My husband wouldn't touch me. Three years, and he was saving himself for his old flame.
Every night, he'd slip a blindfold over my eyes.
Then he'd say he needed a shower first—just give him a minute to get ready.
The man who came back was never him. It was a midnight stand-in, someone Curt had hired just for me.
I pretended not to know. But this time, I caught the man's wrist before he could reach for protection.
“Leave it.”
I pressed myself against him and kissed his lips.
“Let's have a baby instead, husband.”
His breathing turned heavy, and he gave in fast.
Later, I gave birth to twins. Curt Dudley's eyes were bloodshot when he confronted me.
“I've never once touched you. Who the did you have these kids with?”
……
For three straight years, Curt had sent another man into my bed to play him—the same stand-in, the same lie, every single night. He'd even had the man slip sleeping pills into my orange juice.
“If she keeps clinging to you, just throw her a few kisses, play along for a bit, and keep pouring until she's out cold.”
“Once she's dead to the world,”
“she won't know the difference.”
Everyone thought I was asleep.
Curt thought so too.
That's the only reason he dared say it out loud, right there in the living room—not knowing I was lying in the dark with my eyes wide open, hearing every word pass between them.
All this time, I'd believed my bond with Curt was growing deeper by the day.
Turns out, none of it was real.
Even when I couldn't see.
Curt had been playing me like this the whole time.
Every night, once the air between us turned close and heavy, Curt would be the one to reach for the lamp. Then he'd ease the blindfold over my eyes himself, careful as a lover.
At first, I was confused. “Curt, why do you make me wear this every night?”
Every time, he'd cup my face, stroke my cheek like I was something precious, and give me the same answer.
“Because you have no idea how stunning you look like this.”
The bedroom would fill with the low sweetness of burning incense.
His lips trailing over me, inch by inch.
Then, just as my skin flushed warm,
Curt would pull away. Said he needed a shower first, needed to get ready.
And every single time, I'd drift off before he came back.
By the time I woke up,
the only way I knew what had happened the night before was because Curt told me.
Last week, he said I'd been like a kitten, sweet and clingy.
The day before yesterday, he said I'd drifted off almost right away, but held onto his waist and wouldn't let go.
Yesterday, he said I was getting more alluring every day, that my waist had gotten even slimmer.
I believed every word without question.
Then yesterday, I got a phone call from five years in the future.
The girl on the other end was screaming, sobbing, telling me:
“Georgia Pruitt, don't believe him!”
“Curt has been lying to you about everything.”
“From your wedding night, he never once touched you.”
“That night he went to his old flame, Lila Mercer. They spent the night together in a hotel, the real bride and groom.”
“And you? The stand-in drugged your juice and you slept the whole night in his arms……”
“Every single night for the past three years, the man next to you in bed was never Curt!”
“It was a midnight stand-in he hired!”
Listening to the girl on the other end, all I felt was that it was absurd. Insane.
“Did someone put you up to this? Is this some kind of prank?”
When she heard I didn't believe her, the girl got desperate.
“Georgia, I am you!”
“Can't you hear it? My voice is exactly the same as yours.”
“Your parents split up when you were little. You grew up like an orphan—and that's why you've spent your whole adult life desperate for a family of your own.”
