Page 2 of The Art of Ruin

I see it all cross his face in the space of a breath—recognition, shock, fear. His mouth opens.

“Casey—”

I don’t wait. I can’t do this here, now, with her as a witness to my heartbreak.

My feet move before I decide anything.

I step away, turn, and walk before I break into a run. My legs feel unreal beneath me, like I’m moving through water. I hear my name again, louder this time. Footsteps. A hand brushing my arm before I shake it free.

I keep going.

By the time I reach the car, my vision is tunneling. I slam the door and sit there shaking, my pulse roaring in my ears. I don’t remember pulling out of the lot. I remember the side of the road, gravel crunching under my shoes, my body folding in half as I throw up until my throat burns and my eyes stream.

I cry then. Really cry. The kind that steals your breath and leaves you gulping. My chest aches. My head throbs. I curl in on myself like I can make it smaller, quieter, survivable. The sound that comes out of me doesn’t feel human.

When my phone starts ringing, I glance at it and see his name. I don’t answer.

Not yet.

I can’t. Instead, I head home and slump onto my bed and cry until my eyes feel dry and gritty and then I stare at the picture of us from last year, smiling at the camera, looking like the picture-perfect couple. There could be a simple explanation for what I saw today, but in my heart, I know there’s no denying the truth.

It’s over. Probably was a long time ago by the looks of it. I just didn’t know it.

By the time he knocks on my door, I’ve showered. Scrubbed my skin until it’s pink. Changed into clean clothes. Brushed my hair back into a low knot that keeps it out of my face and composed myself.

I open the door calmly.

His face crumples when he sees me, relief and panic colliding as he reaches for me. I step back, knowing that if he touches me, my fragile psyche will crack. His hand drops heavily to his side, the wounded puppy dog look I once loved now makes anger worm its way through me.

“Please,” he says. “Let me explain.”

I step aside and let him in. Not for him, but for me. I deserve this.

I don’t sit.

I don’t offer him anything.

He paces. Runs a hand through his golden blond hair. Looks at me like I’m something he might lose. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s already lost me.

“How long,” I ask, my voice steady in a way that surprises even me, “were you planning to let me live like a fool?”

“I love you,” he says immediately, like it’s armor.

I snort, crossing my arms over my chest.

“She doesn’t matter,” he rushes on. “It was one night. She got pregnant. I didn’t know at first.”

I listen. Really listen. I let him talk. Let the words stack up between us.

“How old is she?” I ask.

“Four months.”

The timeline clicks into place. All the gaps filled neatly. “And who knows?” I ask.

He hesitates.

That pause is louder than anything he’s said. “Who knows?” I repeat.