Mile four:Or she's exactly what she seems—chaotic, genuine, impossible to fake.
The rhythm breaks. I have to consciously steady my pace.
Watching her stumble through this job—tripping over tiles, inventing fictional children, going nuclear on Scarlett—doesn't feel like deception. It feels like chaos. Genuine, unfiltered, impossible-to-fake chaos.
She's a terrible liar.
That's what keeps circling back.
Caroline was a good liar. Smooth. Practiced. She knew exactly what to say, how to look at me, which version of herself to present in any given room. I never saw the seams. Notonce. Not until the mandatory pre-nup paternity test. I have Aunt Milly to thank for that.
Jane? Jane telegraphs everything. Every emotion plays across her face like she's never heard of a poker face. When she's nervous, she rambles. When she's flustered, she makes terrible jokes. When she came last night, she said my name like a prayer and looked at me like I'd just handed her something she didn't know she needed.
You can't fake that.
Can you?
Mile five:You don't trust your own judgment anymore.
There it is. The truth I've been running from.
The treadmill beeps—five miles done in thirty-two minutes. Faster than my usual pace but I'm barely winded. My head though, is still a mess.
I move to the weight bench and load up more than I should. The physical strain helps. Gives my brain something concrete to focus on.
Bench press: She wrapped herself in blankets to avoid you.
Push.
Because you lost control. Came like you'd never been touched before.
Lower.
She probably thinks you're pathetic.
Push.
Or dangerous.
Lower.
You told her not to do that with Blake. That was possessive.
Push.
You have no claim on her.
Lower.
You WANT a claim on her.
Stop.
That's the problem.
I finish the set, arms shaking. Sit up and scrub my hands over my face.
Here's what I know for certain:
