The Truth Hidden In A Folder

BROOKLYN POV:

My cheeks felt raw, stinging as if someone had slapped me repeatedly. My carefully constructed world, built on foundations of trust and loyalty, was crumbling into dust.

Grant was busy in the kitchen, humming softly as he cleared the dinner plates. He moved around our small apartment, tidying up, making sure everything was in its place. He always did this, a quiet ritual after our meals, a testament to his seemingly considerate nature.

"Grant," I called out, my voice still hoarse from crying. "Tell me about your first love again."

He paused, a plate in his hand, and turned to look at me. A slight frown creased his forehead, but it quickly smoothed into a soft smile. "Why, love? Are you feeling nostalgic?"

I remembered his story. He' d told me how his first girlfriend had cheated on him, how the betrayal had left him broken. He' d sworn then, he' d never put anyone he loved through that pain. "I learned my lesson, Brooklyn," he' d said, his eyes earnest. "I would never, ever betray you like that." I had believed him, utterly and completely. I had clung to that promise like a lifeline.

He finished washing the dishes, wiped down the counters, and then came to sit beside me on the couch. He leaned in, his hand reaching for my face, ready to kiss me.

But the image of Chelsey, demanding his loyalty, flashed in my mind. "Promise me you' ll never truly love her. Promise me you' ll always come back to me. That I' m your only one." Her desperate plea, his unwavering affirmation. It was a loop, playing over and over in my head.

His breath, warm and minty from dinner, was inches from my face. My stomach clenched. A wave of nausea hit me, violent and unexpected. I lurched off the couch, pushing past him, and sprinted to the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before I started to retch.

I heaved, my body convulsing, until only bitter acid came up. Tears, involuntary and hot, stung my eyes, mixing with the sweat on my forehead. My entire body felt weak and violated.

Grant was immediately by my side, his hand on my back. "Brooklyn? Are you okay? What' s wrong? Should I call a doctor? You look so pale." His voice was full of concern.

He pulled me up, his arm around my waist, his other hand reaching for a coat. "Come on, let' s get you to the hospital. You' re shivering." He started to guide me towards the door, ready to scoop me up.

Just then, my phone rang.

The screen flashed: Chelsey Reyes.

In the past, I would have immediately handed the phone to Grant. "It' s Chelsey, honey. Your biggest fan." I would have laughed, a genuinely happy sound. I always wanted them to get along, even with their fake animosity.

But now, I just stood there, watching him. Studying his face. The concern in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a flicker of something else. Something anxious. Something almost panicked.

He lowered me gently onto the bed. He picked up his phone, his eyes darting to me, then back to the screen. He looked torn, a performance I might have once believed.

"It' s Chelsey," he said, his voice hesitant. "I really should take this. You know how she gets. She' ll start drama if I don' t answer, then she' ll try to drag you into it." He was always so good at making it sound like he was protecting me from her, from her supposed irrationality.

He didn' t wait for my response. He walked out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

The click of that door closing sealed my understanding. He wasn' t protecting me. He was protecting them. He was so brazen, so utterly confident in my ignorance. And I was so stupid. So, so stupid.

Through the thin door, I heard it. Chelsey' s voice, a whimper turning into a full-blown sob. And then, Grant' s soothing murmur, his voice low and comforting. "Shh, baby. It' s okay. Tell me what happened." More sobs. "I' m coming. I' m on my way."

A few minutes later, he re-entered the room, a forced smile on his face. "God, that woman is such a walking disaster," he grumbled, but his eyes, I noticed, held a distinct sparkle. A hint of excitement. Not annoyance. "Says she got into a fender bender. Can you believe it?"

He shook his head, feigning exasperation. "Honestly, Brooklyn, you pick the worst people for friends. She' s such a trouble magnet. But I have to go. She' s completely beside herself." He grabbed his keys. "I' ll be back as soon as I can, okay? You just rest up. Don' t worry about a thing."

He still had the audacity to call me "baby," to tell me not to worry. My husband, who had just promised his lover he was "on his way." My best friend, who was faking a fender bender to steal away my husband. My life was a joke.