Her wallpaper. A wedding photo with someone else. Something inside me clenched, but I still wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.
“It's been eight years. Shouldn’t we get married by now?” I said.
She froze. For a long moment, it was like she wasn’t even there, like I was speaking to an empty shell. Then, finally, she forced a smile, awkward and thin. “Why get married, Jordan?”
I had confronted her before, more times than I could count. And every time, she had an excuse. But aside from that, she was perfect, at least, that’s what everyone told me.
People said Yvonne was probably planning the wedding of a lifetime, something so extravagant no man could ever refuse.
They said I was lucky to have her. That a woman like Yvonne was a once-in-a-lifetime catch. So I believed them. I believed them enough to go to prison for her.
And every day behind bars, I told myself it would all be worth it. Now here we were.
She reached for my arm, her voice soft, sweet. “We haven’t been together in so long. Let’s take things slow, yeah? We need time to rebuild what we had.”
How much time did she need? As far as I knew, she never had male friends. Even her assistants were all women.
She used to bring me everywhere, introducing me openly, proudly.
“My boyfriend,” she would say with a smile. “Don't be jealous. There’s only one you in the world.”
Yeah. There was only one me, but she had plenty of others.
Yvonne used to feed me in public, always making sure I didn’t drink too much, too. Every birthday, she gave me handmade gifts with long, heartfelt letters that made it seem like I was the only man in her world.
I used to believe that, but not anymore. I tossed off the covers, got out of bed and pulled back the curtains.
Outside, Yvonne—thinking I was still asleep—slipped into her car, moving carefully, quietly. Then she drove off.
I watched the empty driveway for a long time. This relationship was done. Or at least, it should have been.
The next morning, I rolled over and felt Yvonne’s warm shoulder beneath my hand. She yawned, stretching like a cat. “Jordan, you’re awake? Are you hungry?”
I wanted to believe her, that she had been lying next to me all night. She never left.
But the perfume clinging to her skin wasn’t hers. The scent of shower gel, one that didn’t belong in this house, lingered on her.
I forced a smile. “I'm not hungry. You should go to work.”