When he walked in the door the following Saturday, he carried a bouquet of creamy white roses. Molly’s favorite. The last she’d heard from him was a five-minute phone call three nights before. The look on his face was oblivious, and it ripped through Molly’s heart. She hated what a relief it was to see him, at the same time white-hot rage pumped through her veins. Standing in front of him, taking in the familiar sight of his olive skin and pale blue gaze, she almost couldn’t believe how much had changed in her own mind. She felt the weight of all those nights and days without him, the countless phone checks and stomach flips and the worry that wrapped itself around her like a cobra, suffocating. And finally, the photo. The photo that was a million knives spearing her heart, more incontrovertible proof that Jake was a cheater.
Now she had to know if he was a liar, too.
“Did you cheat on me?” Molly locked on Jake’s eyes as she spoke; she watched his smile drop. Tears dripped down her face, and suddenly, she couldn’t support her own legs.
She felt her body crumple in the weight of Jake’s arms; she inhaled the smell of the roses against his jacket as the sobs escaped from her body, giant and racking.
Jake lowered her onto the couch, collapsing beside her.
“No.” His voice was far away in between her sobs. “But a random fucking girl walked up to me and kissed me at a club, out of nowhere. She literally just came up to me and started kissing me. I pushed her off, it was two seconds, I barely even got a good look at her. I was so angry, Molly. Then she just disappeared, and I never saw her again. It was last weekend—I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have, but it was honestly nothing, and I didn’t want to freak you out.”
Molly stopped crying. Her brows knitted together. She sat up slowly, leaning back against the couch. She hadn’t mentioned the photograph to Jake, and he knew exactly what she was referring to. Did this mean he was being honest? Or did he somehow know about the photograph and was attempting to sound like he was being honest?
She grabbed her laptop, flung it open. The photo attachment from [email protected] appeared on the screen.
“Someone sent me this picture.”
Molly made sure to watch Jake’s reaction closely. The expression on his face was one of sheer, indisputable shock.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He stared at the picture for what seemed like ages, his eyes narrowing in horror as he took in the details. “I can’t believe … Molly.” He turned toward her, his breath choppy. “This is exactly what I was just telling you about. This is the random girl who came up to me in the club and kissed me for two seconds. This is her.” He stabbed his finger at the screen. “Where … Where did you get this?”
“Some random person sent it to me. I told you.” She pointed to the email address.
“Molly.” His voice had grown raspy and panicked. He shook his head in disbelief. “Someone must’ve set me up. Oh god. Oh god.” Jake dropped his face into his hands. Several moments passed in silence. When he looked up, a lone tear snaked down his cheek. It was the first time Molly had ever seen him cry. “I … I think this girl was a crazy fan. She must’ve had a friend take the picture or something. She must know I have a girlfriend—I mean, anyone who wanted to know could find that out. But I don’t know how she got your email address. I know that sounds insane, Molly, but that has to be it. It’s the only thing that makes remote sense.”
Molly studied Jake’s face, the way it was twitching in agitation and terror. She exhaled, flooded with confusing relief. The anxiety had dropped from her body like a second skin, but what was left was boiling anger. Because while the past several days had consumed her with the horrifying reality that Jake had been unfaithful, it wasn’t the whole picture. That wasn’t the reason she’d been a wreck for the entire month. She’d banked on her own forgiveness; she hadn’t expected the anger that rose inside her, unyielding and lucid.
Molly and Jake fought all night, the next few hours a blur. She let the emotions tumble out of her subconscious like lava—every last one—escaping the stale, stuffy place they’d been brewing for weeks. He apologized; he owned his distant and aloof behavior—his absence from every element of her life—with genuine, ashamed admission.
At one in the morning, she stuffed a canvas tote with clothes and toiletries. She didn’t fully want to, but she couldn’t stop remembering the way her mother had looked at her in Naples, that mixture of worry and foreboding, an image she couldn’t shake.