Chapter 7: The Fallout

The scumbag’s car was waiting by the curb. As soon as my girlfriend got in, they started making out like crazy. I watched from half a block away, headlights off, fingers gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles hurt. I felt sick, but I forced myself to keep watching—if only to make sure I wasn’t imagining any of this.

Damn…

With the burner phone I’d prepared, I texted David Collins’s wife:

“As your husband’s ex, I don’t want to mess with your family, but he keeps pestering me. Please keep an eye on your man.”

Almost immediately, his wife called me. The phone buzzed in my palm, her number flashing on the screen. I didn’t answer. Let her stew in uncertainty for a minute. She wouldn’t give up, kept calling. I muted the phone, my heart pounding.

I sent another message: “Instead of calling me, why not call your husband and see if he’s really working overtime or up to something else?”

That was all I needed to say. My pulse was racing. I waited, barely breathing, eyes glued to the black Mercedes parked under the streetlight.

David Collins’s car had just started moving when it suddenly pulled over. The tires squealed against the curb, the brake lights flashing red in the darkness.

The next second, my girlfriend was kicked out of the car. I watched her stumble on the sidewalk, confusion etched all over her face. Through the passenger window, I saw David Collins answering a FaceTime call. His expression was panicked, voice raised, while his wife’s voice echoed through the speaker.

My girlfriend, totally confused, banged on the window. She pleaded, angry and embarrassed, but David Collins didn’t even look at her, hung up, and drove off—leaving her standing there in the cold, clutching her purse.

My girlfriend’s face turned dark right there on the street. She glared after the car, jaw clenched, then stomped off toward our apartment complex. I stayed back, letting her get a head start, my own heart hammering in my chest.

She came home in a foul mood. Slammed the door, dropped her bag on the floor, muttering to herself. I played dumb: “Babe, you’re back? Weren’t you hanging out with your best friend?”

She ignored me, went straight to the bedroom, and I could hear her furiously tapping away on her phone. Every few minutes, she’d grunt or sigh, slamming a pillow against the wall.

That night, after she fell asleep, I checked her Messenger messages:

“You kicked me out of the car for that old hag?”

“What can that cow do besides pop out babies?”

“David Collins, do you think this is fair to me?”

Wow, she turned into the jealous mistress. These days, even side chicks act so entitled? Arguing about fairness with the wife? I snorted quietly, barely believing what I was reading.

But after sending dozens of messages, that bastard didn’t reply to a single one.

With nowhere else to vent her anger, she took it out on me:

I watched her sleep, phone clutched in her hand, and promised myself: Tomorrow, everything changes.