I told myself we could move past it. People mess up, right? That’s what everyone kept saying. “If he’s really sorry, and you still love him, maybe it’s worth another shot.” So I took him back.
We made a whole thing of it—therapy, date nights, stupid little trust exercises from YouTube. And honestly, for a minute, I started to believe we were doing okay.
Then came the cookout.
It was his cousin’s birthday, and I hadn’t met most of that side of the family. I was already feeling awkward, trying to remember names and smile when people asked, “So how long have you two been back together?” But everything went still when she walked in.
Her name’s Estelle. Tall, curly red hair, dimples you could drown in. She brought some fancy fruit tart and hugged his mom like they were best friends. I didn’t think much of it at first… until I caught that look.
He didn’t even realize he was doing it. Just froze mid-sentence, eyes locked on her like time slowed down. It was the kind of look you give someone when your brain forgets where it is. Not shock, not fear—just pure, aching want.
I stared at him, waiting for him to blink or shake it off. But he didn’t. Not for a good five seconds.
Later, I asked who she was. He said they used to “hang out,” real casual, like she barely mattered. But the way he looked at her told me different. Like he forgot I was standing three feet away.
Now every time he touches me, I wonder if he’s picturing her. I wonder if he ever stopped.
And then yesterday, I found something in his glovebox I wasn’t supposed to see. It was a small, folded piece of paper. My heart hammered against my ribs as I unfolded it. It was a receipt from a local bakery, dated a week ago. Underneath the bakery’s name, it listed one item: “Strawberry Tart.” Estelle had brought a strawberry tart to the cookout.
The coincidence was too much. It felt like a punch to the gut. He’d bought her a tart, just like the one she brought to the family gathering. Was it a thank you? A secret rendezvous? My mind raced, conjuring up scenarios I didn’t want to believe.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, that look of longing directed at Estelle. The trust we were supposedly rebuilding felt like it was crumbling beneath my feet.
And then yesterday, I found something in his glovebox I wasn’t supposed to see. It was a small, folded piece of paper. My heart hammered against my ribs as I unfolded it. It was a receipt from a local bakery, dated a week ago. Underneath the bakery’s name, it listed one item: “Strawberry Tart.” Estelle had brought a strawberry tart to the cookout.
The coincidence was too much. It felt like a punch to the gut. He’d bought her a tart, just like the one she brought to the family gathering. Was it a thank you? A secret rendezvous? My mind raced, conjuring up scenarios I didn’t want to believe.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, that look of longing directed at Estelle. The trust we were supposedly rebuilding felt like it was crumbling beneath my feet.