Chapter 3

I slept on the very edge of the bed, a chasm of cold sheets between us. When Jameson' s arm draped over me in his sleep, I flinched and moved away, his touch feeling like a brand.

A vibration from my phone in the dark startled me. I didn't need to look. I knew who it was.

It was Caren. Did Jameson yell at you? I told him not to drink so much. If he was mean, you tell me, and I'll give him a piece of my mind.

The message was so perfectly crafted, a blend of concern and righteous anger on my behalf. But I could see the real question hiding beneath the words: Did he choose you or me?

A bitter, competitive fire I never knew I had surged through me.

I snapped a picture of Jameson, sleeping soundly beside me, his head on the pillow, looking for all the world like a contented husband.

I sent it to her. He's fine. Just tired. We're going to get that old tattoo of his covered up tomorrow. He says it's time to let go of the past.

For the first time all night, she didn't reply immediately.

I felt a sharp, vindictive pleasure. It was a hollow victory, but it was something.

My mind drifted back to when I first met Caren. She was the new girl in third grade, quiet and scared, her clothes a little too small, her shoes worn down at the heels. She lived with her single mom in a tiny apartment on the other side of town.

One day at lunch, she dropped her tray. I saw her trying not to cry as she picked up the spilled food. I walked over and gave her half of my sandwich.

From that day on, we were inseparable. I shared my lunch with her. My family' s generosity extended to her; my mom bought her new clothes when she saw Caren shivering in a thin coat, and my dad helped her mom find a better job.

Caren was always so grateful, her "thank yous" soft and sincere.

She got used to my food. She got used to my clothes.

And somewhere along the way, she got used to my boyfriend, too.

I lay in the dark, the memories cutting into me. Each act of kindness, each shared secret, was now tainted, twisted into something ugly.

I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, tears silently tracking a path into my hair.

Later that day, we went to a tattoo parlor downtown. The air buzzed with the sound of needles.

"I'll grab you a coffee," Jameson said, his voice overly cheerful. He was trying so hard to be the perfect, attentive husband. He even set up an iPad for me with my favorite show. "This won't take long. Then we can get a nice dinner, just the two of us."

He disappeared into a back room with the tattoo artist.

I let out a breath I didn' t realize I was holding. Maybe we could fix this. Maybe he was telling the truth.

A moment later, he burst out of the room, his face pale with panic.

My heart skipped a beat.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I asked, grabbing his arm.

"It's Caren," he said, his voice tight. "She was in a car accident."

My brain short-circuited. An accident? Today? Now? It couldn' t be a coincidence. My gut screamed that it was another one of her games.

"I'll go," I said quickly. "You stay here and finish. She's my friend."

"No," he cut me off, his eyes wild. "I have to go. We can both go."

I stood my ground, not moving an inch. "No, Jameson."

I looked him straight in the eye. "She is my best friend. I will go check on her. You will stay here and do what you promised."

For a second, the world seemed to freeze.

Then I saw it. A flash of pure, undisguised disgust in his eyes. He wasn't looking at his wife. He was looking at an obstacle.

"Don't be so unreasonable, Alanna," he hissed. "Her car is totaled. She could be seriously hurt!"

He gestured wildly at his own chest. "This can wait! Or what, you want me to take a knife and cut it out right here?"

Before I could react, he grabbed a disposable razor from the artist's tray.

He held the blade to his own skin, right over the tattoo. "Is this what you want?"

"Okay!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "Fine. Go."

He stared at me, surprised by my sudden surrender. Then, without another word, he dropped the razor and ran out the door, leaving me standing there with the bewildered tattoo artist.

I walked out of the shop, my face a mask of calm.

As if on cue, the sky opened up. A cold, hard rain began to fall, soaking me to the bone in seconds.

I hailed a cab and went home. The whole way, I shivered. I sneezed.

A wave of nausea hit me as I walked through the door of our new, empty house.

My phone lit up with a stream of messages.

It was Caren. She'd sent a picture. She was lying in a hospital bed, looking pale and pitiful, with a small bandage on her forehead. Jameson was sitting by her side, holding her hand.

Thank you for letting Jameson come, Lana. He's taking such good care of me.

A second message followed. I guess he didn't get that tattoo removed after all?

I couldn't even describe the feeling. It was beyond anger, beyond pain.

The screen of my phone reflected my face, my expression perfectly calm.

I was the clown in their circus.

And in that moment, I felt a strange sense of release. I was finally, completely, done.

I went upstairs and ran a hot bath, letting the water wash over me.

The phone rang again, its ringing sharp and urgent.

I jolted, water sloshing over the side of the tub.

I grabbed the phone.

It was Caren.