Page 7 of If He Hadn't Cheated
Not slowly, not gently. It tilts like a ship in a storm, hurling me sideways inside my own body. My stomach churns before I’ve even moved. The taste in my mouth is sour, like regret soaked in whiskey.
The bed under me is unfamiliar. The sheets are too soft, too clean, too white. There’s a smear of mascara on the pillow beside my head, a line of black that looks like something melted.
A man is beside me.
Not the one from Monday. Not even the one from the Waverly Last Friday. Someone new. His face is buried in the pillow, mouth slightly open. A line of drool creeps toward the edge of the mattress.
I can’t remember his name. Or his voice. Or anything past the third drink. I slide out from under the sheets carefully, like slipping out of a lie. His hand twitches near my hip as I move, but he doesn’t wake.
Thank God.
My dress is crumpled at the foot of the bed, still inside-out. I pull it on and find one strap hanging by a thread. It sags down my arm as I shuffle into my heels. My purse is on the floor, half-open, lipstick smeared on the lining. I check for my phone. The screen is dark.
No missed calls.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore.
I don’t even bother with the mirror on the way out. I already know what I look like. Hollow eyes. Smudged eyeliner. Bruised thighs. A mouth that doesn’t know how to say no anymore.
The hallway outside his apartment smells like bleach and stale beer. I walk past a door with a cracked frame, a baby crying somewhere behind it. A dog barks on another floor. Somewhere, a TV blasts static. The kind of building where everyone is surviving from something, and no one asks questions.
I step outside into the morning. Cold air slaps me across the face. It wakes me more than the coffee I won’t drink.
The streets are wet with last night’s rain. My heels click too loudly on the pavement. I pass two joggers in neon windbreakers, their skin dewy with effort and purpose. One of them glances at me, his eyes sliding over my dress, my smeared makeup, my crooked shoes.
He looks away fast.
I wish I could. But I’m still inside this body. Still dragging it home like a grave I sleep in.
I walk five blocks barefoot. The broken heel cuts into my skin, so I carry the shoes instead. A cab honks.
A man in a truck whistles.
Someone calls me “sweetheart” and offers a ride.
I flip him off and keep walking.
The city looks so clean in the morning. Like it forgot what it did the night before. Like it gets to start over.
By the time I reach my apartment, my feet are numb. My fingers shake as I unlock the door.
Inside, the air is stale. There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the counter from two days ago. The TV remote is wedged under the couch cushion. My sheets are still twisted from the last night I tried to sleep.
I drop my purse. It lands with a thud. I strip in silence. The dress pools on the floor, joining a pile of clothes I haven’t washed in weeks.
I make it to the couch before the tears start. I don’t sob. That would require feeling something. These tears are quiet. Slow. Just water leaking out of a body that’s forgotten how to care.
I lie down, the leather cool against my back.
My phone buzzes once.
I reach for it.
It’s a message from my manager at The Velvet Room:
Need you in at seven. Don’t be late.
I stare at the screen until the letters blur.
