Chapter 2 - THE SECOND BETRAYAL
“Yes.”
One word.
That was all Grant gave me.
I sat across from him at our kitchen table, staring at the man I had planned to marry in eleven weeks.
“Since when?”
He rubbed his face.
“Tess, please.”
“Since when, Grant?”
He looked at the photographs on my phone.
“February.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
February.
Eight months.
Eight months of birthday dinners, Sunday mornings, family barbecues, wedding appointments, and conversations about whether we wanted children.
Eight months of him kissing me goodnight.
Eight months of my sister sitting across from us at Thanksgiving planning meetings, asking whether I wanted peonies or garden roses.
I stood.
Grant reached for my hand.
I pulled away.
“Don’t.”
“I never meant for it to go this far.”
“How far did you mean for it to go?”
He had no answer.
I walked to the refrigerator and opened it.
I wasn't hungry.
I just needed something ordinary to look at.
Milk.
Eggs.
A container of strawberries.
Our grocery list, held to the door by a magnet from our first vacation together.
Everything looked exactly as it had an hour earlier.
That felt like an insult.
“Does my mother know?”
Grant went still.
I turned around.
“Grant.”
He looked away.
And suddenly I understood something much worse than the photographs.
“She knows.”
“She found out about six weeks ago.”
I gripped the refrigerator handle.
“And she didn't tell me?”
“She thought we could work through it.”
“We?”
“She made me promise it was over.”
I studied his face.
“Did you promise Layla the same thing?”
He didn't answer quickly enough.
That hesitation would stay with me.
I went into the bedroom and pulled a suitcase from the closet.
Grant followed me.
“You don't have to leave.”
“It's my apartment too.”
“I know.”
“Then why would I leave?”
I placed the suitcase on the bed.
“You can stay with your brother. I'll be here tonight, and tomorrow we'll figure out the lease.”
He leaned against the doorway.
“I love you.”
I folded a sweater.
“No, Grant. You loved having me.”
His face crumpled.
“You don't believe that.”
“I believe you enjoyed coming home to a woman who paid the bills, remembered your mother's birthday, and never questioned where you were.”
“That isn't fair.”
I looked up.
“Neither was sleeping with my sister.”
He left twenty minutes later.
I heard his car pull away.
Then I sat on the bedroom floor and cried so hard I couldn't stand.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because I finally understood that the life I thought I had was gone.
The following morning, I began canceling things.
First the photographer.
Then the wedding planner.
Then the hotel room block.
Every cancellation required an explanation.
Every explanation made the betrayal feel more real.
By noon, I had lost almost six thousand dollars in nonrefundable deposits.
I didn't care.
Money could be earned again.
Four years couldn't.
My friend Diane, who managed the largest dental office in our group, arrived with soup and a grocery bag.
She was fifty-three, divorced, practical, and incapable of pretending something was fine when it wasn't.
She found me sitting beside three open wedding binders.
“Tell me you didn't call your mother for comfort.”
I looked up.
“She already knew.”
Diane stopped removing groceries.
“What?”
“Six weeks.”
Her expression changed.
She sat down beside me.
“Tessa, listen carefully. Whatever your mother says next, you are not responsible for making this easier for them.”
I wanted to believe her.
But thirty-four years of family habits don't disappear because one person tells you they should.
On Thursday, I went to my mother's house.
Grant was there.
Layla was there.
And my mother had already decided that canceling my wedding was a bigger problem than the affair.
The argument ended exactly as badly as you might imagine.
Mom defended Layla.
Grant begged for another chance.
Layla cried.
And I walked out after telling my mother that every day she remained silent had been another choice to betray me.
I had reached my car when someone called my name.
“Tessa!”
Layla hurried down the porch steps.
Her mascara had run beneath both eyes.
“Please,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”
I opened the driver's door.
“You've had eight months to tell me things.”
She grabbed the edge of the door.
“It's about your wedding account.”
My hand stopped.
“What about it?”
Layla glanced toward the house.
“Grant didn't just lie to you about me.”
My stomach tightened.
“What are you talking about?”
She started crying again.
But this time, she looked genuinely frightened.
“Mom thought she could replace the money before you noticed.”
I stared at her.
May you like
“Replace what money?”
Layla whispered, “Tessa, you need to check your bank account.”
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