No Going Back

4 - 2

Floria

"Question number two, how?" I asked in a chilly tone shifting the conversation.

"This is ridiculous!" he burst out, frustration growing. "Just stop it."

"Feel free to walk out," I scorned, arms crossed. "Spare me the sight of your deceitful face."

He took a ragged breath, his chest rising and falling sharply, as he clenched his jaw and bit his lip.

"Samara asked why I was irritable, and I told her what was going on," he replied, his tone candidly unapologetic. "She offered to help." His words dripped with confidence, as if proudly declaring his infidelity.

My hands, once crossed over my chest, now balled into fists in my lap. I gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to cry. No tears would fall for this cheating, unworthy coward.

"Wow," I said, letting out a dry, hollow laugh. "I'm sure she was deeply concerned about you. So, what did she help you with first, handjob or blowjob?" I asked, my tone crude and biting, casting aside all respectful spouse etiquette.

"Can we end this childish interrogation and have a grown-up conversation?" he made a face checking his watch as if I was wasting his precious time.

I replied with sarcastic sugary politeness, "No, thank you so much." His anger flared, and he punched the wall, leaving a mark. Poor wall, it got dirty.

"We had sex," he stated bluntly, no remorse in his admitting. "But that's all it was - just sex," he added, as if that made it acceptable. Asshole! I seethed in mind.

"Wow, You certainly cut to the chase," I praised bitterly. My head was throbbing, but I pressed on, determined to finish this painful conversation, our last ever discussion about us. What hurt most was his frustration over being caught, not his concern for me or our unborn child - a baby he hadn't even asked about.

"Three, When?" I counted, firing off the third question. He wanted unfiltered honesty? I'd give it to him. I'd shatter his twisted fantasy, where he starred as the hero in a cheating romance novel. Reality check incoming you cheating scoundrel!

"When we started working on the New York bar," he replied. My mind involuntarily did the math, and a pang shot through me. Almost three months ago... during my third trimester. At the same time I'd been experiencing contractions and high blood pressure, when doctors warned against strenuous activities – including sex.

"Four, How many times?" I pressed.

"I don't remember," he replied, his brutal honesty slicing through me. My expression stayed neutral.

"Five, Where?" I asked detachedly. "Did you do it in your house, in the bed we shared? In my car?" I carefully framed my questions in the past tense, driving home the point: our marriage was over. I was no longer his wife, just the mother of his child.

"In the house, yes, in our room, no, in your car, yes, once," He answered honestly. It was time to upgrade my car, it was a gift from my Father.

I was grateful I was confined to this hospital bed, because my mind and this newborn rage wanted me to slap him across the face so hard that his fucked-up senses would get even more fucked up.

"Six, Has it happened before these months?" With every question my eyes were getting heavier for some reason.

"No," His answer was swift and sincere.

I wished I could doubt his honesty, but it was his unwavering truthfulness – once a quality I admired – that now cut deepest, pushing me further into the hollow depths inside myself.