93

Steph wasn’t home. Weird. She hadn’t left any kind of note or message to let me know her whereabouts. Well, fuck her too.

Just like last Sunday, I was angry and fed up.

If she didn’t put her pride aside and give any sign of her will to mend things between us before Monday, I’d find another place and move out.

As to make a statement of my determination, I ordered seafood, turned on the TV to wait for the Lakers game and went to the bedroom to change my clothes. And since dinner would take about forty minutes, I could take a dump. No freshener.

Ten minutes later, back to the living area, I was surprised to find Steph standing by the breakfast bar, scrolling something on her phone. Especially because she turned to me with a furious glare in her eyes full of tears.

“Son of a bitch!” she cried. “How long have you been lying to me?”

Before I could ask what she was talking about, she crossed the room in three strides, slapped me hard and put the phone in my face. It wasn’t hers, it was mine,