After I Stopped Loving Him

The night Emily came back, Jackson was already out, numbing his pain with booze and buddies at a bar.

He knew his old flame was back in town before I did but kept it under wraps.

A buddy called, urging me to drag him home.

Battling the storm, I pushed into the VIP section of the bar, soaked to the bone, to find Jackson plastered and miserable.

He looked beaten, knocking back shots, immune to anyone's pleas.

Spotting me, a friend of his quickly signaled to Jackson.

"Man, your lady, all pregnant and drenched, came to fetch you. Time to head home."

"Totally, she hates the stink of booze on you. Better make it up to her, pronto."

As the crowd egged us on, I approached Jackson, the bottom of my white dress dripping wet.

Concerned about his post-surgery heart, I tried to snatch the cigarette from his lips, but he shoved me away.

Jackson's tone was frosty, "Beat it, you aren't my Emily."

Amid the crowd's shock, someone hollered they'd seen Emily at the entrance.

Jackson hesitated, then made to bolt outside. I clutched at his sleeve.

"The press is swarming out there. You'll get snapped. Jen's handling it—just hold tight."

He glanced back, his gaze cutting deep.

"Butt out, or I'll make you regret it."

I recoiled, letting go of him.

All eyes were on us as Jackson, for a possibly non-existent first love, ditched his pregnant wife.

I was already beaten without even seeing Emily face to face.