Shit. What did he do?
The episode is already queued, and I brace for the usual opening: “Welcome back toThe Dirty Jersey, where we talk sex, scandal, and all the things your mother warned you about—” Isla’s voice, as always, sounds like espresso spiked with honey.
The guest intro is the usual spin: “Today, we have hockey legend Colton King, who’s in the middle of the custody case to end all custody cases—” There’s laughter, banter, an awkward attempt at a “Hottest Dad in the League” joke. I’m waiting for the disaster, but it’s all pretty standard until Isla asks, “What’s been the hardest part of all this for you?”
There’s a long pause, the kind they edit for drama. Then Colton says, “It is strange, being the bad guy. I was always told to win, to fight for my family. Then suddenly, I am the monster.”
His English is good, but there’s a new stiffness in it, like he’s trying not to say too much. They talk about his upbringing, living with a new family. All normal, interesting to listen to, but then it all starts with one seemingly innocent question:
“So, let’s get to the fun stuff,” Isla says. “The rumor mill says you’ve got a new flame, but you’ve being super cagey about it.”
Colton’s voice drops. “I do not talk about my private life, usually.”
“Oh, come on. Just tell us—are the rumors true? Are you in love with your lawyer?”
There’s a noise, a kind of broken laugh. “Love is not so simple. Maybe you believe in it, maybe not. I don’t know if I have this thing. Not in the way people talk about.”
My stomach drops and I look at Isla, she winces. Again.
“That’s a dodge. Are you, or aren’t you?” Isla asks.
Another pause. “I care for her. But I do not think we ever said those words. Maybe there’s a reason for that.”
“Or maybe you’re just waiting for the right time.”
“Maybe,” he starts,” “Or maybe there is no such time.”
“So, you’re saying this is just a media hype right now?”
“Yes. People shouldn’t believe what they see or hear on the internet.”
That’s it. I stop the recording. My hand is shaking. The silence that follows is so dense I can hear my own pulse. Then I hear myself laughing—a tight, raw, ugly sound. It’s not a laugh. It’s realization. I stare at my own reflection in the window across from us: hair frizzed, suit jacket off, a smear of mascara under one eye. I look exactly like someone who’s just heard her husband deny her existence on a very popular podcast.
Not even husband. It was all fake. I just pretended it was real. He was never really mine. So, what did I expect?
A wave of nausea washes through me. I clench the armrest and will my stomach to behave, but the rest of me is already drowning. All the little pieces that held me together this whole case—the faith, the stubborn hope, the belief that I could be the exception—start to float up and away. Now that we won, there is no reason for Colton to stay married to me. He got what he wanted. But then again… he’s not that kind of man… but also, men always disappointed me. Always.
“Jenna?”
Isla is repeating my name over and over, gentle at first, then louder, the way you try to rouse someone after a concussion. I’m sitting on her couch with a glass of wine I don’t rememberpouring and I can’t tell if I’m physically present or being haunted by a less-competent version of myself.
“Jenna, are you okay? Say something,please.”
I want to tell her that no, in fact, I am not okay. I am the farthest possible thing from okay, and the inside of my chest feels like someone poured a lava lamp into my ribcage and forgot to screw the cap back on. But my mouth can only manage a small sound, like when you tap an empty glass: “I’m fine.” I drink. My tongue is numb.
“You want to talk about what he said?” Isla says, voice soft.
“No. I want to murder someone and then eat pancakes.”
Isla looks so genuinely relieved I almost laugh. “Good. Great. We can do both. Let’s carb-load and then you can smash a pillow or something. My neighbor has a Peloton if you need to shank something more substantial.”
I know she wants me to laugh but I can’t move. My limbs are marshmallows, or maybe the air is syrup, or maybe I just can’t process the idea of standing up and having gravity still apply to me.
Instead, I say, “I need to talk to him.” And the words are ice chips melting on my tongue.
Isla’s face falls. “Like now? Do you want me to come with you? I can stand outside with, like, a bat or a boom box.”
“No.” I take a shaky breath, and the act of oxygen entering my lungs almost convinces me I might live through this. “It’s better if I go alone. You’d just roast him until he cried and then I’d have to represent you in court.”
