Classic Jenna.Forever the victim, never the architect, always preserving perception over impact.
She once canceled our anniversary dinner at the last minute because L’Abeille’s decor didn’t match herbrand palette.
As far as I’m concerned, you don’t spin a breach. You face it. Calculate the damage. Move. Forward.
Which is exactly what this summer in Crystal Cove is about. Me moving on. Me letting go. And now…with Cami, finally feeling something for someone actuallyworthyof it. She doesn’tstageher feelings. Doesn’t flinch from the truth. And being around her doesn’t feel like a risk. It feels like a relief. Even if only temporary.
“You sold it…all?” Jenna finally asks, her tone brittle with disbelief.
Her feigned surprise shouldn’t shock me, but it does. Did she honestly think I’d hold on? That some part of me would stay tethered to our once-was? Like I’m supposed to leave remnants of our life untouched, lying in wait, just in case I ever decide to forgive her and crawl back to the glossy lie we called a marriage?
Truth is, I let go the second I walked into our kitchen and saw someone else’s hands cupping my wife’s breasts.
The crystal-clear moment when the life I believed in got ambushed by a grenade.
The moment I stopped being her loving partner and became her sworn enemy.
Her wedding-planner brand. Her curated lifestyle. None of it was about the work. It was about the image.
And cheating on me? That wasn’t about whatI’dlacked.
All of it was—still is—about feeding her ego.
Power, control, manipulation, all wrapped in plastic smiles, overpriced venues, and bespoke hashtags.
Her infidelity ended up being the best-worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Yes, sold it all,” I answer, ready to end our call. “Because there’s no sense living in the past, Jenna.”
“Wow. Figured you’d at least let me keep a few things. But I guess you’re still bitter.”
She waits on the line, as if on standby for a response, but I’ve nothing more to offer.
Jenna sighs, the kind meant to be heard. “I’ll be out by the end of August.”
I don’t respond. Just end the call and slip my phone into my back pocket, the hum of overhead lights and classic rock music pulling my focus to the dairy aisle.
Jenna fades to static, a dull interference not worth tuning into.
What is worth tuning into? Tonight.
Beach. Wine.Cami.
Our second date.
I grab a pint of heavy cream and toss it into the basket beside garlic, linguine, lemon, and a small bouquet of tulips. I don’t know if Cami’s a shrimp person or a clams person, but after watching her inhale that lobster roll like a convert at a seafood revival, either one will work.
Still, I should check.
I pull out my phone to send her a text. Then pause.
That’s right.
No phone numbers. One of our rules.
Only now, Ireallywant to text her.
Ask her what she prefers. Send a photo of a few options.
