Page 2 of Triplet Babies for the CEO

“Tasha? What’s up, girl?” she answers, bright and cheerful, the way she always is.

The second I try to speak, the tears come again, harder than the first time. “Jaz,” I choke, saliva stringing through my words, “he was cheating on me. Patrick was with...that bitch Stephanie from the restaurant.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and then Jasmine’s voice changes, low and dangerous. “He didwhat?”

I can’t stop crying, every word tumbling out of me like I’m trying to purge the whole relationship in a wave of emotion. I cover my mouth in a coughing fit, trying to stop the water pouring out of my eyes from drowning me. “You were right, I just…I didn’t want to see it. I’m so stupid. I should have known!”

“Tasha, listen honey, you are not stupid. You hear me? You’re coming over right now, okay? We’re going to figure this out. You’re not staying there tonight!”

I nod, at her words, already opening my car door and shoving my bag into the passenger seat. “I’m on my way.”

My car struggles to start, the engine sputtering like it’s giving up, just like I want to do right now. It takes three tries before it roars to life, and I shakily pull out of the lot, heading toward Jasmine’s apartment.

The car’s headlights blur before me. Everything is smeared with tears and heartache, but I keep driving.

There’s nowhere else to go. Jasmine’s the only person I have now.

I’m completely numb by the time I reach Jasmine’s building, having gone through at least three cycles of pulling myself together and falling apart in just the short drive here. The dark shape of Jasmine’s Art Deco apartment building rising up before me in the dark gives me strange vibes. I notice a flickering streetlight casting weird shadows over the parking lot.

I park and just sit there, my hands still gripping the wheel. I can’t move.

The ache in my chest feels like it’s splitting me in two, and for a moment, all I can think about is how I should have seen this coming—I should have listened to Jasmine. I just wanted so badly for it to work. I wanted to believe that Patrick was different than everyone said he was, that he could be the one thing that didn’t fall apart on me.

Tears forming in my eyes again, I finally let go of the wheel, grab my suitcase, and climb out of the car.

The night air is cool, brushing against my tear-streaked cheeks, I drag my suitcase across the gravel, its wheels rattling and catching on every little pebble.

My crying jag has wound down again and I’ve fallen silent. All that’s left is a slow, steady leaking of tears down my face that I can’t seem to stop.

Jasmine’s waiting by her door on the third floor, her mousey-brown hair pulled back, face lit up by the overhead light. The second she sees me, she’s running to me, arms open, and I collapse into her, the dam breaking all over again.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, collapsing into a shaking mess. “I should’ve listened to you!”

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” she murmurs, holding me tight. “He’s the one who should be sorry, not you. He’s a fucking asshole, Tasha. He never deserved you.”

I want to believe what she’s saying, but I can’t stop wallowing in my hurt feelings, even as she leads me inside her apartment, shutting the door behind us.

Jasmine’s apartment smells like lavender and sage. It’s a tiny studio, barely big enough for one person, but it’s warm and cozy, cluttered with mismatched cushions, macramé wall hangings, and plants spilling out of ceramic pots.

Colorful dreamcatchers dangle in front of the windows, swaying slightly as we walk in, and there’s a small table tucked in the corner with a pile of tarot cards and crystals scattered across it. Her queen-sized bed is pushed against the wall, a colorful quilt draped over it, and in the middle of the room, her pull-out couch is already opened up, blankets and pillows piled on top like she’s been expecting me all along.

She guides me to the bed, her hand still firm on my arm, like she’s scared I’ll fall apart if she lets go.

“Sit,” she says, her voice gentle, and I do, sinking onto the pull-out. She returns in a minute, pressing a warm cup of chamomile tea into my hands. I stare at the steam curling up, taking in the soft scent as I try to calm down, but my mind keeps circling back to what I walked in on.

“Tell me what happened from the beginning.”

“He didn’t even…he didn’t even look surprised to see me. And she was just lying there under him,” I whisper, my voice barely holding steady, “on the couch, half naked, like she belonged there.”

“Ugh, whore,” Jasmine says, her face darkening, her lips thinning. “Tasha, you cannot let this affect your self-esteem. You’re beautiful, and you’re more than enough. Patrick’s a dickhead who never deserved a sweet, caring girl like you.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” I manage a small, shaky smile, but it doesn’t last.

“For the next few weeks, stay here,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “At least until you can get your feet under you. And hey, I’m still going to Vegas soon. Come with me. We’ll find jobs before we go, and then, who knows? It’s a fresh start, a chance to get out of this windy, sad suburb of Chicago.”

“I don’t know, Jaz…that’s a big move.” I hesitate, my mind too tangled to think straight.

“Well, think about it. And tomorrow, I’ll come with you to get your stuff from the apartment.” Jasmine doesn’t push. She just nods and squeezes my hand.

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