Page 35 of Keeping Skylar
I’m finally home, and I’ve never been happier to see the inside of my own house. I wasn’t surprised when Sky texted me this morning to say she’ll be home all day nursing a serious hangover. That girl does not handle her liquor very well.
She stayed over at Kirstin’s last night, and while I’d usually be annoyed about that, it gave Lucia and me a little more time together. We passed out on the couch after hours of passionate sex in my study and living room. It was wild, incredible, and though I’m feeling tired and sore today, was worth every risk. She left a little after midnight, and I’m happy to say that we’re back on track in our relationship.
I place the soup container down on the kitchen counter and quickly head into the garage. Slipping the burner phone out from my pocket, I shoot Lucia a final text for the day.
Me:Hey, beautiful. I just got home. Just wanted to say that I haven’t stopped thinking about last night. It was wild and I can’t wait to do it all again with you.
Lucy:Me too! My body is already missing yours.
Me:Soon, baby. I promise. I can still smell your delicious scent lingering in the house.
Lucy:Good. That’s just me, marking my territory.
Me:No need, baby. I’m already yours. Anyway, I better go and check on Sky. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? I loveyou xo
Lucy:I love you, too xoxox
I tuck my phone back inside the top box of my motorbike and make my way to the bedroom.
Once I’m outside the bedroom door, I quietly turn the knob, careful not to disturb my wife in case she’s sleeping. As the door creaks open, I’m immediately struck by the darkness and silence in the room—there’s not a single sound or movement. Something’s not right. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
I cross the threshold and flick on the light, only to freeze as my gaze lands on the empty bed—Skylar’s not here. My eyes scan the room, taking in the spotless surroundings. Everything is unnervingly tidy, the bed undisturbed, as if she never came home at all.
Where the hell is she?
Then, something catches my eye—a single manila folder, neatly placed on the pillow, with a gold star-bow glued to the top like some twisted gift.My pulse quickens as I step closer. I pick the folder up with trembling hands, and the moment I open it, the contents nearly bring me to my knees.
Oh my God!How? How did she get these?
My lungs close in and my stomach twists as I clutch the folder filled with photographic evidence of my affair—screenshot after screenshot of every message Lucia and I ever exchanged, printed in crisp, high-resolution for anyone to see.
Panic sets in as I pull out and inspect each sheet of paper from the thick pile—my fingers shuffling through them in a frenzy.
Fuck! She knows! She knows everything!
I drop the folder onto the bed, a few sheets fluttering to the floor like falling leaves, and bolt to the bathroom. My stomachlurches as I barely make it to the toilet in time before throwing up. I flush, then slump to the floor, my back pressed against the cold porcelain bathtub.
“Skylar,” I whisper into the air. “Please forgive me.” I remain still with my eyes closed for several minutes, my body too paralysed by fear, shock, and the crushing weight of guilt to move.
When I finally stagger to my feet, something inside me snaps into gear. I burst out of the bathroom and into the walk-in closet—only to stop dead in my tracks. No. Half of it is empty. Her side. All of Sky’s clothes, bags and shoes are missing.
I rush to the dresser next and frantically open each drawer. Empty. Every single one. Not a single scrap of clothing left behind. I tear through the shelves and every drawer in the room, but it’s all been cleared out. She’s gone. My wife is gone. She’s left me.
No! This can’t be happening!
I rip my phone out from the pocket of my pants and dial her number. After a few rings, it goes straight to voicemail. I call her another five more times. Nothing. Only the sound of her voicemail. So, I quickly send her a text.
Me:Skylar! What the fuck! Where are you?
Minutes go by, still no reply. I send her another.
Me:Baby, please. Pick up your phone! We need to talk about this. I can explain everything. Please come home!
Again, no reply.
“FUCK!” I scream as I hurl my phone against the wall, the force of the impact cracking the screen and leaving a dent inthe plaster. I can’t believe this is happening. This is not how I wanted her to find out.
With each tick of the clock, my anxiety intensifies. I’m unravelling by the second, growing frantic—like something is clawing at my chest, tearing the soul right out of me. I have to find her. I need to keep trying. So, I snatch my phone from the floor and dial her number once more. The silence that follows is unbearable—no ringtone, just straight to voicemail.
