After I Found Out He Slept with His Best Friend’s Girl

It was my twenty-seventh birthday. Spencer went out to pick up my favorite cake from a bakery in SoHo. I stayed in our apartment, curled up on the sofa. I reached for his laptop to queue up a movie. We shared passwords. We shared everything. There were no secrets between us. Or so I thought.

I moved the mouse. The screen woke up instantly. An iMessage window was open, front and center. The name at the top was Valery. Valery Ross. She was the girlfriend of his best friend, Jett Hicks.

My stomach dropped. I read the messages. *Can't stop thinking about the hotel.* *Jett's out of town this weekend. Come over.* They were explicit. Timestamped. Going back months. There were photos of her. There was a digital receipt for a boutique hotel downtown.

My chest tightened. The air left my lungs. Five years. I gave him five years of loyalty. I cooked his dinners. I played the perfect girlfriend for his mother. I put my own ambitions on hold to make him comfortable. And he was sleeping with his best friend's girl.

I read every single line. I didn't move a muscle. My hands felt like ice. I closed the laptop carefully. I pushed it back to the exact spot on the coffee table. It had to be perfect. I didn't cry. I just sat in the dark and let the cold wash over me.

Twenty minutes later, the lock clicked. Spencer walked in. He held a pink bakery box. He smiled his easy, charming smile. He leaned down and kissed my cheek.

"Happy birthday, babe," he said.

He smelled like winter air and lies.

I smiled back. "Thank you."

Two hours later, Spencer was fast asleep in our bed. His breathing was heavy and even. I stood in the dark kitchen. The apartment was perfectly quiet. I stared at a mug of cold chamomile tea on the counter. I hadn't taken a single sip. My mind was racing.

Then, a sharp knock at the door.

I froze. I looked at the microwave clock. It was almost two in the morning. I walked to the door and looked through the peephole. I blinked, confused.

I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Jett Hicks stood in the hallway. He wore a black leather jacket. His dark hair was messy. His jaw was tight. He didn't say happy birthday. He didn’t say hello. He just held up his phone.

The screen was lit up. It showed the exact same screenshots I had just read on the laptop.

"I have a proposition," Jett said. His voice was low, rough, and completely empty of warmth. "You want to hear it or not?"

I stepped aside. I let him in.

We didn't wake Spencer. We walked into the kitchen. I grabbed the bottle of birthday tequila from the counter. I poured two heavy glasses. I slid one across the granite island to Jett.

He didn't touch it right away. He just looked at me. His dark eyes were cold and calculating.

"He’s sleeping with Valery," Jett said flatly.

"I know," I replied. My voice didn't shake. I surprised myself.

Jett nodded once. "Good. Saves me the explanation." He picked up the glass and took a sip. "Here is the plan. We tear his life apart."

I stared at him. "How?"

"You stay," Jett said. "You play the perfect, loving girlfriend. You gather every piece of evidence. You log it. I run the game from the outside. I push their buttons. I make them crack."

I felt a strange heat in my chest. It wasn't sadness anymore. It was pure, unfiltered rage.

"And then what?" I asked.

"Then we drop a bomb on him," Jett smirked. It was a dangerous, sharp look. "We dismantle his world. Methodically. Completely. No mercy."

"What are the rules?" I asked.

Jett leaned closer. I could smell the whiskey on his breath. "Simple. No feelings. No complications. Just the plan."

I picked up my glass. I downed the tequila. The burn felt good. "Deal."

The silence in the kitchen grew heavy. We were two strangers bound by the exact same betrayal. I looked at Jett’s hands resting on the counter. I looked at his mouth.

Five years of loyalty had gotten me nothing. Five years of playing it safe had made me a joke. I didn't want to be safe anymore. Spencer took my pride. I wanted to take something of his.

I stepped closer to Jett. He didn't pull away. He looked down at me. His eyes darkened. I grabbed the lapels of his leather jacket and pulled him in.

The kiss was not gentle. It was not tentative. It was a collision.

Jett’s hands gripped my waist. He lifted me onto the kitchen counter. We were fueled by rage and tequila. We didn't make love. We tore into each other. It was reckless. It was loud enough to be dangerous, but quiet enough to keep the man sleeping in the next room completely in the dark. It was the first truly reckless decision of my life. I didn't regret a single second of it.

When I woke up, the sky outside the guest room window was turning gray. Dawn. I lay in the tangled sheets. I turned my head.

Jett was already dressed. His jacket was zipped. He stood in the doorway, watching me. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a soft goodbye.

"Clock starts today," he said quietly.

I looked at him. I felt a strange, cold clarity settling over me. The girl who needed safety was gone. I felt, for the first time in years, completely like myself.

"I'll be ready," I whispered.

He nodded, turned, and slipped out the front door.

I got up. I took a long, hot shower. I washed the sweat and the smell of Jett off my skin. I dried my hair and walked into the master bedroom. Spencer was still asleep.

I opened my closet. I bypassed the soft sweaters. I pulled out my sharpest black blazer. I put on my heels. They clicked against the hardwood floor like armor.

I walked back into the kitchen and started the coffee maker. The smell of roasted beans filled the apartment.

Spencer shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Morning, babe," he mumbled. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. He kissed my neck.

My skin crawled. A wave of nausea hit me. But I forced a soft laugh.

"Morning," I said brightly. "I made your coffee."

"You're the best," he smiled. He took the mug.

He noticed nothing. Not the slight stiffness in my shoulders. Not the coldness in my eyes. He was completely blind.

That evening, I sat on the train heading home from my Manhattan advertising firm. I had a major promotion on the line. I needed to stay focused. I pulled out my phone. I opened the Notes app. I created a new folder, nestled right between a new campaign brief and my weekly grocery list.

I titled it 'Project S'. I typed in the first date.

The logging had begun.