Like adults. As if I was the one being childish. As if catching your man fucking another woman and being upset about it was somehow immature.
I closed my laptop with more force than necessary and walked to the window. Outside, unfamiliar traffic hummed past on the interstate—no rumble of motorcycles, no sudden rev of engines that used to make my heart lift because it might be him coming home. The parking lot below was mostly empty except for a few long-haul truckers catching sleep and a woman in scrubs who worked the night shift at the hospital down the road. Normal people living normal lives, none of them dealing with motorcycle club presidents who thought fidelity was optional.
God, I missed him.
That was the worst part—not the anger or the humiliation, but the missing. Missing his laugh when I made terrible jokes. Missing the way he’d pull me against his chest when I was stressed about work. Missing the rare moments when his guard was down and I could see the man underneath all that leather and attitude.
But which version of him was real? The Dutch who texted me every morning and night, or the Dutch who fucked Crystal on his desk and then acted like I was crazy for being upset?
My phone rang, and this time it was a number I recognized. My big sister Priya, calling from San Diego.
“Hey,” I answered, trying to sound normal.
“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Priya said immediately. “You sound terrible. What’s wrong?”
I’d always been a shitty liar, especially with my sister. “I’m fine. Just tired from work.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been dodging my calls for days, and when you do answer, you sound like someone died. What happened? Is it the biker guy?”
She’d never liked Dutch, though she’d been polite enough during our video calls. Too old for me, she’d said. Too rough around the edges. I’d defended him, told her she was judging him unfairly.
Turned out she’d been right all along.
“We broke up,” I said quietly.
“Oh, honey.” Priya’s voice immediately softened. “What happened? Did you finally get tired of all the testosterone and leather?”
If only it were that simple. “He was cheating on me. The entire time we were together.”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched so long I thought the call had dropped. “Priya?”
“I’m here. I’m just trying to figure out how to get to Oregon to kill him.”
Despite everything, I laughed. “You don’t need to kill anyone.”
“The hell I don’t. What kind of asshole—” She took a deep breath. “Tell me everything.”
So I told her. All of it—finding him with Crystal, the fight, his casual admission that he’d been sleeping around the entire time. That it was just “club business.” I paced the small room as I talked, unable to stay still, my free hand twisting the hem of my shirt until the fabric stretched. By the time I finished, my voice was raw and Priya was making the kind of angry noises that meant she was seriously considering that trip to Oregon.
“Where are you now?” she asked.
“Tennessee. Knoxville.”
“Good. Stay there. Or better yet, come home to San Diego. You can stay with me and Arun until you figure out your next move.”
The offer was tempting. Priya’s guest room, her husband’s terrible cooking, their two-year-old daughter Asha who would demand endless piggyback rides and stories. Normal family chaos that had nothing to do with motorcycle clubs or club girls or men who thought promises of fidelity were negotiable.
But running home to my sister felt too much like giving up. Like letting Dutch win.
“I need to handle this myself,” I said.
“Handle what? You left him. Good for you. Now come somewhere safe where people actually give a shit about you.”
“I just need some time to think.”
“Indira.” Priya’s voice took on that big-sister tone I remembered from childhood. “You know I love you. And I need you to hear this: that guy didn’t deserve you for one single second. Any man who would risk losing you for some cheap club girl is too fucking stupid to deserve air.”
I sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing my palm flat against the rough comforter.
