felt a part of.
I kept my eyes down and went to the sink.My hands shook as I turned the tap, splashed water on my face,andon the back of my neck.Bent forward and swished water around my dry mouth.Anything to buy myself seconds, to keep my stomach from rebelling again.
When I stood up, droplets clinging to my skin, her reflection was already waiting in the mirror.Her eyes locked on mine.
"Well," she said coolly, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile, "I can see why he picked you.You are stunning.I have to say, though, you aren’t what he typically gravitates to.You’re probably the most beautiful, but he usually goes for trashy hookups."
Her words sliced clean and cruel.My brain lagged, busy trying to catch up with the reality that Andrew’s wife was standing in an arena bathroom, dissecting me.Us.Our affair.
Bile surged again, but I clamped it down.I would not throw up.Not here.Not in front of her.
And then another word caught.Usually.
Did she just say… usual hookups?
She wasn’t done.
"I mean," she went on lightly, as if commenting on the weather, "I guess even good families can produce trash every once in a while."
My head jerked toward her then.Heat climbed my throat.Did she just call me trash?
