Page 60 of What Broke First

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Sarah.

Saint Sarah.

The smug, martyrdom-wrapped-in-a-cardigan bitch who thinks she’s too good to even breathe the same air as me.

She walks around like forgiveness is her birthright and everyone owes her something.

Please.

She’s living my life. Well—parts of it. The parts that matter.

The rest?

The little animals? No, thanks.I’ve never wanted something that screams, smears peanut butter on walls, and ruins your body from the inside out.

But Matt?

Yes.

A hundred times, yes.

I still remember the first time we slept together. His tie was hanging loose, my skirt was hitched up, and the office smelled like expensive whiskey and sex.

We didn’t even make it to the couch.

The next night he texted me:

Matt: Hey. Can I crash at your place?

And just like that, he did.

One night became two. Then four. Then a drawer.

I thought I had him wrapped around my finger like a satin ribbon…until I didn’t.

Matt’s a man of opportunity. I know the type. I am the type.

He wasn’t with me because he loved me.

He was with me because she locked the door.

And I?

I was the spare key.

The other woman.

God, I loved that.

The power in that role.

The thrill of being the escape.

But escape routes get boarded up, don’t they?

So when I heard they were leaving town, I let myself in.

No breaking. No entering.

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