Leigh in the crowd, laughing, Guinness in hand, leaning into him like she belongs there, her long blond braids over his arm. Cozy. Happy.
This photograph is from last March. I was with Connor in March. We were still together in March. Barely, thinning at the edges, but together officially.
Until he dumped me.
The math links together in my head in pieces. Connor’s business trips. His family trips. The family I never met.
Leigh’s business trips. They were the only reason she ever left home. They kept popping up at the same time as Connor’s trips, which we laughed at as a coincidence at the time.
I never thought anything of the timing. Chalked it up to fate or cosmic coincidence. Never suspected a thing. Especially not after he cheated on me, and Leigh was fiercely upset.
Because I had nearly figured it out.
I’d found a long blond hair in his bed and called him out on it, and he didn’t deny cheating on me. He owned up to it straightaway, apologized, and asked for forgiveness, saying we had something special. I agreed after a few days of ranting to Leigh…
I put Ronan’s phone down on the table and look at it. Ronan is watching me with the steady, present attention of a man who has delivered difficult news before and knows that the most useful thing he can do right now is simply be here.
“How long have you known?”
“About an hour.”
I nod. I stand up. I get my coat from the hook by the door. “Send me the picture.”
“Sage—”
“I need to talk to her. I’ll be back.” I pause. “You’re all right with the babies?”
“Of course.” He stands and sends the pic. “Do you want me to come?”
“No.” I look at him. “I need to do this on my own.”
He reads my face and nods, and I go.
The drive to Leigh’s cottage takes less time than expected, and I use none of it to cool down, which probably means I arrive at her door in a state that is not entirely conducive to a measured conversation. I knock.
Well, I bang. Full fist. A lot.
She opens it almost immediately, in her sweats, and the smile she starts drops when she sees my face. “Sage?—”
“Did you have a good time in Ireland?”
She turns paper white. Her mouth opens and closes for a moment.
I hold up my phone with the photograph on the screen. “You were in Galway. On Saint Patrick’s Day. With Connor. While he and I were still together.”
She looks at the photo. Then at me. Her voice is hoarse. “Yes.”
“You were there, at the parade. The one Connor acted too high and mighty to really get into with me. But you two were having a great time, according to the picture.”
She doesn’t speak, not at first. She gulps instead. “I know.”
“You knew I was there. Knew that I thought he was going to propose. Knew that I was excited to meet his family.”
She only nods. Guilt makes her face long in a strange way, like her jaw is going slack behind closed lips.
I have been angry at Leigh before. The hospital, the months of hidden phone calls. In both of those instances, I found my way to the complicated truth underneath the anger, the full picture of a person who loved me imperfectly and was trying, in the wrong direction, to do right by everyone simultaneously. I found my way to that and chose to work on our friendship.
For a while, that worked. Until now.
