The question hits me again, harder this time.
Did that bastard set her up?
Did he fake those motherfucking videos?
Twist something innocent into something else?
My stomach turns.
Because the more I think about it—the less it adds up.
Esme.
The woman I thought I knew. Who knew me.
The woman I married after one damn weekend because I knew she was it—the love of my fucking life.
Would she cheat?
Would she lie?
Would she throw everything away for one night with Paul?
But then—would she leave eleven thousand eight hundred and something dollars sitting in our joint account?
Walk away from it?
Sleep in her van instead?
My jaw tightens.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I mutter.
It doesn’t.
It never did.
I just didn’t want to look too hard at it.
Because believing him?
Accepting that I was never good enough for her in the first place?
That was easier.
Easier than wondering if I got it wrong.
Easier than facing the possibility that I was the one who broke us.
“Fuck.”
The water shuts off.
My head lifts instantly.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
The seconds stretch.
