Perfect Chaos

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how pissed off this news is making me. Jealous. Angry. Hurt. Am I just another cog in the continuous wheel of men she’s having fun with? Ouch. Fucking ouch. “I’ll drop you home,” I say to Gina, before I press her for more information—what he looked like, how old. I don’t want to know, and worst of all, I know I can’t ask.

“What?” She glances at her phone. “But it’s only one o’clock.”

“I worked all weekend. Skipped my swims.” Lie, lie, lie. I can’t go to the office and see Lainey. Simple. I need . . . space. I need to process this. I need to calm the fuck down. “I can drop you back at the office if you’re desperate to get back to work.”

“No,” she blurts. “Drop me on Charing Cross.” She starts topping up her lipstick. “I’m out with a friend next week, and I need a new dress.”I’VE BEEN AGONIZING OVER THE news Gina innocently gave me since she jumped out of my car on Charing Cross Road. I’ve dialed Lainey but didn’t connect the call at least a dozen times on the drive back to my apartment, questioning my ability to keep my mouth shut about anything concerning a man’s arms around her on Friday. My stomach churns every time I think about it, anger festering. Who was he? Why did she lie about seeing her sister?

By the time I’m home, showered, and changed into some jeans and a T-shirt, I’ve driven myself mad with possible explanations, though deep down, I know there’s only one. After all, Lainey told me herself that she’s having fun. And the condoms in her bag confirmed it. A whole fucking box of them. I’m a twat, assuming she wouldn’t see other men. A total twat. Does this means she’s assuming I’ll see other women? Surely not.

My ego is majorly dented. I had plenty of opportunities to get laid over the weekend, and I ignored them all. Now, I’m regretting it.

I try to lose myself in some work. I try to go for a swim. I try to watch some boring daytime TV. And I try to sound upbeat and normal when Sal calls me to ask how my meeting with Pyra went.

By evening time, I’m in knots, pacing my lounge, getting more and more worked up. She is literally me in female form. Playing the field unapologetically. I sit down and drop my head in my hands. I feel like contacting every woman I’ve ever slept with and apologizing if I’ve ever made them feel like this. Because it’s fucking horrendous—the self-torture, the feelings, the unknown. I haven’t wanted to touch another woman since I had Lainey. No one could possibly compare to her—our chemistry, the feelings, the contentment, our banter. How easy it is to be around her. How impossibly right it feels, in every sense. I don’t want her to see other men. I want her all to myself.

I stand and grab my phone, pulling up her name. This time I connect the call, starting to circle my lounge again. It rings seven times before she answers. I know that because I fucking count the irritating sounds.

“Hey,” she says, light and happy. It’s the exact opposite to how I’m feeling at this particular moment in time. My body feels weighed down, so fucking heavy, and I’m very fucking unhappy.

I bite my tongue to avoid my instinct to demand who she was with Friday night and why she lied about it. I need to ask that face to face. I need to see her eyes and stop her from trying to escape me, because I get the feeling that’s exactly what she’d do.

Once I can be sure my motormouth and raging curiosity won’t let me down, I release my tongue from the grip of my teeth. “What are you up to?” I mentally kick my own arse. That’s just not something I’d say, and on top of that, she already told me. But she could be lying again. Is she lying again? Is she really with her sister at some fashion thing, or is she meeting that man again? Or another man? Or any of the men I’ve seen her with? My arse plummets to my couch, my palm resting on my forehead. I feel sick.

“Just getting ready to meet Martha,” she tells me easily. She’s either being entirely truthful or she’s a first-class liar. I so desperately want it to be the former, but given what I know, I’m worried I’m hoping in vain.

I fall back against the couch and look up to the ceiling. The player is being played, and the player doesn’t fucking like it. This is karma, that’s what this is. That bitch Karma has decided I need a taste of my own medicine. Well, I’ve had a taste. More than a taste. That’s enough. “That’s right,” I say quietly. “I forgot. How was dinner with your sister Friday night?”