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I was tired of doing that. Eventually, Nash would hear the ugly parts, the selfish parts, the embarrassing parts, and the parts that still made me wonder how the hell I’d ever convinced myself they were acceptable.

Then he would decide. And if he walked away, I’d hurt. But Klair was right. I’d survive.

24

Blair

BEFORE

Three whole years together, and I had a gift in my passenger seat. That was probably the most embarrassing part. Not the fact that I had spent three years sleeping with a married man, not the promise ring still sitting on my ring finger, and not the fact that one week earlier, I had stood in a ballroom and watched his wife mouth I love you while Caleb thanked her from a stage.

No.

What embarrassed me most that afternoon was the fucking gift that I still went and bought. A custom leather travel bag and inside, I had tucked flight tickets for a weekend getaway that we’d talked about taking once things slowed down.

One week had passed since the awards. One week of me replaying Ravenna’s words. He comes home, cooks dinner, and disappears in his man cave for hours.

I had replayed that shit so many times that I could hear her voice when I brushed my teeth.

Caleb tried calling the morning after the awards, but I didn’t answer so he texted.

Caleb: Can we talk?

Ignored.

Caleb: I know how that looked.

How it looked? I had spent three fucking years allowing Caleb to explain how shit looked.

Foundation on his shirt? She hugged me.

Photo with Ravenna? Business.

Wedding ring still on her finger? She hasn’t accepted it.

Divorce process slowed down? Mental health.

Coming home every night cooking dinner? What was that excuse going to be? Community service?

I didn’t want another explanation. I wanted evidence, so I did something I should’ve done years earlier. I drove by his apartment.

Monday night, no car. Tuesday, no car. Wednesday, still no fucking car. Thursday, I sat across the street until almost midnight and nothing.

The apartment stayed dark and my humiliation finally transformed into rage. He didn’t live there. Maybe in the beginning. But the apartment I had helped decorate, the apartment where he’d framed our pictures, the apartment I’d used as proof that Caleb had left his marriage was a fucking set. A stage, a place for us. His other life.

By Friday morning, I knew exactly what I was going to do. Our third-year anniversary was that Saturday and Caleb texted me before I could text him.

Caleb: Dinner tomorrow? I want to see you.

Blair: I’ll meet you at your apartment. We need to talk first.

Caleb: Blair.

Blair: 5pm. Be there.

My phone rang. I declined it. He called again. Declined.

Caleb: Please don’t come upset. Let me come to you.