Page 27 of I Do, You Don't
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
Calvin’s eyes narrow. “You calling me a liar?”
Behind him, the men shift. One flashes a holster.
“No, no,” I say quickly, hands raised in appeasement. “Not accusing you of anything. I just… I need to understand why my world exploded.”
“Simple.” His voice lands like stone. “Delilah used us both. And you were too arrogant to see it.”
I want to argue. To fight. To deny.
But the words sink heavy, cold lead in my chest.
His bourbon arrives. He doesn’t touch it. It sits there, untouched, amber and silent.
“Why me?” I whisper, though the answer already stains the air.
Calvin’s gaze doesn’t move. “Because you let her. You turned your back on Lara. On yourself. All it took was a rumor, and a doctored photo.”
I want to tear the booth apart. To shatter the flickering “OPEN” sign. To shout until someone explains what’s real. Calvin and I could go back and forth for hours, but there’s no point.
Instead, I stand. The vinyl groans. A woman drops her fork. The clatter rings too loud.
I walk out.
The cold hits hard. Wind slaps my face. Traffic hums nearby. A dog barks in the distance.
But none of it reaches me.
Delilah’s smile lingers. Her voice. Her loyalty. Her lies?
Only two women hold the truth.
I swallow, but the lump won’t budge.
Back at the office, I collapse into my chair. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. My fingers twitch against the armrest.
Calvin’s final words return like static: You’re too weak to see what’s in front of you.
Maybe I was.
But not anymore.
It’s time to confront Delilah.
It’s time to face what’s real.
Chapter 10
Gideon
Islide the worn brass key into the lock, the one she pressed into my hand years ago, back when loyalty still meant something. The bolt clicks softly, as if welcoming me home. My pulse quickens, adrenaline prickling under my skin.
The overhead light spills a pale glow across the living room. Her wool coat, dark as birch bark, is draped over the arm of the couch. On the low coffee table, a half-empty crystal wine glass catches the flicker of a lone candle, its flame dancing across the walls. The air smells too clean, too deliberate, as if someone drowned this place in perfume and hoped no one would notice the lies.
I step inside, shoes scuffing against polished hardwood. A loose board creaks under my weight, louder than it should, like the apartment itself is warning her I’ve arrived.
Then I hear her, voice muted but unmistakable, drifting from the bedroom down the hall.
