I tried to pull away, but she held on tighter. Like always, she thought I would never leave. That I would take whatever she threw at me.
She wasn’t scared. Why would she be? I had already gone to prison for her.
Yvonne licked her lips, looking satisfied and that’s when I noticed the ring on her finger—gleaming, unmistakable.
Unbelievable. Every time we passed a jewelry store, I would ask her to pick matching rings. She always brushed me off, said rings were a hassle. And yet, here she was, wearing one.
I was still trying to process that when she pulled me to the bed without a word. Her kisses landed light and quick, like raindrops on warm pavement.
"I've been waiting so long," she whispered. "You're finally back. I’ll make it up to you."
Make it up to me? How? How do you repay someone for losing eight years of their life?
Yvonne's hands moved with practiced ease, but her mind was clearly somewhere else. Every few seconds, she would glance at her phone, completely checked out.
I used to send her thousands of messages—probably over 10,000. She barely ever replied, always too "busy with work."