Page 33 of What Broke First (The Cheating A$$hole #1)
Sarah’s POV
The kids are upstairs, asleep in the quiet that follows bedtime stories. I am not ready for the stillness, so I head downstairs. My feet move on their own, past the laundry room, past the storage closet, until I am standing in the home gym.
It smells faintly of rubber mats and Matt’s cologne, the kind of scent that clings to everything he sweats in. That smell used to be comfort. Now it is contamination.
I drop onto the bench press like my legs gave up. My elbows rest on my knees, hands covering my face. The words keep looping in my head.
I slept with someone else.
No frills. No softening. Just a bullet.
How long had it been since we had touched each other like we meant it? Weeks? Months? I cannot remember. We weren't terrible, but we weren't our usual selves. Conversations had shrunk to grocery lists and kid logistics. We had been like two ships passing, no collision but no connection either.
And maybe that is why it is not a surprise. Not really. That does not make it hurt less.
He said it was just one time. Just one night.
Where is he now? With her? Is she laughing at me?
I hate that I want him here, in this room, holding me while I come apart. I hate that I crave comfort from the man who broke me. Who broke...us.
The feeling in my stomach is pure grief, heavy and nauseating. It is as if sick were an emotion, eating me alive. There is no coming back from this. No clean slate. How am I supposed to face him now?
I cannot sit still.
A restlessness crawls through me, starting as a tremor of anger and swelling into full rage as I pace the narrow strip of mat from wall to wall.
My fists clench.
My skin feels tight, my muscles strung too high.
I want to destroy something, shatter it, tear it apart, but my body feels weak, like the weight of this truth has drained the muscle from my bones.
And then the images start.
Matt’s hands are on her hips.
His body pressing her into the mattress.
Did he move in and out of her slowly like he used to with me? Did he flip her over and take her roughly, using her like nothing more than a body? Did he make her come? That one tears me open, and I sob louder.
Why does my brain take me there? Why can I see it so clearly when I do not want to? The thoughts of him with her feel like acid in my chest.
They burn and they cling.
I am both outside of myself and trapped inside my skin. Watching from a distance while feeling every single nerve ending scream.
The first wail escapes before I can swallow it. It rips from somewhere low and deep, turning into another and another until I am bent forward, gripping my knees, begging the air for an answer.
“Why… why…”
The word was shredded, part sob, part plea. “Why?”
The tears blur the outlines of the room until it is just colors and shapes. My breath comes in ragged pulls, my ribs aching from the effort.
“I hate you,”
I whisper, but it was soaked in tears, not venom.
“I hate you so much for this.”
I crumple to the floor, my body folding in on itself. My knees hit the mat hard, but I barely feel it. Sobs wrack through me until I am shaking.
The sound of my crying is awful, wet, broken, almost childlike. The kind of sound I have never made in front of anyone. I dig my nails into my palms until I feel the sting. I want a different kind of pain. Something sharp and easy to name.
Why did it take him cheating on me to remind me how much I love him? How much I need him? Why now, when I should hate him, do I want him more than ever? Why am I pining over a cheating asshole?
The tears are endless, soaking my hair, dampening the front of my shirt until it clings to me. The mat beneath my face grows dark with a small puddle of saltwater grief. The faint rubber smell mixes with the bitter tang of my own breath. My cheeks are raw, and my eyes burn.
Images flash again. His mouth on her neck. Her hands in his hair. Him looking at her the way he used to look at me. Him laughing with her. Laughing at me...with her.
I press my forehead to the mat and scream. It is muffled, animal, and it leaves my throat scraped raw. I pound my fist into the ground. Over and over.
The sobs get sharper, harder, until my stomach heaved. Without thinking, I scramble to my feet and bolt for the bathroom. I drop to my knees in front of the toilet and vomit, the force of it ripping through me. My body convulses again and again until there is nothing left but bile and grief pouring out of me. My hands shake on the cold porcelain. My hair sticks to my damp cheeks.
When it finally stops, I sit back against the wall, breathing like I have just run for my life. My throat burns. My stomach feels hollow.
I force myself to stand. My legs are unsteady, but I manage to reach the sink. I turn on the light and meet my own eyes in the mirror. My face is blotched, streaked with tears. My hair is a mess, my lips pale, my eyes bloodshot. I look like a woman who has been gutted.
I take a long look. Into my eyes, into my soul. I look at...me. I see...me. There are no words in the dictionary to explain how I feel.
Something shifts.
No.
He does not get this part of me.
I deserve better. I will not lose myself.
I will keep it together.
He will see me. Every single day. And he will remember what he threw away. I will be strong in the face of his weakness.
I sit back on my heels, wipe my face with the back of my hand, and stare straight ahead at the wall. The grief is still there, but it has company now, a steely thread of determination ready to be pulled taut.
I will never let him see me break. He broke us.