I don’t remember the drive to Chloe’s apartment.
I don’t remember stopping at lights or changing lanes.
I only remember gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.
She opened the door like she’d been expecting me.
That smug little smirk — the same one she used as a kid when she got the last piece of cake — was right there.
“You’re here sooner than I thought,” she said casually. “Guess Ryan couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”
“Is it true?” I asked, my voice shaking but steady.
She shrugged.
“You already know the answer.”
I wanted to slap her.
I wanted to scream.
But I didn’t.
“How long has it been going on?” I asked.
“Six months.”
Six months.
