"Hey." She cracks it open, peering in. "I made coffee. And there's something you should know."
Oh God. What now?
I push myself upright, my head pounding. "What?"
Katrina's mouth twists. "Devon called me last night."
Wait, Devon calledmybest friend?
I stare at her. "What?"
"He wanted to talk to you. I told him to fuck off, obviously, but—" She sighs, leaning against the doorframe. "He was crying, Jade. Like, actually sobbing. He said he'd tell you everything and begged me to convince you to hear him out.”
I try to imagine Devon—stoic, proud, hates-showing-weakness Devon—breaking down on the phone with my best friend.
"What did you say?" My eyes are wide. Katrina is a force to be reckoned with. He must’ve been feeling brave—or incredibly stupid.
"I said if you didn't want to see him, he backs off. No questions." Katrina crosses her arms. "But I also said I'd talk to you. So, I'm talking."
I drop my gaze. “I don't know if I can face him yet."
"I know." She moves into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, her hand finding mine. "You don't have to decide anything right now. But he sounded... wrecked, Jade. Like, genuinely fucking destroyed."
"Good."
The word comes out harder than I intend, and Katrina's eyebrows lift.
"I mean it," I say, though my voice wavers. "Heshouldfeel destroyed. He lied to me and made me think I was crazy."
"I know."
"He kissed her, Katrina. While I was alone at home writing his fucking anniversary card."
"I know, honey."
The tears come again, hot and relentless, and Katrina pulls me into her arms. She still smells like Chanel No. 5, and I cling to her like she's the only solid thing left in my world.
"I hate him," I choke out. "I hate him so much."
"I know you do."
"But I love him too. How fucked up is that?"
Katrina doesn't answer because there's nothing she can say. She holds me while I cry, stroking my hair, not saying a word.
Later, after coffee and toast I struggle to keep down, I find myself at the small desk in the corner of the guest room. Katrina's laptop sits open, but I don't have the energy to check emails or scroll mindlessly through social media.
Instead, I pull out my phone and open the Notes app.
I haven't written anything in…God only knows how long. Every time I've tried, the words have dried up, blocked by anxiety and self-doubt and the creeping suspicion that my marriage was crumbling beneath me.
But now?
Now the words won't stop.
I type with trembling fingers, not caring about grammar or structure, or whether any of it makes sense:
He kissed her, and I felt my body become the enemy again. I’m soft and lumpy where she is solid and smooth.