Part 3The Cheater and His Mistress

I turned the car around and drove back to my own city.

A hundred and twenty kilometers. I cried so hard I could barely see the road. It took me three hours.

My best friend was waiting at my door, holding a cake, her face full of anticipation.

“You’re back so soon? How did it go? Was Mark thrilled when you told him you were pregnant?”

Today was Mark’s birthday.

It was also the day I had planned to tell him I was pregnant.

My job transfer had finally been approved. I could move back to his city.

So the moment I got off work, I had rushed to see him.

I wanted to tell him in person that we were going to have a baby, that we could finally end the long-distance, that we would never have to spend another weekend apart.

But instead, I had walked into a nightmare.

One I couldn’t seem to wake up from.

I looked at my best friend, and my eyes welled up first. The composure I had been desperately clinging to finally shattered.

“He’s cheating on me. With the girl he donated his kidney to.”

My friend stared at me for three long seconds, and then her own eyes turned red with a fury that surpassed my own.

The next second, she was sobbing and cursing Mark’s entire family tree.

I completely broke down, collapsing into her arms.

She had been there for all fifteen years of our story.

When Mark couldn't afford tuition and was about to give up on college, I stole my family’s savings for him. My dad beat me until my back was covered in welts.

I had worked myself to the bone for twenty straight days on a project, just so I could get a promotion and apply for a transfer back to his city.

The six months Mark was studying abroad, I broke my leg and lay in a hospital bed, never telling him a word about it.

Every time, she would call me a fool, asking me if he was worth it.

And I would always tell her, yes. Mark had had it so rough. He only had me. I had to be good to him, better and better.

She knew. I loved Mark more than I loved myself.

So now, she was a mess of tears and snot, crying and cursing.

Cursing him for being blind, for being a heartless bastard, for being a dog who deserved to die.

I knelt by the toilet, crying and throwing up.

“I want a divorce.”

“I’m not having that scumbag’s baby.”

“I want Mark to suffer.”

Three in the morning.

I was curled up in the corner of the sofa, watching the city lights blink on and off.

My friend, exhausted, was asleep on my shoulder, tear tracks still wet on her cheeks.

I used to think that a good relationship was built on fireworks, on the moon, on roses brought from across mountains, on a million moments of hardship and a thousand tearful embraces.

Now I know. Love is built on conscience.

The front door suddenly opened.

It was Mark.

“Amber, it’s not what you think between me and Sarah.”