Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
My heart fucking hammers in my chest so hard it feels like it’s going to come out of my body. The sound of it echoes in my ears, and all I can hear is Daniel shouting my name. He’s rushing down the steps wearing only shorts. Just the sight of him makes me want to throw up. “Zara, please wait. Give me a minute to explain,” he pleads. I think it’s the shock or maybe it’s the anger brewing inside me when I turn and laugh hysterically in his face.
“A chance to explain? I think it’s pretty fucking much explanatory,” I accuse, pointing at the staircase I just walked down from. My hand shakes as I point, wondering if maybe she’ll come down and help him explain what is going on.
“You weren’t supposed to—” He runs his hands through his hair, and I can see the bite mark on his shoulder. My eyes almost fixate on it until I snap out of it.
“I wasn’t supposed to what?” I ask. “Catch you?” I grab my jacket and put it on, ignoring the tears rolling down my face.
“You weren’t supposed to be back so soon,” he defends and his voice is low. “I thought—”
“I wasn’t supposed to be back so soon.” I shake my head, grabbing my bag and then sliding my feet into my Ugg boots. “I wasn’t supposed to be back so soon. That’s all you have to say?” I yell.
“No.” He puts his hands on his hips. “It’s just that I—”
“I want to know one thing,” I tell him. “How long?” I look at him and see him staring at me, this man who I was supposed to marry. This man who just today I picked out a wedding dress for, thinking I would be walking down the aisle and he would be at the end waiting for me. What was such a happy fun day is now one of the worst of my life. “How fucking long?”
“Zara,” he says.
“After all of this,” I snap, “the least you can do is give me an answer.”
“It doesn’t have to be like this—” he says, and I just stare at him.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I question, my voice in a monotone. “Are you actually saying that you think I could forgive you for fucking someone in my fucking bed?” I shout. “In our fucking house?” I shake my head. “You have lost your damn fucking mind if you think I could ever, ever forgive you for lying to me.” His face goes pale, and I take a step back because he actually thought if I caught him, I would look the other way. That I would forgive him. “Now, I asked you a question,” I growl through clenched teeth. “How fucking long?” He looks up at the ceiling. “If you’re praying, I can tell you right now God isn’t fucking listening to you.”
He puts his hand on the back of his neck, his brown eyes staring into mine. “A little over…” I wait for it, hoping it’s like a week, maybe a month. Maybe it just started. “Three years.” The minute he says that, it’s like the air is drained from my body.
“Three years,” I repeat in a whisper. “Three fucking years.” I swallow down the bile that is forcing its way up my throat. “We’ve been together for three years.” I’m not sure if I’m reminding him or telling myself. “Her daughter is two years old, and her son is six months old.” It’s then it dawns on me. “Oh my God.” The mere thought of standing in the same room as him makes me feel dirty. “Tell your girlfriend she has twenty-four hours to tell her husband she has been fucking you,” I tell him, and he glares at me. “After that, I’m calling to tell him myself.”
I turn to leave the house, my hand on the doorknob, when he reaches out for me, grabbing my arm. “Zara, please wait,” he pleads. “We can…”
I don’t move nor do I look back over at him. Instead, I look at his hand on my arm before I shake it off and walk out the door. “Twenty-four hours, and that’s me doing you both a fucking favor.” I finally take a look back at him. “And it’s the last thing I’ll ever fucking do for you.” I slam the door behind me before running down the steps and rushing to the corner. I stop, waiting for the light to turn green. But when it takes too long, I turn right and continue walking down the street. I walk around people, my feet moving, but my brain is stuck back in the middle of my bedroom. The cars zoom past me as I reach into my purse and pull out my phone, calling Zoey right away. “Answer the phone,” I beg as it rings and rings right before it goes to voicemail. The tears are now just streaming down my face. I call her again. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I chant as my hands start to shake, and I know that in a matter of minutes, I’ll be having a full-blown panic attack. The image of the two of them plays over and over in my head.