Not so far

The following day came and went, working and deciding to go out with a bunch of people from the office after work. The pub, The Hanging Flower, was loud, warm, and smelling of spilled lager and fried food, a stark contrast to the tense, silent apartment. Emma sat squeezed into a booth between Tom and one of their mutual friends, Sarah, while Ben lounged on the opposite side of the table, looking effortlessly disheveled in a faded band t-shirt and jeans.

On the surface, it was a perfectly nice evening. Tom had his arm draped casually over the back of the booth, his fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder in a sweet, possessive gesture. They were laughing at Sarah’s stories, clinking glasses, and playing the part of the happy, integrated friend group.

But beneath the table, Emma’s heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Every time Ben shifted in his seat, every time he took a slow sip of his beer, her breath hitched. She was terrified he would say something. A slip of the tongue, a knowing look, anything that would shatter the illusion and expose her as the cheating, degraded slut she had become.

Yet, he didn’t say a word about what had happened. She felt cautious hope that it was a one time thing.

About an hour in, the group decided to order another round. Tom, being the gentleman, offered to go to the bar, leaving Emma alone on the bench with Ben for a fleeting moment while Sarah went to the restroom.

He sat back, leaning against the seat of the booth, his large belly resting against the table's edge. The dim, amber lighting of the pub caught the stubble on his jaw and the dark glint in his eyes. His eyes meet hers and she felt a jolt.