Chapter 2

2

By the time I got home, the midnight bells were tolling.

Fireworks exploded outside the window, casting flickering bursts of light across the pitch-black living room.

I slid down against the cold wall until I was sitting on the hardwood floor.

The harsh glow of my phone screen became the only source of light in the darkness.

Like a masochistic thief, I refreshed Sierra’s social media feed over and over again.

Her cover photo had been updated to two hands with intertwined fingers.

On the man’s index finger was a faint white scar.

During our sophomore year, a wild basketball flew toward my face, and Lance shoved it away without hesitation, cutting his finger on the backboard.

I had tenderly applied an adhesive bandage for him, tears in my eyes.

He told me, “It’s just a scratch, no big deal.”

Yet I quietly treasured that little scar as proof that he cared for me.

Looking back now, it was nothing more than a bitter joke.

Her feed was filled with sweet, daily moments shared with Lance.

Her very first post announcing their relationship was dated June 3rd.

My heart dropped into an abyss.

That was my birthday.

I had reserved a table at that exclusive, impossible-to-book restaurant he loved.

I waited from dusk until closing time before he finally rushed through the doors.

His hair was slightly disheveled, and he claimed emergency overtime at work held him up.

Instead of being angry, I felt guilty and worried about his exhausting day.

Throughout that entire dinner, his screen lit up constantly, and a secretive smile played on his lips.

When I leaned in curiously to ask what funny meme he was looking at, he instantly locked his screen.

His glare cut into me like an icy blade.

“I despise people snooping through my phone,” he snapped coldly. “Dating doesn’t mean I have to report every breath to you, understand?”

All my words lodged in my throat, leaving me stammering out a clumsy apology.

So the thing that put a genuine smile on his face that night wasn’t funny news―it was another girl accepting his confession.

If he loved someone else, why didn’t he just break up with me?

I loved him deeply, but if he had told me he fell for another woman, I would have walked away.

Tears streamed endlessly down my face.

I scrolled further down to three months ago.

Lance had told me he was sent on a strict, off-the-grid business trip for two weeks with barely any cell service.

I worried sick about him every day, terrified of disturbing his work.

Yet Sierra’s posts from those two weeks showed golden beach sunsets, candlelit dinners, and check-ins at a luxury seaside resort.

In the photos, he laughed with an open, relaxed joy I hadn’t seen in years.

The night he returned from his so-called business trip, I spotted a vivid smear of fuchsia lipstick on his shirt collar.

I held up the fabric with trembling fingers and asked him what it was.

For the first time in our relationship, he flew into a violent rage, snatching the shirt and slamming it onto the floor.

“Lindsey, are you out of your mind?”

“Always paranoid, always suspicious! If you trust me so little, we might as well break up!”

The words “break up” crashed down on me like a boulder.

I panicked instantly, swallowing all my valid questions and begging him desperately to stay.

“It’s my fault, I was just overthinking,” I told myself, shoving that poisoned thorn deep into my heart and pretending it wasn’t there.

My throat burned with a bitter ache, and I could practically hear the sound of my heart shattering into pieces.

Refusing to accept the obvious, I clung to one last sliver of hope and dialed his number.

It rang twice before he declined the call.

I dialed again, and this time, he finally picked up, his voice dripping with venomous impatience.

“What now? I told you I’m working overtime, stop blowing up my phone!”

I fought back my sobs with everything I had, trying to make my voice sound steady.

“I just wanted to ask if you’re coming home tonight. It’s really late.”

If he just said he was on his way home right now, I would have pretended not to know anything.

Six whole years together.

I gave him the best years of my youth.

I desperately wanted a happy ending for us.

Then, a soft, sleepy female voice drifted through the receiver.

“Babe, who is that calling this late?”

The words died on my lips.

Lance didn’t answer her. He just barked at me, “Stop calling,” and hung up.

The dial tone beeped steadily, mocking my pathetic foolishness.

Almost simultaneously, Sierra’s feed refreshed.

It was a photo of Lance wrapping his arms around her in bed.

“Just you and me, through all four seasons.”

Underneath the post, Lance’s account had liked it.

Staring at that like button, a numbing chill washed over me, draining even my tears away.

What did he mean by this?

Was he waiting for me to lay all the cards on the table?