Page 75 of Jinxed Hearts

As I drive back home, the taste of his lips lingers on mine, the scent of his cologne still clinging to my skin. I spray perfume, trying to erase his presence. But he’s still there. On me. Inside me. And I’m still in shock.

My mom’s face flashes in my mind. Her expression full of horror and disgust.

I blast the radio, hoping to block out my screaming thoughts. But they’re louder. They always are. And I don’t think I can run from this much longer.

I’ve never been addicted to anything. Nothing. Not drugs. Not alcohol. Not even coffee. But I’m addicted to him. To hissmile. His touch. The way he makes my soul come alive. And I know, it’s probably not healthy. But my world used to be nothing but shades of gray. And now? Dylan painted it in every damn color.

The real question is, am I addicted to him or the way he makes me feel?

At home, I slip into the routine of dinner, cleaning, homework. The kids play with Boner Dong while Jacob is in work mode. Usually, thoughts of Dylan make the mundane tasks feel lighter, even pleasurable. Washing dishes. Folding laundry. It all feels brighter, as if the memory of him and the high he gives me cling to me throughout the day.

Not tonight. Tonight, my secret is out there now. Waiting to detonate.

“What’s up with you?” Jacob asks, peering into the kitchen. “You’re acting… off.”

“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice overly bright. “Just thinking about our girls. We raised amazing kids.” That part’s true. “How was your day at work?” I shift the conversation.

“It was good,” he says, moving toward the fridge to grab a beer before kissing me on my cheek. It’s small, but I know it’s him trying. He knows how much I crave affection. But it never comes naturally to him, unless it’s in the bedroom.

His parents really messed him up. Always so cold, emotionally distant, never showing love in a way that made him feel safe. Things have also been weird between us. Maybe because I’m sleeping with another man.

“That’s it. Good?” I arch my brow. “I’m glad every day at work is good, not excellent, not bad, not boring. Just good.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “Should I start asking you the way I do with the kids? What was the BEST part of your day, honey? Who made you laugh? Did Bobby play nice with you at recess?”

Jacob chuckles as he takes a chug of his beer. “Nothing interesting happens at work. Same grumpy old men talking about stuff you don’t understand. I’d much rather hear about your day and the girls.”

I hold back a bitter laugh. I went skinny-dipping. I keep risking our marriage for the most impossible-to-resist man I've ever met. And my mom probably wants to disown me.

“Same old for me.” I shrug. “Shantel’s still allergic to my ideas, Debbie’s still ‘accidentally’ dropping things in front of the guys, and I had taco bowls for lunch. Again.”

He shoots me a look like he’s not really buying it.

From the living room, Ava’s high-pitched voice breaks ouroh-so-wonderfulconversation.

“Bobby was mean again, so I kicked him in his willy dong!”

I burst out laughing. “Avie, you can say penis. It’s a body part, like an arm or leg.”

Jacob looks at me and sighs. “That’s your takeaway from the story? Ava, you cannot go around kicking boys in the private parts. Do you know how sensitive that is?”

“Bobby likes Ava,” Lily sings. “Bobby and Ava sitting in a tree…”

“Stop, Lily!” Ava screams. “Mooooom, make her stop!”

“Girls, enough,” I cut in. “Your dad was about to tell you how sensitive a penis is.”

He gives me the death stare, like I just explained sex to them.

“Seriously, Avie, your dad’s right. Unless you’re defending yourself, keep your hands and feet to yourself.”

His phone rings. Work. Again. He disappears upstairs.

The rest of the night, I wait for my mom to call. To text. To show up. But nothing.

Lying in bed, I say a silent prayer.Please, not tonight. No nightmares. Only sleep.

Jacob turns toward me, lifting a brow. And I know exactly what he wants. It’s been weeks of avoiding his touch, only giving in out of habit because it’s expected. And when we do have sex, it’s a performance, scripted and empty.

And faking it? Getting harder.