Page 3 of The Most Perfect Wrong

Smiling, he lifts a hand in a wave just as he’s about to pass. I try to act casual, raising my hand in return and doing some awkward finger flutter—quickly opening and closing all five fingers in some kind of idiotic attempt of a wave. His smile deepens before he turns his head back and runs past me.

Jesus, that’s a specimen.

I follow him with my eyes until he disappears down the beach. Now the real question is—do I stick around for his return lap?

The first time I saw him, he didn’t notice me. Yesterday, he smiled but kept running. Today, he smiledandwaved.

Hey, it’s the little things right now. When you find out your boyfriend has been cheating… again—it’s these small moments you cling to. The hot guy running past your house, throwing you a wave—just a little spark of brightness in an otherwise dark, dreary hell.

Damn, it’s almost scary how happy that wave just made me. I’m not sure if I ever feel that kind of excitement with Brad anymore. And what’s worse is that IknowI’ll go back to him. I always do. It’s a pattern I’ve fallen into. We fight, I run away for a week, then I come back. It’s like my body’s automatic response. He apologizes profusely, and I cave—not wanting to find a new place to live or risk him making things even harder for me. I know it’s unhealthy—none of my relationships have ever been normal. But the thought of leaving? I know how it goes. He twists things, making me question everything—my choices, my worth, my ability to leave. And maybe he’s right. I can’t fathom starting over, being alone, or finding out this really is as good as it gets. It terrifies me. So I stay, and eventually, we settle back into ‘normal.’

I used to be so in love with Brad—I’m not so sure anymore. There are definitely things I still love about him. He’s charming when he wants to be. We have fun playing pickleball or golfing on the weekends, and we still have incredible sex—it’s not all bad. He’s great at making me laugh when he’s not being an asshole, and we’ve built a life together. God, four and a half years—that’s gotta mean something. But lately, it’s harder to ignore the weight of this relationship pressing down on me.

I also work for Brad’s brother. He’s great, but that just makes everything more complicated. Ending things with Brad would mean changing every single aspect of my life. So, when Brad’s dick wanders and lands in another girl’s vagina, I let itslide—literally. Maybe it’s because I’m too weak, too lazy, or a combination of both, to do anything about it. Each time it happens, though, it’s like a tiny piece of me chips away. I tell myself I’m fine, that we’re fine, but deep down I wonder how many pieces of me remain before there’s nothing left to hold on to.

The first time Brad cheated, I cried—a lot. I lost my shit. I came out to Newport Beach to stay with my dad, intending to move here. I almost had the guts to pack up my life and leave. That was two years ago. But I went back to him. Then, four months later, it happened again. I cried that time too, but not as hard. He talked me back within four days.

It’s strange—the more it happens, the less I recognize myself. I didn’t even cry this time. I was pissed… but no tears. I told him to go to hell and that we were finished, then angrily packed a bag and walked out. But I know myself better—and unfortunately, so does Brad.

My dad interrupts my self-loathing thoughts. “Hey love-bug, how’s your morning?” He takes a seat across from me, coffee in hand.

“It’s good, Dad. Feels great out here. I miss the ocean.”

He doesn’t know about me and Brad. I’d never tell my parents that he cheated on me. It’s embarrassing enough without them trying to micromanage how I handle it. Knowing my parents, my mom would tell me to leave, and my dad would probably give Brad a high-five—two peas in a pod. But then so are me and my mom. And I hate that I’m like her.

“Well, you know I’d never talk you out of moving here to be closer to me and your sister,” he says with a wink.

“I know, Dad. Wish I could.”

He smiles. “I know. You’d never leave your mom alone in Chicago. You’re a good daughter. Are you and Casey still going out tonight?”

“Yeah, she’s meeting me at Tipsy for drinks.”

Casey’s my older sister, and best friend. We’ve always been close, and she’s the only one who knows the whole story with Brad. I tell her everything. After graduating from college, she moved here to be close to Dad and the ocean. Now she lives in Huntington Beach with her husband, Greg, and my adorable two-year-old nephew, Mason.

“I’m glad you girls are going to get some time together,” Dad says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Well, I’m off to work. Have fun tonight, kiddo. Tell Brad I say hi.” He walks over, bends down to kiss my forehead, and heads toward the door.

“Okay. Bye, Dad. Have a good day.”

The door slides shut behind him, and I turn back to my people-watching, scanning the beach for some more eye candy.

* * * * * ?* * * * *

“Maybe you can all be a throuple,” Casey says, taking a sip of her spicy margarita. “Who is this broad anyway? Do you even know her?”

“No clue. I don’t even know what she looks like. And a throuple? Hard pass. I don’t see how bringing another woman into the bedroom benefits me.” I raise my brows. “But… if Brad wanted to throuple with that hottie runner guy I was telling you about, nowthat’ssomething I could get on board with.” I laugh, sipping heavily on the last of my margarita, swirling my straw to get every last drop. “Damn, mine’s all gone. You down for another?”

Casey and I are sitting against the edge of the patio at Tipsy, a rooftop bar on top of a fancy hotel in Newport Beach. String lights hang above, casting a warm glow over the sleek seating areas and fire pits.

“I better not. I’m already pushing the limit. Mason’s been waking up at the butt-crack of dawn lately, and I’m exhausted.” My sister tucks a piece of hair behind her ear as she digs in her purse, pulling out some lip gloss. She applies a coat and hands it to me. “Want some?”

“Sure.” I’m wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with a deep V-neck, tucked into flowy white pants, so the little pop of pink will look great. I take it and press it to my lips, careful not to let the coastal breeze blow my long blonde hair into it.

“Hi, ladies, sorry to interrupt, but these are from the gentleman at the bar.” The cocktail server sets down two more spicy margaritas, and I grin from ear to ear.

“Ha! Now you have to stay and drink it. It’d be rude not to,” I snark, grabbing my margarita and glancing at the bar, grateful for guys dumb enough to think buying a woman a drink is a ticket to getting laid.

“Fine, I’ll have one more,” Casey says, as I lock eyes with the predator.

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