Slowly, I sit up and wipe my mouth with the back of my shaking hand.
I thought his betrayal was the worst of it. But now? It's the humiliation I hate most.
How could I have been so blind? So fucking stupid?
My head falls back on the wall. It's cool. Firm. And I collapse against it. All my strength gone.
Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I smell them in the air. Taste their lies on every breath. My body feels violated, and I'm disgusted I ever let James touch me.
My gaze drifts to a shattered mirror, where a hundred fractured versions of myself stare back at me—a perfect replica of my broken heart.
I was never going to be enough…
Not for James. Not for Aubrey. Not for my parents. Not for this town. Not for anyone.
A lump of emotions forms in my throat, and I can't swallow around it. I try and try, hit my chest, claw at my neck, but it refuses to budge.
I need to get out of here.
I stumble into the living room, and for a moment, I can breathe again.
But then I notice more of James's things. His coat. His socks.
A lipstick stain on one of the coffee mugs—the exact shade Aubrey wears.
Then I see the shoes I hadn't paid attention to before. Not just his or mine, but hers.
They were my favorite flats, ones Aubrey borrowed but never returned. I'd given up on ever getting them back until suddenly, James said Aubrey gave them to him.
That was weeks ago. Now they're scattered and mixed with his things by the door like they live here, while my own are lined up neatly, separated from their mess.
How many times has she been alone with him in this house? In our bed?
The walls begin to close in again. I can see them sitting on the couch, watching a show, snuggling, eating, drinking, kissing. Wrapped up in one another while I was out there busting my ass to save for our wedding.
Is she the reason he insisted on staying here so we could be close to family? Close to her?
Is he in love with her?
I scoff.
Of course he is.
Aubrey is always everyone's favorite.
Blonde where I'm red.
Thin where I'm fat.
Sweet and bubbly where I've always been too much or too quiet or too emotional.
My parents loved her more, I knew that. The child they weren't ashamed of, their redemption story after having me—the daughter that could never live up to their expectations.
But they won’t be able to sweep this under the rug.
My parents hate being the subject of gossip more than anything else. Pride themselves on being respectable. But this? They won't be able to live down the scandal.
I snicker at the thought of showing them how wrong they were, that their golden child is such a fuck up. It thrills me—vindicates me—and I want to bask in that feeling.
