Ninety-seven

Images splash across my screen, pictures of Brandon and the lady from the eatery. The caption under the post describes her and their relationship, in two words: business partners. I exit the site, a heaviness settles in my chest when the link to the post catches my eyes. It is the last message Brandon sent me. An explanation and a link, he wanted me to think nothing of what I saw. Because it is nothing. My imagination played me.

Cursing myself doesn’t work, the words on my screen refuse to disappear. I jump from the bed and pace the length of my room. I fucked up. How could I send that to him?

I pause at the door. He should have called. I facepalm, why would he? I told him to fuck off. Fuck. My face scrunches. But it was a mistake. The text was for David. My fingers hover above the call button like it has been doing since I sent him that text. I don’t call.