Then she shot me another look, dripping with provocation.
"You're truly despicable."
"Trying to force Boyd out by bringing home some filthy scheme like this."
With that, she was done.
She wheeled Boyd into the master bedroom.
That room used to be mine and Melanie's, but Boyd claimed he had "claustrophobia in small spaces."
So once again, without a word to me, Melanie handed it over.
She even set up a cot beside the king bed.
Then she laid down the rules: Monday through Saturday, she'd stay in the master bedroom to take care of Boyd. Sundays, she'd sleep in the guest room with me.
I'd tried talking to her about it.
I'd argued. I'd lost my temper.
But every single time, Melanie said one thing and did another.
That night.
After I got Sylvia settled in, I went to the study. Around midnight, a scream tore through the house.
"What the hell?!"
"Valentine, you sick freak! You're insane!"
Melanie stormed into the study seconds later.
She was wearing a lace negligee, black stockings, full makeup, and perfume.
That was when it hit me.
Today was the weekend.
"Valentine, you gave the bedroom to some random woman off the street."
Her brows were pinched tight with fury.
"Sylvia's in a terrible state. You really expect her to sleep on the floor, or in here?"
I didn't turn my head. My eyes stayed on the computer screen.
Those were the exact words Melanie had once used on me.
She froze for a few seconds, then let out a sigh and walked over, settling herself onto my lap.
"Honey, stop this, okay? Just send that homeless girl away."
"Once Boyd's a little better, I'll have him leave too. Deal?"
Have him leave?
Melanie had said things like that plenty of times before.
And every time, she never brought it up again.
It was nothing but a tactic to keep me quiet.
When I didn't respond, she looped her arms around my neck and leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear.
"Just say yes. Please?"
"It's the weekend. Our time together. Don't let outsiders ruin the mood."
For as long as I could remember, my feelings for Melanie had been both physical and emotional. A complete, consuming kind of love.
All she ever needed was the slightest touch, and my resolve would crumble.
But after more than six months of this, I felt nothing. Not a ripple. Not a stir.
Only something close to revulsion.
Before I could turn her down, Boyd's agonized groan echoed from down the hall.
"Melanie, come help me..."
One second.
That was all it took. Melanie shoved me aside, sprang to her feet, and bolted out of the study.
"Boyd, if you need the bathroom, just call me! You don't have to do it yourself."
"Look at you, falling like that."
Her voice carried through the walls, loud and frantic, overflowing with concern.
I remembered last month. I'd stepped out of the shower, slipped on the wet tile, and cracked my knee open. Blood ran down my shin.
I called for Melanie several times. She never answered.
Later, she'd looked me up and down and sneered, "You're a grown man who can't even walk without tripping. Embarrassing."
Boyd had been right there, stoking the fire: "Val, I'm not trying to steal Melanie from you. We're just friends."
"So there's no need to hurt yourself on purpose just to compete with me for her attention."
Melanie heard that and immediately turned on me, calling me pathetic and childish.
That night, something inside me shattered. I didn't sleep at all.
A while later.
A message from Melanie lit up my phone: Boyd took a fall just now. I'm worried something might be wrong, so I'll stay with him tonight.
This wasn't the first time.
Every weekend, without fail, Boyd would suddenly feel unwell here or uncomfortable there, clinging to Melanie and refusing to let her go.
