Good evening, Emily. Jake’s gone tonight?” Tom asked, trembling.
I said, “No, just me tonight,” trying to be cheerful. Tom nodded and bolted, too hastily.
His actions bothered me as I closed the door. Was he okay? Shaking off worry, I carried the warm package to the kitchen. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce was comforting, like an embrace.
However, opening the box made my heart race. Black Sharpie was used to write, “He is not who you think, on the box lid. Check your doorcam.”
A chilling surge of dread made the pizza taste bad. Setting the package down made my hands tremble as the apartment’s cheery hum faded into silence. I wondered what that camera might reveal.
I struggled with our door camera tablet, trembling. The pizza box message gave me shivers, and the time until I accessed the app felt like an eternity. As I swiped through the camera’s history, my breath caught.
Then I saw.
My Jake welcomed a woman at our door. No ordinary woman—she laughed as she offered him drink. Heart plummeted. I kept scrolling. A woman with a stack of movies appears again.
It seems Jake had company whenever I was away. His camera, ironically for our safety, recorded each visit to different women.
Sitting transfixed, the iPad fell to my lap. My thoughts raced. How could he? When did our relationship become a sham? My vision was obscured by tears, and each camera clip hurt. Was all my trust and love for him one-sided? Was I alone?
Each woman’s giggle and bottle of wine made the place feel smaller and walled in. I adored this space, our shared life, but each room screamed treachery.
Reality sank like lead in my stomach, making me queasy and lumpy. This wasn’t a typo or misunderstanding. Betrayal was intentional and persistent. My nails pierced my palms as I made fists.
Rage and sadness heated my tears as they fell. I had to face him for explanations. I had to calm down and regain my dignity first. I wouldn’t allow him see me broken.
