“Bye, baby,” Lucas murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to my lips.
“Bye, babe. Have a good hike,” I reply.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” he asks, a hint of hope in his voice.
“I’m sure. It’s freezing and these cramps are killing me.”
He frowns slightly but gives a small nod. “Rest up.”
“I love you,” I say, managing a tired smile.
“Love you too,” he calls over his shoulder, striding towards the door. I turn to watch as he grabs his rucksack, slinging the straps over his shoulders.
The door slams shut behind him, and the sound echoes through the quiet room, startling poor Basil curled up next to me. I take the last sip of my drink, setting the mug down on the coffee table. My hand drifts towards the open packet of crisps, and I pluck one from the top and pop it into my mouth with a satisfyingcrunch.
I’m totally enraptured in the latest episode of my TV show when a sound cuts through the air.Ping …
Ping …
I groan, abandoning the half-eaten bag of crisps as I push myself off the sofa and head towards the kitchen counter.
Crap.
Lucas forgot his phone.
Ping …
I pick it up, intending to silence it, but my eyes catch on the notification banner at the top of the screen:“I love this one”
A strange tightness grips my stomach, and I lurch back slightly. I feel a flush of redness bloom across my chest as heat prickles up my neck. I set the phone down momentarily, only to pick it back up again seconds later.
I never go through Lucas’s phone. I’ve never had a reason to. I trust him … don’t I?
Lucas is glued to his phone and every time it chimes, he’s on it instantly, like it’s magnetised to his hand. He never leaves it unattended, always checking it. And I’ve caught him smiling at it a few times —the same smile he usually gives me. I’ve told myself to believe him, that it’s just work, but deep down, I know better.
There’s something more going on here, and I can’t ignore it anymore.
Swallowing thickly, I swipe the lock screen and open Instagram. The app loads to a profile I’ve never seen before, and my heart begins to pound.
It’s not Lucas’s usual account.
My fingers hover above the screen, uncertain of whether to snoop, but curiosity wins out.
Giving in, I scroll through the feed and find images of women in lingerie, models, poems, and women talking about books. It’s then that I spot the profile picture. It’s a black-and-white photograph of his hand holding a pen. The sleek, black Montblanc I gave him on our first anniversary.
I tap to view the profile grid, and the account name beneath the profile picture reads:GhostWriter.I feel myself changingshape inside. With each flick of my thumb, I notice his posts becoming more sexual: faceless photos of Lucas—his back, arms, torso. Sometimes dressed, sometimes not. Amongst them are random pictures, like the odd poem here and there, as well as pictures of Basil curled up on the bed, or pictures of hiking trails. Considering the number of posts, he’s clearly had this account for a while.
I tap on a random post—a photo of his body from the neck down, his abs and muscular arms on full display. Below it, a caption reads:
“For someone who’s on my mind more than she knows.”
I scroll to the comments—there are dozens, all from women. Complimenting him, admiring him—some are just outright flirting.
Why does he have this?
What the fuck is he doing?
The questions come thick and fast.
