Page 117 of The Temptation of Truth

No.

I don’t know.

God, I am such a mess. I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know if I am allowed to want what I might want even if I knew what I wanted. Do I evenlikewomen?

I mean, I like Mabel. That much is obvious. After last night, I can’t really deny that anymore. So does this mean I’m gay?

The question gives me pause and makes me a little dizzy at the same time.

No.

I’m twenty-three. I would have known by now, right?

I guess I’ve always appreciated women. The more I think about it, the more I think I’ve always appreciated them more than men, to be honest. I had crushes on boys in high school, but I can’t recall ever feeling truly attracted to a single one of them. Not physically, not emotionally, and certainly not like with Mabel. Not like this.

Was I conforming? Was I lacking in self-awareness?

Am I even self-aware right now?

I don’t know.

I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

But, God, it probably doesn’t matter, anyway. A relationship with Mabel Rossi is totally unrealistic. It could never work. She’s hot and famous and talented and everyone wants her, and I...I...

I drop back onto the bed as the final bit of bone crunching reality takes me out at the knees.

I have a husband.

The room goes silent, and I feel the oxygen being sucked out the window as my chest grows painfully tight.

I have a husband—I am legally married—and I never thought of him. Not once.

Instead, I’m crashing out about my probably non-existent relationship status with someone else. I have a husband, but I crossed many, many lines last night. I feel guilty. I feel terrible. I am a horrible, horrible person. Not just because of what I did, but because I can’t stop wanting to do it again.

As if Brady sensed my dread and wanted to add to it, my phone buzzes from its place on the nightstand, and my whole body freezes with fear. I don’t have to look at the caller ID to know it’s him. I can tell just by the way my insides slither into an anxious, nauseous ball.

Ialwaysknow.

I haven’t spoken with him since Mabel hijacked his tirade on the terrace a few days ago. He hasn’t reached out, and I’ve been content to chalk it up to good luck.

Foolish.

Foolish and naïve.

He wasn’t giving me space. He was waiting for me to make first contact. He wanted me to grovel, and his patience has run out.

I close my eyes and work to keep my breathing steady, but my fingers start to tremble anyway. The phone rings through to voicemail, and I count backwards from ten. I get to four before it inevitably rings again.

I do mental math. It’s around seven in the morning back home, which means he’s getting ready for work. He has no one around to pretend for. No reason to feign decency. No audience for whom to play the happy, healthy couple. It’s just Brady, unchecked, and it makes the knot in my stomach pull tighter until I might actually throw up.

I don’t want to answer.

God, Ireallydon’t want to answer.

But if I don’t, he’ll just continue to call back, and his mood will sour more every time my voicemail picks up.

I should have called him already.