Jan. Week 3: Friday-Confronted by Jonathan--Mr. Bill...

Leah had just gotten back home from work and Jonathan was sitting at the kitchen table. His face had a look on it that she had never really seen before. She knew something was up.

"Uh....hey babe....everything okay?" she said as she placed her purse and keys on the kitchen counter.

"Why don't you tell me?" he said with a sneer. Jonathan didn’t even bother to meet her eyes at first, just watched her set her purse down, his hands knotted into trembling fists on the tabletop. He made a visible effort to swallow whatever was burning his throat, then looked up at her through lids heavy with accusation.

"What are you talking about?" Leah asked anxiously.

"You know what I am talking about." He said, his face strained with emotion.

"I....I really don't--what is going on?" Leah asked her voice timid, she **** a smile, or maybe it was more of a grimace.

"You are cheating on me. WHY!?" he demanded, his voice cracking with anger mixed with sadness.

“Jonathan—What? No—you—you’re not making any sense, I—”

He cut her off, voice hoarse, **** as if out for blood.

Jonathan slammed his fist down on the kitchen table, rattling the glass salt shaker. "You know what the fuck I'm talking about, Leah," he bit out, still refusing to meet her eyes. Leah took a step back, involuntarily, and for a second she thought he might launch himself across the kitchen at her. Instead, he jabbed his phone screen with a trembling thumb, finally forcing his gaze up to hers.

On the screen was a text message. The sender: some random number, nothing but the digits, and the words, "You might want to check this out, bud." Attached was a video. The preview—her heart stopped, literally stopped—was the interior of a school bus, clunky gray seats, weird greenish tint, the fucking timestamp in the corner. The first frame alone was enough: Leah, in profile, on her knees, head bobbing in the lap of a man whose face was all too familiar. In the grainy resolution, it was shockingly clear what she was doing and to whom. She grabbed at the countertop to keep herself upright.

Jonathan pressed play. The sound was off, mercifully. But the visuals were more than sufficient. Her hair falling perfectly every time she came up for air, her hands braced on Mr. Howard's thighs. How long was the video? Thirty seconds? Thirty hours? It didn’t matter. Jonathan watched the entire thing, jaw set, eyes burning a hole straight through the phone and into her skull.

The next text message, below the video, read: "Your whore fiancé is sucking the Principal's dick. Thought you should know."

Leah's knees buckled. She sank down to one of the kitchen chairs, hands shaking so hard she couldn't even pretend to reach for the phone.

"Jonathan, I—" she croaked, but he cut her off, voice shaking so hard it was almost unrecognizable.

"Don't. You. Dare," he spat, his accent flattening, every syllable as sharp as a razor. "Don't even fucking try to explain. How long have you been fucking him, Leah? How long has my fiancée been the school principal's personal cocksleeve?"

Leah felt something snap inside her, a brittle piece of hope that was already hanging by its last thread. She tried to open her mouth, to make some excuse, but the words dissolved into a ****, animal sob. Her ugly cry face, red and blotchy and snotty, came out in full ****. She didn't care. There was no point in saving face now, not when the evidence was literally in living color on Jonathan's phone.

He shoved the phone across the table at her, and it skittered over the edge, clattering to the floor.

"I fucking loved you," he said, voice breaking, both hands pressed hard to his temples. "We were supposed to get married. Christ, Leah. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

She tried to stand, to go to him, but her legs were useless.

"Jonathan, please," she begged, her voice ragged and ugly. "I'm so sorry. It was a mistake, I never wanted to hurt you—"

"Stop," he said, not even looking at her. "Just fucking stop. Don't insult me by pretending you're sorry. You obviously enjoyed it."

She buried her face in her hands, sobbing openly.

He finally looked at her, really looked at her, and for a moment she saw pure, undiluted hatred in his eyes. Not the hurt, not the confusion, but honest-to-God loathing.

"You disgust me," he said, voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm leaving. I want you gone by tomorrow."

Leah reached for him, ****, grabbing at his arm. But he shook her off, so hard she nearly toppled out of the chair.

"Don't touch me," he growled. "Don't you ever fucking touch me again."

He stalked away from the table, grabbing his keys off the hook by the door. He paused at the threshold, breathing hard, then turned back. "I hope he was worth it, Leah." He slammed the door behind him, the sound ricocheting through the empty kitchen.

All hope, all warmth, all sense of safety—gone, just like that. She watched the taillights of Jonathan's car fade down the block through a watery haze of tears, knowing she would never see them again.