Page 7 of Don’t Let Him In

Awave of apprehension pulls me forward, fog drifting low along the path as I pick up my pace. The burn in my throat doesn’t ease. I swallow, but the lump clings like stretchy dough, dragging in slow, stubborn strands that refuse to let up.

Don’t panic.

It’s too soon to think of the worse.

The more I tell myself that, the more my thoughts turn on me, my steps growing uneven as I push deeper between the trees. He can’t be cheating. I refuse to believe it.

Branches snag at my sleeves as I push through, the scrape sharp enough to make my pulse hitch. I keep moving. Faster. Following the voices until two silhouettes emerge between the scraggly branches.

I jolt mid-step. Freeze.

They lean into each other, bodies melded together in the pale wash of moonlight. His jacket comes into view first. Pine green. The puffer I bought him last Christmas.

The matching one still hangs in my closet, forgotten after I shoved everything else into a garbage bag that’s still sitting in my car where I left it.

My eyes prickle. My vision skews.

I slap a hand over my mouth, stifling the sound before it can break free. My nose flares, warm breath gathering against my palm.

Shuddering, I look back to the woman clinging to his chest. Her head tips toward him, strands of teal threading through her dark hair.

I don’t recognize her.

Her breathy laugh breaks the quiet and lodges deep in my chest, and I know with a sick certainty it will follow me long after today.

One arm slides up, locking around his neck. Both of them blur, their outlines slipping out of focus as the sting builds behind my eyes.

My stomach revolts, and I’m grateful for its emptiness as I watch Dax lean in, closing the distance until their lips hover a breath apart.

I jerk my gaze away. Heat tracks down my cheeks.

There’s no denying it this time.

My knees threaten to give, and I sag against the nearest tree, staring at the wilted grass and scattered sticks at my feet, toes curling inside my boots. Nausea churns in my stomach.

Needles prick at my temples, driving deeper until I grimace; a breath tears out of me, leaving me exposed in the quiet.

I still.

I can’t bring myself to straighten and face them.

My legs tremble, yet my feet stay rooted, something burrowing into the soles of my boots, anchoring me there. As if I’ve grown into the ground itself.

Nails bite into my palm.

Get up.

Don’t be so pathetic. Get up. Do something.

Breathless, I force my eyes open and grit my teeth, a sour lilt tugging at the corners of my mouth as I ready myself. There’s no avoiding this. I have no other choice but to face it, no matter how much it’s making my stomach churn.

I snap upright, a white-hot burst slicing through my vision, the thread of humiliation sewing itself into every part of my chest, heart, and mind.

Cheek caught between my teeth, fists clenching at my side, I move without thinking. If I hesitate, I’ll fall apart; if I stop, I won’t have anywhere left to go back to. I can’t go back home. I won’t.

My steps falter once, then fall back into rhythm. I don’t bother softening the sound, wanting to give them a chance to pull apart by the time I reach them.

But the moment I look up, cold crashes over me, my limbs locking where I stand. They’re gone.