Page 9 of If He Hadn't Cheated
I finish the cigarette and go back inside. There’s a new guy at the bar now.
He looks familiar.
Green eyes. Clean haircut. Quiet.
He doesn’t flirt. He just watches me. And that makes me more uncomfortable than the ones who undress me with their eyes.
At the end of the night, I count my tips. One hundred and sixty dollars. Not bad. Not great. Just enough. I clock out. Grab my bag. Walk out into the cold.
The city is still awake.
And so am I.
I walk toward the next club without thinking. The music pulls me like a tide.
Inside, everything is louder. Dirtier. Sweatier. I recognize one of the bouncers. He nods me in. I make it to the bar. Order a drink I won’t finish. Accept a pill I don’t question. The world begins to blur again. It’s easier that way. The pain softens. The noise swells. And for a few hours, I don’t have to be Lana. I can just be a body in motion. A ghost in heels. A girl trying not to drown.
5
The Past
The morning after doesn’t feel real.
It never does.
But this one is different. This one settles over me like ash after a fire, thin and choking. It clings to my skin. My lungs. My ribs.
I sit on the edge of my bed in yesterday’s clothes. The dress is wrinkled, the hem dirty. My hair is a mess, falling in limp waves over my shoulders. Mascara smudges stain the corners of my eyes, dried and flaking like the residue of too many regrets.
I haven’t cried yet.
I’m not sure why. I think my body is too tired to give grief the energy it needs. Or maybe this is what shock looks like after a betrayal so loud it echoes for days.
Sebastian’s name is still a stone in my throat.
The engagement ring sits on my nightstand. It catches the early light like it still means something. Like it doesn’t understand that it’s just metal now. Not a promise. Not a future. Just a lie with a price tag.
My phone buzzes beside it. Again.
I glance at the screen.
Shock registers for a moment when my eyes focus not the letter spelling his name. Sebastian.
For the fourth time.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Not yet. I’m still peeling pieces of myself off the floor from yesterday.
The apartment smells like something between old coffee and the dying tulips in the vase by the window. There are photos of us everywhere. Laughing. Kissing. Holding hands. Framed moments of a life I thought was real.
Now every one of them feels like a punch.
A knock breaks the silence.
Not timid. Not hesitant.
Firm. Familiar.
I don’t need to check the peephole. I know it’s him. I know his knock like I know my own heartbeat.
