Jett is pacing around my living room, Cordelia following him around, waiting for him to stop in one place long enough to rub against his legs. He finally does, and bends to scoop her up into his arms.
There’s one thing Cordelia never does, and that is allow people to pick her up, not even me. But there she is, rubbing her face into his neck in the same spot I kissed earlier this morning and a pang of jealousy zips through me.
Don’t be jealous of a cat, Poppy. You have more important things to worry about.
I watch his shoulders drop to a more relaxed position as he snuggles Cordelia and then sets her down. She retreats to her scratching post, satisfied.
I heave a sigh that lands between us like something heavy, neither of us wanting to face what we came up here to talk about.
“How did this happen?” I ask, knowing that Jett probably has the same amount of information that I do.
He shakes his head, at a loss for answers.
“I haven’t heard from Brooke yet. Jason sent me the link to the article and nothing else, and I’m afraid to read it.”
I take my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and find the article Wren had shown me, the one Jett is talking about. Initially, in my dumbstruck state, I only read the headline. It seemed like everything I needed to know. Maybe I’m a masochist, torturing myself by even daring to look, but if this is going to ruin my life, I want to at least understand how and why.
I scroll down and scan the text, until I find the damning clue.
An email leak from an “inside source”.
“It was an email leak,” I say, my voice shaky. My pulse thrums in my ears, my heart rate racing. “A typo in an email that was cc’d on our wedding planning thread.”
Jett’s eyes dart around, as if he’s searching for the explanation written somewhere on my living room rug.
“Who?”
As I keep scanning the webpage, I find a screenshot of the email in question, the damning receipt. And I instantly recognize the sending address, because the email came fromhim.
Jett.
The ground disappears from beneath me, my knees wobbling, my stomach queasy, as I try to make sense of it.
No, no, no.
The message had been in response to Brooke. We were both cc’d, along with our wedding coordinator, asking whichnapkins we preferred for the reception; white with silver trim, or powder-blue trim.
I sent her back a quick answer, I thought powder blue looked the nicest. But Jett, always a shit-disturber shot back “whichever screams ‘totally a real wedding, definitely not a PR stunt.’”
As I keep reading, I realize that the email was the proof, but it was Brooke who made the error that led to the leak. She pulled the trigger on the smoking gun.
Apparently, our wedding coordinator has a very similar last name to an assistant who works at Nuclear. Brooke probably started typing the name and didn’t double check when it auto populated the wrong address. The assistant must have figured it was her way to climb the corporate ladder by outing us.
There’s already an onslaught of comments. A few are directed at Jett, the usual criticisms about his philandering, but most of them are targeted at me.
This makes waaaay more sense.
Thistle + Thorne? More like Thistle +Thot.
LOL I should have known when he married… her.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, sitting down on the couch, defeated.
I hand my phone to Jett for him to see for himself, because I can barely formulate the words. I’m still trying to make sense of this all, trying to understand, wishing that this wasn’t real.
Jett reads the article, and I’m assuming he’s made it to the comment section, because the line between his brows deepens, the muscle flicking in his jaw. He has the same expression on his face as the night of our engagement.
He looks like he wants to punch something.
