Page 11 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

Time warps, moving simultaneously too fast and too slow. I'm upstairs within minutes, but my steps falter in the hall the closer I get to our apartment. I don't know what I'm walking into. My heart races in a rare state of insecurity.

But I love Lucy, and I don't want her to suffer. Slipping my key into the door, I step into the quiet apartment.

I don't know what I expected. A jilted lover, throwing clothes out the window from our highrise. Angry music. Her friends carrying pitchforks, awaiting my arrival. But it's eerily chill.

Walking through the apartment, I eventually find Lucy in our en suite bathroom, sitting in the empty tub.

It's a surreal experience to see someone you love and not recognize every detail.

For hours some nights, I stare while she sleeps, carefully memorizing the shape of her features, how her breath escapes her full, upturned, pillowy lips, and the striking contrast between her white blonde hair and thick dark eyebrows. I knew she wore a lot of makeup, but I didn't want her to feel self-conscious by asking her why she wore it 24/7, so I just accepted it was the way Lucy looked.

Her skin looks different. Rubbed red and raw from crying, the tears cleared away all the makeup, leaving a galaxy of freckles adorning her cheeks and nose. I knew they existed, but didn't realize how much she concealed them. Typically thick with eyeliner, her eyes are void of makeup as well, accentuating the watery tears. I hate how we got here, but I like seeing Lucy in her natural state.

She tries so hard to be everything for everyone, stretching herself too thin. She's been hanging on by a thread for months, years, probably. This was just the catalyst that sent her over the edge. She thinks she hides her anxiety well, but I see how much she struggles.

She doesn't acknowledge me. I stuff my hands in my pockets and stare down at her, but she keeps staring into space as if I'm not really here.

"Lucy."

The only reaction she gives me is a deep sigh, so I nudge her legs aside and climb in opposite her. She loves this tub. It's huge, with jets, the edges lined with all her favorite products.

Right now, it's empty of water and devoid of her usual infectious joy.

I bought this place because of the tub. And the view, and the pool. When we first started dating, I didn't invite her to my house because I lived with my two best friends, and for a lot of reasons, I didn't want to bring her home with me. So I bought this place and moved out. Lucy doesn't know I bought this apartment just for her.

I should have been honest with her, but I didn't want to scare her. If she knew what I felt for her… What I'd do for her. What I've already done for her.

"Lucy," I nudge her again. Finally, recognition sparks and she looks directly at me. Bright blue eyes framed by giant black fake lashes blink at me, contrasting her clean skin. She's tan, gold from the sun she gets when she runs around the city, lips bright red from crying and from licking her lips dry.

It's not the first time I've seen Lucy cry, but it's the first time I've felt this fucking gutted by it.

"Did you sleep with her?"

"No."

Tears reform, spilling down her cheeks. She nods slowly, lost in thought. "Why would she do that? Lie about…" She trails off, can't bring herself to say the words.

I've never fucking liked that girl and was relieved that Lucy seemed to spend less time with her over the last couple of months. That she lied about sleeping with me, and did this to hurt Lucy? I'm out for blood. I'm going to destroy Delaney. Personally. Professionally. All of the above.

I squeeze Lucy's barefoot, and she looks up at me. "I believe you," she says sadly.

I should feel relief, but all the other lies still weigh heavy on my shoulders.

"Lucy—"

"Do I really know you?"

I analyze her expression. She may have told me she believes me, but she still looks at me like I'm a stranger.

"Yes, Lucy. You know me."

"But not all of you."

"I—" But then I pause because this is the lie.

It was a white lie. A half-truth that I could get away standing behind because she'd never outright asked me, so I've never had to utter the truth. It's a choice to tell her a blatant lie or to keep something about myself from her to protect her. To hold on to her just a little longer.

But I hesitated too long. She pulls her foot from my grasp and comes to a stand, leaving the bathroom. She doesn't stomp or storm away. Laced with sadness, her quiet, graceful steps disappear down the hall. I get up and follow her into the kitchen, where she's pouring herself the world's fullest glass of wine.

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