disheveled appearance. As words blur together with my tears and wine, it’s apparent that driving isn’t in my future.
Have you been drinking?
I bite my lip. He knows me well. Whenever my husband is gone, I drown myself in his vice, knowing full well that it’ll destroy whatever is left of us both.
Maybe a little. I barely type it before bubbles are coming and going from his typing and stopping.
I’ll come to you.
He cares. Maybe he wants more? It wouldn’t surprise me. Men can be fickle and one-dimensional. Even someone as charming and kind as Francis Satoray.
Okay. It’s all I offer. If he wants love, I have none to offer him. If he wants sex, I’m taken. If he wants to be my friend, I’m all for it.
So many minutes pass before he’s arriving. By then, I’m nearly polishing off the bottle. You see, while I waited, my phone beeped. When my notification said Tobias, I got excited and opened it right away. Maybe he was apologizing, telling me he loved me, that he hates this separation as much as I do.
But no.
Nothing could prepare me for the image that hit my inbox.
Like all the memories of me doing this exact thing with him, in every country and state we visited, he’s continuing our game. Tainting it. Just like everything else he touches. That fucking bastard!
He’s on top of a brunette woman with a butterfly tattoo, her eyes are closed in rapture and so are his. They must have snapped this as he orgasmed inside her. They’re both sweaty and entirely naked. It fucking guts me to see him like this.
I stare at it as I down the very expensive and nasty wine. It no longer possesses a flavor, though. I’m too far gone. And by the time Frankie shows up, using a spare room card that I’ve given him, he sees me. He’s too late. I’m already a mess on the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Present
Francis
Never knew I’d see a day when I hated Toby as much as I currently hate his brother, but alas, here we are. Someone always has to be a villain in another person’s story, so that’s probably why Toby made me his. In reality, if we take a step back and truly look at this particular picture from an outsider’s glance like I can, it’s easy to spot that Toby is his own villain.
Respect. A foreign word to many, especially in this day and age. People believe they deserve something that isn’t theirs. They take with no regard to the ones they hurt, and they don’t cart guilt around for their misdoings. It’s a word that holds a vow for my friends and family. One that pushes me forward to only ever be honest and kind. Once upon a time, that wasn’t me. Not that the world lived with that version for long, but we all make mistakes.
The only thing that separates me from this sad woman on the floor in a heap is that one word. It doesn’t come from a deep admiration for my best friend, nor does it derive from a pedestal I see Toby on. It simply has been ingrained in me to treat the street sweepers the same way they treat royalty.
In my eyes, we’re all the same. Only our circumstances are different.
My eyes strain to see in the mostly darkened room, the only light coming from the kitchen night lamp. Joey lays barely coherent, mumbling about how she deserves to die and it’d be easy. “Please, just do it,” she slurs. “Take away my misery.”
Her eyes are droopy as she’s holds the bottle like it’s her only weapon, shielding her like her husband should be doing. Pain this gruesome shouldn’t be worn every day, tattered and decrepit, bleeding the spirit dry with pinpricks of antipathy.
This is the problem with Toby; he doesn’t realize he fucked up and continues to do so. He has such a beautiful life, woman, and future, but he allows alcohol to rule over him. He lets fear and his past and insecurities own every semblance of reality.
Did he not realize when he believed I was fucking his wife that he already sucked the bottle like a goddamn tit? He slurped and savored and regaled, not seeing his life falling apart around him.
But no, I’m the bad guy.
“Josephine,” I coo softly. She tries opening her wet, red-rimmed eyes, but she scrunches her face in displeasure instead. “I’m so sorry, Ladybug.” She cries more, and I can’t help but want