Page 17 of This Life of Mine

The problem is that words are cheap. Actions require effort.

Looking back, his words seldom matched his actions. He could tell me I was his priority while making me seem like an inconvenience. He could swear he loved me while repeatedly choosing everything else first. He could promise change, growth, commitment—whatever I needed to hear in that moment—yet somehow nothing ever materialized beyond the conversation itself.

And because the words were so beautiful, I kept waiting for the actions to catch up.

They never did.

That’s what makes it so dangerous. You don’t fall in love with who they are. You fall in love with the version of them they describe. The version that always seems just one more chance away from becoming real.

And for a time—longer than I want to admit—I let myself believe in it. I didn’t need him, but he made it so easy to imagine somethinggood.

Then I found the videos.

Him with other women, doing very private things to one another. Proof living casually in his phone like it hadn’t detonated my reality.

The worst part wasn’t even the cheating—it was the scale of the lie. The oil field schedule that never quite made sense. The gaps I’d noticed but didn’t interrogate. Turns out he didn’t only have other women. He had a whole fucking family.

I wasn’t heartbroken when I kicked him out of my life. Not even close. That part was almost…painless. Immediate. No bargaining or second chances.

What hurt the most was thedamntime.

Eight months, I wouldn’t ever get back. Eight months led me to wonder—briefly—if I was the problem. If I missed something completely and utterly obvious. If wanting more had somehow invited the deception.

That was a complete disaster.

So now? Now I choose fun.

Fun doesn’t promise what it can’t deliver. Fun doesn’t lie about who it is. Fun doesn’t waste my precious time pretending to be deeper than it is. Fun isn’t Lord Voldemort lurking in the shadows, plotting my emotional demise.

And more importantly, fun doesn’t make me doubt myself when it ends.

That’s the rule now. And that’s the point. No future implied, no emotional negotiations, and no silent tests that indicate I’m failing.

Val nods. “Translation: convenient D.”

“Exactly,” I smirk. “He’s not the boyfriend type, but he knows what he’s doing. And right now, that’s all I need.”

I chose that arrangement. Someone compassionate, detached enough to never demand more. Someone who doesn’t study me like I’m a puzzle to solve or a role to fill.

“You ever think you’re avoiding something real because of a couple of bad choices?”

The question lands softer than it could have. Val’s good at that.

“Constantly,” I say easily. “And it’s working beautifully.”

Avoidance is secure and real means risk. Real means slowing down—and I’ve only learned how to breathe at my own pace again.

She snorts. “I swear, you are the most self-aware disaster I’ve ever met.”

I grin. “And yet, thriving.”

Val smiles and shakes her head at the hot mess I am.

But I am. In ways I never expected. Thriving.

Thriving isn’t always a straight path forward. Sometimes it looks like choosing ease over intensity—like letting pleasure exist without consequence, and not turning every connection into a referendum on my worth.

The timer dings, the ovens exhale heat, and for a little while the entire kitchen smells like heaven—warm, sweet, and grounding.