Page 25 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

I loved studying perfumery. I'd been reading about scent composition for years, testing oils and accords late at night when the house was asleep as a hobby. But now... it was official. Structured. I had modules, assignments, feedback. Chemistry mixed with poetry.

It felt good to know something. To build something that wasn't tied to anyone else—not my parents, not Thomas, not even the kids. Just mine.

Most days I took the online courses from the kitchen table, books spread around me like a tiny empire, notes on aldehydes, jasmine absolutes, fixatives, volatile top notes. The instructor had a sharp Parisian accent and a dry sense of humor. I liked her immediately.

But it wasn't just the theory I loved; it was the lab days. The course partnered with a local workshop downtown, one of those tucked-away places with tile floors, wooden shelves stacked with amber bottles, and the constant, soft hum of low jazz playing from someone's ancient speaker. It smelled like citrus peel and orris root, like someone had bottled an old bookstore and left it to ripen in the sun.

The first time I stepped inside, I nearly cried. It was like walking into something I'd been building in my head for years—but real. Tangible. Mine.

I'd lost track of how many trial scents I'd mixed. I had one that reminded me of Lola's hair when she's just out of the bath. Another that smelled like late summer after rain. Another still, sharp and resinous, that made me think of the moment before a kiss, and now... I was thinking of turning it into more than a dream. I had savings of my own and of course, there was the house. And the money in the bank Thomas made sure was fully in my name after everything exploded. Legally, financially, I wasn't going to drown.

But I didn't want comfort just for the sake of comfort. I wanted work. I wanted independence. The idea of a shop—a real one, with warm light, soft chairs for customers, shelves filled with scents I'd created myself, felt less like fantasy and more like something waiting for me to catch up.

Thomas had mentioned the other night that the company's valuation had dropped since his father's scandal.

"Market confidence is shot,"

he said, resting his head in his hands.

"We're solvent, but brand equity's taken a hit. There are analysts working on repositioning, but it's going to take time."

I didn't flinch when he said it. The old me might have panicked at the words valuation, solvent, repositioning, like money was this fragile thing that could snap under our feet. But now, I didn't feel like I was hanging by his rope anymore. I had my own. And I was going to follow it all the way to something beautiful.

As usual, I called August to meet at the gym. The moment I stepped inside, her head snapped up, and she burst out laughing.

"Only you,"

she said, shaking her head.

"would walk into a gym smelling like a perfume ad. Like, who does that? Who comes here smelling expensive?"

She was already there, sitting on one of the mats with her knees hugged to her chest, scrolling through her phone like she owned the place. I grinned, dropping my bag next to hers.

"What can I say? I have a brand to maintain."

"Oh, I know. 'Tragic but smells divine.' Very niche. Very high fashion."

I nudged her foot with mine.

"Rude. Hey."

"Hey yourself."

I sat down beside her, stretching my legs out in front of me.

"Honestly, I feel like I'm here more for emotional damage control than fitness these days."

She smirked.

"Aren't we all? Trauma squats. Betrayal pushups. Disappointment lunges. I'm basically ready for the Olympics at this point."

That made me laugh, she smiled faintly.

"Emotional weightlifting burns calories too, apparently."

I sat down next to her and let out a slow breath.

"I talked to Thomas. We talked about everything. No more half-truths, no more dodging. I got my answers, the real ones this time. And yet... the pain didn't disappear just because I finally understood. Knowing doesn't always heal. Sometimes it just sharpens the edges of what's already broken."

August didn't say anything right away. She just locked her phone and gave me her full attention, the way only someone who's lived through something similar can.

"I've been thinking about it a lot lately, more than I'd like to admit. Sometimes I wonder if it would've been easier if he'd just slept with her, like, if it had been a one-night stand, some careless, pathetic mistake, and the strange part is, I know he didn't. I know him, he doesn't even like touching people; even with me, it took time, trust. And yet, some twisted part of me almost wishes he had. Because then I could've pointed at it, held it up like evidence in court, something real, something with edges. I could've named it, hated it properly, burned the whole thing to ash and been done with it.

But this, what he did, this vague, shapeless betrayal, this emotional mess with no clear borders, it's like trying to fight smoke. It just hangs there, everywhere I go, and I don't know what to do with it."

I shifted on the mat, stretching my legs out the same way August had, but it didn't help. The tension was in my stomach. My chest. My throat. I didn't even know where to start.

"You know what emotional cheating does to you?"

I finally said, my voice quieter than I expected, my fingers picking at the loose threads on the edge of my gym leggings like I could unravel the whole thing—like I could undo what happened if I just pulled hard enough.

"It makes you feel invisible. It's not like physical cheating, where you at least have something solid to hate, a face, a night, a choice you can point at and say there. Emotional betrayal is worse. It's quieter. Softer. It comes dressed as kindness. It starts with harmless conversations, things so small you'd almost feel crazy mentioning them. A text here. A laugh you weren't part of. Little private jokes. And the worst part? It makes you doubt your own memory of things. Emotional cheating doesn't just break your heart—it makes you question if you ever really had it in the first place."

I felt my throat catch, the heat rising behind my eyes.

August blinked slowly, like she was biting her tongue, weighing something carefully. And then she shook her head. "No,"

she said.

"Physical cheating hurts as much. If not worse."

I tilted my head, studying her. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Trust me, I know."

For a moment, we both sat with that, the quiet hum of gym machines in the background like a distant, meaningless soundtrack.

"It's like—"

August started, stretching her legs out in front of her, twisting her ankle like she needed something to fidget with.

"—"Physical cheating... it's your body being rejected,"

she said, quieter now, but each word landing like glass breaking.

"Like you weren't enough, not your body, not your skin, not your scent, not your laughter, not the way you touched them or the way you looked at them like they were everything, and it's not just sex; it's you. It's all of you. Every part you gave, thinking it was safe, thinking it mattered.

During it—while it was happening—you didn't exist. You weren't real to them in that moment. Not your voice, not your memories together, not your loyalty, not the way you forgave things you never even spoke about. Nothing. They took all of you and set it aside like it was nothing just so they could have that moment with someone else. When you realize that... that you were erased, actively forgotten, while it was happening, that's the part that breaks you. Because suddenly, it's not just betrayal. It's like you were never there at all."

She inhaled sharply, her jaw flexing like she was chewing through the memory.

"They chose that. They saw you. They saw everything you are and they said, 'Not her.' Even for a night. Even for five minutes. Not her."

Her hand pressed flat against her shin, thumb digging into the bone like she could hold herself together with that pressure alone.

"That shit doesn't just break your heart. It breaks your sense of self. It's humiliation. And it's not just public—it's private. You catch yourself in the mirror and start thinking, What part of me wasn't enough? Was it my stomach? My thighs? Am I boring now? Old? Did I forget how to be interesting? Was I too busy, too tired, too... something?"

Her voice cracked, sharp, like glass snapping underfoot.

"You start apologizing to yourself for existing. You start seeing your own body as the thing that failed. It's like they rejected your whole existence. You're standing there naked, thinking this was supposed to be the thing they loved, the thing they touched and suddenly, it feels disgusting. You feel disgusting."

She rubbed her palm hard over her shin, grounding or punishing herself—I couldn't tell.

"And you know it's not true. You know it's their weakness, their selfishness, their pathetic lack of character. But it doesn't matter. Your brain rewires itself anyway. It's like... a shame virus. You can't wash it off. You can't scrub it out."

She exhaled harshly, a shaky kind of laugh in her throat. "

You could be the most beautiful woman in the world, and it still wouldn't save you. Because it was never about you. It was about whatever empty, pathetic part of him wanted to be someone else's choice for a second."

Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper now.

"It's not even about wanting someone else,"

she said quietly.

"It's about not wanting you. Not choosing you, and you don't forget that. No matter how many apologies they throw at you, no matter how many explanations, because deep down, you remember that when it mattered, they didn't pick you."

"Physical cheating isn't an accident. It's calculated, even if only for a moment. You know what it means. You know it's not just about bodies, it's about rejection. It's about telling the person who trusted you that their love wasn't enough to anchor you."

We sat there in the heavy silence of it, like two people standing at the edge of a battlefield, after the fighting's over, just staring at the smoke. Her voice was steady, but her jaw tightened at the end.

She let out a breath, sharp.

"Both ruin you differently."

"Exactly."

We sat there like that for a while, each chewing on our own particular brand of heartbreak. I could almost see the shape of it, like two glass sculptures sitting between us, fragile, jagged, ugly, but impossible to ignore.

"And for what? Ego. They just want... attention. Ego boosts. Validation. Someone to make them feel special for five goddamn minutes. Men are so fragile it's embarrassing," I said.

"Embarrassing,"

she agreed.

"Tragic, honestly. We're over here holding the entire weight of the world like some Greek statue, and they're falling apart over someone calling them handsome in the office kitchen."

We both laughed then, hard, tired, defiant.

"Honestly,"

I said between breaths.

"what a choice. Emotional cheating or physical cheating. Like arguing whether you want to be stabbed or shot."

August snorted.

"Right? Either way, you bleed."

The words hung there between us like something sharp, cutting into the quiet, and before I could stop myself, I reached for her, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, pulling her into me like I could hold the weight of it for her, even if just for a second.

She stiffened at first like she didn't know how to receive comfort, but then let out a shaky breath and leaned into it.

"I'm here,"

I whispered.

"If you ever need me, I'm here. You don't have to go through this alone."

She gave this small, dry laugh against my shoulder.

"I know. That's why I show up smelling like regret and caffeine and let you make the place smell like Dior."

"Ha, Dior wishes it could pull me off." I replied

She burst out laughing, tipping her head back.

"God, your dad is really rubbing off on you."

I smirked.

"What can I say? It's genetic. Drama, good hair, and premium insults—it's a family inheritance."

She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Next thing I know, you'll be out here giving motivational speeches about self-worth while grilling lamb."

I grinned.

"Don't tempt me. I'll monologue about personal growth and season the chicken perfectly."

"Menace,"

she muttered, still smiling.

"Limited edition menace,"

I shot back.

"Terrifying."

"Flawless."

***************

Thomas brought the kids home like he always did, same time, same quiet knock, same careful footsteps on the hallway tiles. There was something ritualistic about it, like he moved through the world on a schedule only he knew how to follow.

From the kitchen, I heard my dad open the door and greet him with his usual warm chuckle.

"Thomas,"

he said, drawing out the name like it was an old habit. "

Beige again? What is this, a silent protest? Did someone tell you color costs extra? You look like a sepia flashback, Thomas. Tell me something, have you ever, in your entire life, worn a color that wasn't a variation of oatmeal?"

I peeked around the corner and saw Thomas standing there in his usual outfit: tan slacks, a light brown sweater, and a camel-colored coat draped over one arm.

He blinked at my dad, unbothered.

"I've always dressed like this. Since I was a teen."

My dad squinted at him like he was a museum exhibit.

"So no curiosity? No rebellion? You've never stood in front of a blue shirt and thought, let's be wild today? Not interested in branching out? Ever? Or are you just... color blind?"

He gestured up and down dramatically.

"Brown, beige, amber, taupe—you are a walking cup of weak coffee."

Dad wasn't done.

"You allergic to color or just emotionally attached to cardboard tones? Seriously—what's wrong with blue? Red? God forbid, green?"

Thomas, deadpan, replied.

"It's the color palette of October's eyes."

Then he turned, calm and deliberate, and walked into the kitchen, setting the takeout bags neatly on the counter like a man arranging important evidence. Precise. Careful. Controlled.

He said it so plainly, so matter-of-fact, like he was stating the colour of the sky or the shape of the moon—like it was the most obvious, indisputable truth in the world. No theatrics, no emphasis, no need for explanation. Just fact.

I turned to my mom instinctively. She was already smiling, shaking her head slowly, that soft laugh of hers caught just behind her lips.

"Where's Jimmy?"

my mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"He's coming,"

Thomas said, just as the front door creaked again. I turned toward it and there he was—Jimmy, breezing in with his hoodie half-zipped but this time, something was different. Jimmy didn't even glance at me. No smile, no "hi, Mom,"

not even a sideways look. Just brushed right past like I wasn't standing there.

It hit me harder than I expected. Like someone pulling a rug out from under me with no warning. I opened my mouth to say something, to call him back—but Thomas gently touched my arm, stopping me before I could take a step.

"Just... let him have a moment,"

he murmured, voice low, eyes steady but soft.

"Give him a little space."

I stared after Jimmy's small figure as he disappeared into the hallway, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it weighed a thousand bricks. My heart cracked. He never ignored me—not like that. And now this cold little silence sat between us, sharp and unfamiliar.

I swallowed hard, adjusting Lola in my arms, her tiny head heavy against my shoulder, already slipping into sleep. It's going to be another sleepless night, I thought bitterly.

"I'll put her down,"

I muttered, my voice half there. I walked Lola to her room, laid her gently in the crib, brushing a curl away from her flushed cheek. In the living room, I heard Alice's voice rise in excitement as she darted toward my dad, probably for stories or snacks—something familiar, something easy.

When I came back, Thomas was waiting by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he didn't quite know what to do with himself. Without a word, I opened the door to the porch, stepping out into the cool evening air. He followed.

The door clicked shut behind us, cutting the house off like a held breath.

"Tell me,"

I said finally, folding my arms, standing there in bare feet on the wooden boards.

"What's going on with Jimmy?"

Thomas exhaled, long and slow, staring at the floorboards like they held the answer. For a moment, I thought he might not say anything. But then—

"I think..."

he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I think he just got his first heartbreak.