What Do You Mean?

Chapter 14

I lay silently long after the sounds of her trashing the bedroom die down. I'm never going to be able to sleep, it was stupid to even try.

I have to know who this mother fucker is...and the only way I'm going to be able to do that, is to get to her phone. She has a passcode that I've never bothered to ask for. Never felt I had a reason to ask for it. But I'm fairly certain I know her well enough to figure it out. I also know that she's probably been pretty diligent about deleting texts and calls, she's not an idiot...but you never get it all. There's always something small you forget that unravels the entire thing.

I head into the room, making sure to be quiet enough not to wake her if she's asleep, but casual enough to play if off like I'm just coming in to get something if she's awake. She isn't. And judging by the rhythmic slow pace of her breathing, she's sleeping deeply...probably due to however many of those fucking pills she swallowed.

Her phone rests beside her on the table, so I slide it swiftly into my pocket and make my way back into the living room. I play around with different combinations of numbers, locking myself out of the phone twice, before I figure it out: 0394. My birth month and year...she must've set it back when she actually gave a fuck about me...about us.

I start with texts...most of them are from friends and family, work related shit, messages from me, etc. and completely innocent. Nothing to see here obviously, but I kind of already figured that...she wouldn't be dumb enough to leave texts messages waiting around to be discovered, locked phone or not.

Moving on, I scan through her emails for anything even remotely suspicious, but again, come up empty handed.

"Come on, you bitch..." I mutter, disgusted that this is what she has reduced us to "I know you forgot something..."

Facebook messages, Twitter DM's, IG, snap and every other social media app she has also leaves me with nothing as well.

"Fuck.." I hiss. My frustration is peaking, if I can't come up with some sort of proof she'll just try and lie her way out of it again...and I don't know what I'll do then.

When I begin digging through her call log, my heart is instantly aching in my chest. I will the lump in my throat to go away and fight to replace my anguish with anger. There's call after call after call from this guy. The name Mark literally floods the list, with only a few other contacts popping up here and there in between.

I almost rise to my feet to begin piling her shit up outside the suite...I want her the fuck out...but stop when it dawns on me. Almost every single call has been missed, proving she's been hitting ignore. And a good deal of them come one after another...she ignores him, yet he calls incessantly. The few calls she does answer, log in at 1 or 2 minutes tops. If she were fucking with this dude, there would be at least a few long conversations, as well as outgoing calls that she made to him when she got the chance. I find none of that.

It's unsettling to say the least. Who the fuck calls someone that often? I mean, legit minutes apart, after being sent to voicemail every time. Something isn't right with this guy. But I'll deal with that later.

I look up at the bedroom door and picture her curled up in the bed behind it. I was so horrible to her, the things I said...the things I did. I feel physically ill, and for a moment I'm positive I'm going to throw up. She didn't do anything...well, she didn't do what I accused her of, at the very least.

Rubbing at my eyes to rid them of the tears that threaten to spill from them, I make my way into the bedroom and lay down beside her.

I run my fingers through her hair for a little while and then begin gently kissing her shoulder "B..." I whisper "Wake up, baby..."