34
MELANIE
My skull throbbed like someone was pounding a drum behind my eyes. I pressed my fingers hard into my temples, as if I could rub the ache away, but the pressure only sharpened the dull edge of exhaustion. Sleep deprivation was its own kind of poison—slow, gnawing, and mean. Not even the worst hangover could compete. Mom and I had spent the whole day pretending—shopping, gorging on overpriced food, soaking in spa silence like we were still close. But the moment we walked back into the house, and I saw the empty living room, something in me twisted. I hadn’t expected Nick to be home. It was only nine. But I’d hoped. God, I’d hoped he might’ve come back early. That we could talk. That maybe… maybe I could fix this thing I’d made such a mess of.
But he wasn’t there.
And when I woke up at two a.m.—because apparently, my body now thought it was some kind of personal ritual—he still hadn’t come back. The silence was louder than any fight we could’ve had.
I peeled myself out of bed like my bones weighed double, stumbling through the kitchen routine. Check blood sugar. Start coffee. Yesterday I’d blown my cover—forgot my insulin in thechaos of keeping up the façade, had to explain everything to Mom when I pulled a fast-acting pen from my purse like a damn magician revealing the truth. She took it surprisingly well. Said she was proud of me. Said it was time Richard saw I was “taking care of myself.” But I saw the angle. The salon appointment? The glowing hair, the polished exterior? It wasn’t about health. It was about control. About digging.
She knew something didn’t add up. She’s not stupid. She did the math—diabetes diagnosis plus surprise marriage—and the equation didn’t sit right. She wants answers. She wants the truth I can’t give. And sitting in a hair salon chair pretending to be her little doll while she pokes at the mess I’ve made is the last thing I want to do.
I’m sick of pretending. Sick of lying. Sick of feeling like this girl I barely recognize—someone small and hidden and ashamed. Nick and I started off as a lie. That was the whole point. But the fact that I can’t stop obsessing over the look on his face, the fact that I can’t stand the idea that he’s disgusted with me for keeping this secret from my mother—it means something. Doesn’t it? I’ve been texting him since two a.m., when the bed felt too cold and too empty and too quiet. I made a stupid grilled cheese sandwich and sent him a picture of it like it was some kind of olive branch. Pathetic. But it was my way of saying I missed him. That I was sorry. That I wished he were here and that I didn’t know how to make this right with my mother breathing down my neck like a perfectly manicured vulture.
Now dread coiled in my chest like smoke as I poured coffee with trembling hands. I sat at the table and checked my phone again. One more time. Just in case.
Still nothing.
I scrolled through my messages, reading them back like I could rewrite them with hindsight. Did I sound desperate? Clingy? Would he think I was too much? Not enough?
I didn’t know the rules. I was new to this whole… relationship thing. And even though the marriage certificate said otherwise, I knew better.
We were still just pretending. So why did it feel so damn real?
2:01a.m. I woke up to get you but you weren’t here?
2:10 a.m. Did you sleep at the restaurant? Are you okay?
2:20 a.m. I’m sorry about my mom. She’s a lot to deal with, I know.
2:30 a.m. And I’m sorry I lied, You see how she can be, it’s part of why I did. I know that doesn’t make it right.
2:32: Ugh, I’m sorry. Will you please just talk to me?
2:38: I made you a grilled cheese.
The last text was the picture I sent with Loco and I holding up a grilled cheese sandwich.
I placed my phone back on the table face down and dropped my head into my hands. I was so embarrassed. No wonder he didn’t come home last night. I was acting like a five stage clinger. Then it dawned on me. Lifting my head up so fast I thought I sprained my neck.
What if he was with another girl last night? What if he slept with someone else?
My heart sank down to my stomach.
I had no right to ask, but I wanted to know. Can I be mad if he did? Sure, I can. We're married. We’ve been having sex too, so ya, I can get mad at him. I was entitled to be just like a real wife, right?.
Who was I kidding? We weren’t really a couple.
This was all an act, remember, Melanie.
Loco barked at me as if he was reading my mind.
“I know, bud.” If it was all an act, why did it seem like the only people we were fooling were ourselves?
The front door swung open, and I saw a pissed-off Nick storm through. He takes his shoes off one by one. And I immediately jump to my feet.
“Nick, hey,” I pushed my chair backwards as I raced over to him.
