I have no freaking clue but I’m nosy for any scrap of intel I can get.
Butterflies swoop low in my belly, almost confirming him showing up with a bloody lip is somehow connected to this guy. Still, I can’t be sure unless I come out and ask Colson. Even then, who’s to say he’d tell me the truth when he openly admitted that he wasn’t going to tell me about it before?
He came to me when he was in troublebecause it was bad enough that he didn’t want his own family to know.That says something. That he can trust me. Red flags shoot up like heads ina round of whack-a-mole. Not necessarily to tell me to stay away from him, but to confirm something is amiss.
Something that not even I’d be able to fix.
I leave my room to wait by the door, figuring that he’ll come straight up after he’s done.
Fifteen minutes pass.
Then thirty.
That knock never comes.
I pushinto the studio room of the complex’s gym and set out my yoga mat, happy to see no one else working out. With my bottle of water close by, I sit and stretch as I try to let go of the thoughts that seem to always bother me.
Dad was with another woman.
You caughthim having an affair.
With his secretary.
Mom deserves to know.
So does Olive.
Why are you being a chickenshit?
If he’s not going to tell them, then someone has to.
By hiding his secrets for him, you’re lying to people you care about.
You’re a liar.
You’re a liar.
You’re a liar.
I move into a seated forward bend, stretching my fingertips to my feet and loving the burn in my muscles as I do. It’s a lot better than the betrayal that zaps me directly in the chest from my thoughts of Dad.
Much more bearable and distracting.
I complete a set of warrior poses and focus on my breathing and form. I watch myself in the mirrors along the wall to make sure I’m doing each pose as I was taught, but even I see how sloppy I’m being.
My back isn’t as straight as it could be. I’m not lengthening my spine or arms in the way I should. I don’t feel relaxed and stronger by the end. I feel weak and small, as if a gentle summer breeze is all it’d take to knock me down.
This session isn’t hitting the same, and to be perfectly honest, I’m stressed. The anxiety moving through me is anything but watered down, instead it’s in its most concentrated form. It’s in the tips of my fingers. In the soles of my feet. In the way my breath hitches as I dig down into a child’s pose to stretch out the last that I have in me.
Not that I want to play the blame game—I normally despise it—but downing three-quarters of a bottle of wine while Ev and I watched old 80’s rom-coms two nights ago makes me ache more. Makes me slower and lazier. Even with the excessive amounts of water I’ve guzzled down the last day or two.
I’m off my game, and the worry that comes from Dad’s infidelity feeds off it. The drama with Sylvia doesn’t help, and Colson never came to find me like he said he would.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
All of it.
Of all the people in the world, why didIhave to be the one that walked in on his secretary riding him?It’s the sickest joke I’ve ever been a part of, and to be frank, I don’t want to be in it anymore. I want out. Desperately. I want to rewind time. If there was a remote that could promise it, I’d do just about anything to get my hands on it.
