But she’s lying. I can tell. And even though I barely understand the mess she’s carrying, I already know this much: I’d rather walk barefoot across hot coals than see her look like that again.
“What about your parents?” I ask, trying to distract her.
“Ah, my parents,” she says, her focus still distracted. “Well, my dad works in insurance. He moved to California after they divorced. My mom…” She pauses, thinking. “She’s currently traveling the Mediterranean with whoever her current fling is… Gerry? Fabio? I honestly lose track.”
Her laugh is brittle, and the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Have they been divorced long?”
Her mouth twists, and I can tell she isn’t comfortable. “Like five years now, I think.” She shifts, restless, eyes darting anywhere but me.
“That sounds like a lot to deal with.”
I watch the way her shoulders tense, like she’s bracing for pity. Her eyes flick to mine, quick and uncertain, before she nods once. “I mean, it wasn’t a party, but they’re better apart.”
And just because she looks like she wants to bolt out of her body, I offer something to keep her here. “I think dinner is ready now, if you want to try it?”
Her tired eyes meet mine in a silent moment shared between us. “I absolutely want to try it.”
I hold out the spoon, and she leans in, blowing gently before tasting. She closes her eyes and sighs so dramatically that I can’t help but laugh. “Oh my god,” she groans, “this is incredible. I’m in heaven.”
Her grin finally reaches her eyes this time, and the knot in my chest loosens. If all it takes to keep her smiling is good food, I’ll cook for her every damn night.
Chapter eight
Liv
Thethingthatnoone tells you about being cheated on and lied to is that you don’t automatically stop trusting. Stop hoping. Stop missing the version of them you thought was real. You still do those things, but each time it hurts.
You don’t get a clean break. It’s messy because there’s no reset button that turns off the part of you that cared.
Even when you’re angry. Even when you know better.
Because betrayal isn’t a clean slice—it’s a slow bleed. It’s webbed into all the parts of you that you thought could be loved by someone. Those parts still very much live within me, stale and sore. Wounded and yet somehow healing. That’s probably the worst part, not that I trusted him, but that now I don’t trust myself.
And some days, like now, all it takes is a name lighting up my phone with a simple ‘I have something of yours’ text to make my lungs feel too small for my ribs. To remind me that I’m not angry enough. Not over it enough. Not healed enough to stop reacting.
I hate that it still gets to me. I hate that just seeing his name on my phone brings it all back like a slap to the face.
There’s no amount of self-care that can erase the deep, painful shame I carry.
That’s why I can’t sleep right now, despite my stomach being filled with the most amazing dinner, homemade by my roommate. The very roommate who has shown me nothing but kindness, and I’m here thinking about how unnerving it is when someone doesn’t want anything from me. I feel like an ass, and yet I can’t stop myself from replaying all the bad things from the last few months on replay.
Especially that morning in Rhys’ lake house.
I’d thought it was ours, I thought he was mine. His smile, his hand on the small of my back as he unlocked the door. The place looked like a bachelor pad, with dark furnishings, clean lines, no photos, no family clutter, nothing to hint at a wife and family. Nothing to hint at me being the other woman cliché.
His wife’s scream still lives in my bones. High-pitched and shrill, as I saw her standing in the doorway, watching her husband drive into me in their bed.Herbed. And I couldn’t move, couldn’t cover myself, couldn’t do anything except drown in the sound of her breaking. It plagues me.
The memory scrapes against my ribs, hot and sharp. I swallow hard, willing it down. He’s already seen enough of my tears. Having space from that situation made me realize how blindsided I was by him and all his charm and swagger. It made me feel like an idiot, and I lost something that day.
The clock on my nightstand blinks back at me: 5:00 a.m. Disgustingly early. My choices are counting sheep, doomscrolling, or getting up and exercising some of this energy out.
Sleep’s clearly not coming, and I have no intention of texting him back or ever speaking to him again. Running will have to do.
I dress in leggings and grab an old, threadbare hoodie off the back of the door and slip it on, then move quietly through the apartment. The air is warm from sleep and silence, and I just need out. Out of my head. Out of this imaginary space where memories cling to my skin like sweat.
I’m almost at the front door when a rustle from the couch stops me.
