Boots & Curls

I should’ve never bought it.

That cheap little GPS tracker.

I sat in OUR bed, laying till I hear him snore…fucking debating it. My heart pounding like I was about to rob a damn place. I told myself I wasn’t crazy, I was just tired. Tired of the lies, the disappearing acts, the “drop-offs” and “meeting clients” excuses. I told myself it was protection…proof…not desperation. Because nobody would EVER believe me otherwise.

And yet, when I pulled into the parking lot at work the next morning, it felt like the thing was burning a hole in my purse.

I told Abby first.

She tilted her head and gave me the look. You know the one. Eyebrows lifted, mouth half open in disbelief.

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” I muttered, half-laughing like maybe if I said it fast enough it would sound funny.

Then came Brittany. Her hands on her hips, one eyebrow arched so high it practically left the room.

“That’s some ‘Snapped’ type shit,” she said. “But I support it.”

Even the X-ray tech chimed in between patients.

“What would would make you think to even do that?”

I shrugged, biting my lip, still clutching my phone like it held the answer.

And here’s the kicker…I defended him. I FUCKING DEFENDED HIM.

Still. After everything.

I told them I was just being dumb. That I was spiraling. That he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. That the phone being flipped over didn’t mean a damn thing. The weird behaviors, late nights. Nothing.

That maybe I just needed sleep. Said it was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Had full faith and clung on to it like a fucking hook gouging my eyelid out but dammit I’d hang on.

….

But that wasn’t the truth. Was it?

The truth was, I already knew.

I just didn’t want to know. Not the details but that fucked up feeling in my stomach. How many more bullshit affairs have I missed? God this is so SHIT

Less than twenty-four hours later, I found out anyway.

The tracker pinged a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. I zoomed in, heart pounding, trying to convince myself he was helping a friend, picking something up, grabbing food. I told myself anything but what my gut had been screaming for weeks.

And then the phone rang.

His name lit up my screen, and I answered like a fool.

“Hey,” he said, voice slow. Heavy.

Like the lie was sitting in his mouth and he couldn’t swallow it fast enough.

He didn’t confess.

Not really.

Just admitted it. Like a man caught with the evidence already on the table.

“I was there,” he said. “I did what I did.”

That was it.

And just like that, the floor dropped.

Now he’s out of jail.

Sleeping at her fucking house.

The same house the tracker led me to.

The same house he tried to pretend didn’t exist.

And me? I’m here. Sitting in a room that used to feel safe.

Wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

How I’m supposed to eat, sleep, breathe, parent—with this firestorm in my chest and nothing but ashes where my trust used to be.

Everyone wants to know what I’ll do next.

I don’t even know what I feel.

Anger? Of course.

Grief? Like hell.

Shame? More than I’ll ever admit out loud.

But mostly, I just feel lost.

Because I loved him.

Because I wanted to believe.

Because I bought a tracker and still hoped I was wrong.