Page 125 of The Truth About Love

I’ve done this to her.

For the second time, I’ve chosen to stay with a woman I have no feelings for over the love of my life. I’ve made Summer-Raine feel second-best, inferior, maybe even worthless.

And simply because I have daddy issues that I’ve never dealt with.

I’m so terrified of turning into my piece of shit father that I’ve hurt the one person in this world that I would die for.

Because Summer-Raine is right, of course. This is just the first time I’ve realised it. We no longer live in a world where two people have to be married in order to raise their children. There is no reason that Cara and I can’t parent our son while living in different houses. Dating other people.

Would parenting separately make us bad parents? Absolutely not.

Our son will still be safe, he’ll still be looked after, I’m sure he’ll still be loved.

So why have I spent so long convincing myself that divorcing Cara would make me the same as my dad?

Summer-Raine’s mouth opens in a silent scream.

Her pain is so profound, I can feel it on top of that which I already bear.

It’s excruciating.

I ache to run to her, hold her, kiss her. Touch her skin and feel her lips, breathe her air until we’re the only two people left in the world.

And I will.

Not now, but soon.

Just like that, alone in a truck across the street from the love of my life, my fingers twitching with the need to touch her, my lips tingling with the need to kiss her, my heart pounding with the need to love her, the decision is made.

I’m filing for divorce.

It’s an epiphany of extraordinary proportions. One that causes excitement and adrenaline to course through me as I throw my truck into gear and head back to the apartment.

I walk through the lobby that feels unfamiliar to me now and take the elevator up to the apartment that has never felt like home.

I’m so giddy that I almost don’t notice the pair of men’s shoes by the front door that don’t belong to me. I almost don’t notice the smell of foreign cologne, almost don’t hear the sounds of blissful moaning.

Almost, but I do.

Elation turns to red hot anger as I follow the grunts and groans to the master bedroom, where I find my wife riding the ever-loving fuck out of some asshole who hasn’t even taken off his sweater.

I slam the door to alert them of my presence. Panicked eyes snap to mine as I lean casually against the wall, my arms crossed in front of me.

“Please don’t stop on my account.”

Cara scrambles off the man, but doesn’t bother to cover herself. In fact, she sits cross-legged on the bed with her shoulders back, pussy exposed and breasts thrust out in front of as if challenging me to look.

I don’t.

It wouldn’t have the affect on me that she thinks it would anyway.

Not that there’s anything wrong with her body. The woman looks like a supermodel, but I’ve only ever had sex with her while thinking of somebody else.

She scowls when my eyes don’t wander and finally grabs the bed sheet to wrap around her shoulders. The man beside her is slower to cover himself, laying there on the bed with his pathetic deflating cock as he glares at me like I’m the asshole.

There’s a standoff of stares for a while before Cara huffs like a child. “You have no right to be mad,” she says. “You’re in love with someone else.”

“I have no right to be mad?” I laugh sinisterly. “Big words for the woman who’s staring down the barrel of an ugly divorce.”

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