The hurt and rage unfurling in my gut was hot, nauseating.
No wonder Jack didn’t call me back.
He hadher.
Suddenly, I hated him. Hated him with every fiber of my being. He was toobusyto be a dad. Why did he need us when he could have his pick of women? Jack had always turned heads. Had always charmed every soul he came into contact with. He didn’t even have to try.
Of course my spot in the bed wouldn’t get cold.
Maybe he didn’t even miss me.
The nights I had spent mourning this man felt like a joke. There I was, thinking my life was over, and he was out picking up women?
A knife in my heart.
Recognition dawned in her eyes and she narrowed them, letting her gaze travel down the front of me, stopping on my belly.
I didn’t have a big bump, but it was there nevertheless. My boobs were ginormous, and my tummy was growing. The combo made my v-neck too tight, accentuating my pregnancy.
“You must be Miranda.”
Her eyes were soft, surprisingly unthreatened by my presence. Surely, my gaze shot daggers.
“Yes. And you are?” I wanted to take her down. Tear her limb from limb. Tie her up, light a match, and watch her burn.
“Bree. Jack’s girlfriend.”
An ongoing thing? The knife twisted.
I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. What could I say? My cheeks and eyes burned. How in the world had my life come to this? Face to face with my ex-husband’s plaything while pregnant with his son? Unbelievable.
Why do I care?
The question slammed into my heart and brought theanswer tumbling into my spirit like a ton of bricks. Painful, paralyzing.
Because I love him. I love him so much.
I loved him. I hated him. I wanted to wring his neck. And I never wanted him to be happy with another woman ever again. Why did I still feel this way? It made no sense.
What was wrong with me?
“I—I guess he’s not here?”
She shook her head, pursing her perfect lips to one side. “No, sorry, Miranda.” She leaned her shoulder against the door frame, standing in the threshold. Looked far too at home. “Are you here because of the letter?”
Air tumbled from my lungs. “He told—he told you about that?”
She nodded. “He was really upset when he read it.”
“He was upset?”
“I mean, yeah, of course he was.”
I grappled for a response. “Where—where is he?”
She huffed a sultry laugh. “You don’t remember how hard your ex-husband works?” She shook her head, a smart tone rolling off her tongue. “He’s at work, obviously.” She smoothed the front of Jack’s t-shirt like she wanted to call attention to the fact she was wearing it.
I tried to remember my fight was not with her. But the memory-jog didn’t quell the mental image of grabbing and ripping patches of her lush hair out.
