Page 26 of Letting Go

I wipe my face with the back of my hand, wine sloshing onto my white top.

Fuck it.

Let it stain. Let it all stain.

I grab my phone out of my pocket, thumbs drunk on adrenaline and heartbreak, and open the camera roll.

There it is.

That disgusting, blurry little masterpiece. My husband. My sister. The Pornhub-reject soundtrack of betrayal.

I don’t even hesitate. I hit share and type “I know for sure”. No punctuation. Just those four jumbled little words because my fingers aren’t exactly cooperating and my brain is somewhere in a dark corner screaming into a pillow.

I meant to send it to Hans. I’m almost sure I did.

I think.

Maybe.

It’s fine. Who cares. I’m sitting on the kitchen floor halfway through a bottle of Cabernet. My clothes are wrinkled, my eyeliner’s having a midlife crisis down my cheeks, and I’m definitely on the fast track to emotional rock bottom.

And then-

A knock at the door.

Nope.

I don’t move. Can’t move.

My feet are glued to the tile and my spine’s apparently gone on strike.

A few minutes pass.

Footsteps. Upstairs.

Wait… what?

I blink, staring at the kitchen door like it might sprout teeth and explain what the hell is happening.

Then someone walks in.

And it’s Hannah.

Hannah.

“Hi,” I slur, eyes blinking slowly like I’m buffering. “What you doin’ here, lady.?” I giggle, the sound cracked and borderline feral.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me with this weird mix of concern and exasperation, crouching down like I’m a rabid animal she’s trying not to spook.

“You left your bedroom window open. I got your text,” she says. “Not sure I needed the visual, but I’m guessing neither did you.”

I blink again. “What text?”

Her eyebrows knit. “The video. Of Mike. And… Keira.”

My jaw drops a little. Not dramatically, but enough to make the air feel colder.

Wait.

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