Page 23 of Letting Go

I should turn around. I should. I should get in my car, go anywhere, pretend none of this ever happened.

But instead, I move forward. One step. Then another. Slow. Heavy. Like my feet are filled with concrete and every breath tastes like the end of something I haven’t named yet.

And then I hear her.

“God! You feel so good without the condom.”

I freeze.

My brain sputters. That voice, oh my God, I know that voice.

No. No no no no no. Not her. Please not…

But there it is. The back of his head. His hand on her hip. His mouth on her chest like he’s starving.

She’s moaning like it’s her job, throwing her head back like she’s in some goddamn softcore porno.

And my husband, my actual, literal husband, is sucking on the tits of my nineteen-year-old sister like he’s got no wedding ring, no vows, no fucking soul.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe.

My body’s doing that thing where it feels like it’s underwater but my skin is on fire.

I think I might vomit. Or scream. Or faint. Possibly all three in a very dramatic, Oscar-worthy pile.

But instead, because apparently, I’m now a woman of supreme restraint, I pull out my phone.

Hans’ voice echoes in my head like a shitty little Greek chorus: “Don’t forget proof.”

Right.

Proof.

So, I hit record. My hands are shaking so badly the image looks like I’m filming an earthquake, but it’s enough. More than enough.

And that’s when he sees me.

Mid-thrust.

Still inside her.

Face slick with sweat and sin.

His eyes lock with mine and I wish I could say he jumped back in horror. I wish I could say he gasped, or shouted my name, or even pretended to be sorry.

But he doesn’t.

He just stops moving. Looks at me like I’m an unexpected plot twist in his soap opera sex life.

And that’s when I break.

“What the actual fuck, Michael?” I snap, voice cracking like glass. “Was my sister just the last available hole in the zip code or was this your way of twisting the knife even deeper?”

Still nothing from him. Just frozen. Still buried in her like some grotesque human pushpin.

And my sister, oh, sweet, stupid girl, just grabs the sheet like it makes a fucking difference now. She won’t even look at me.

I don’t know what to feel first. The betrayal? The rage? The bone-deep humiliation that not only is he cheating, but with my fucking sister?

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