“Don’t play dumb—how long has this been going on?”

“Almost a year,” he mumbled.

“A year?” I turned around and hit the fridge with my fist. My entire body was burning. “A fucking year?”

“Grace—”

“What do you mean, ‘seeing’?”

“We’ve been spending time together, and I have feelings for her.”

“Feelings?” I swallowed. My mouth had no saliva in it. “Feelings? What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I’m so sorry, Grace.” He stroked his tumbler before he spoke again. “I think you know how bad things have been, though.”

My hands instinctively went to my empty belly. “Wait. Let me get this straight—you were cheating on me with Jessica while I was pregnant?”

He looked down at his drink. “Yes.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’m not happy, and I haven’t been happy.”

“How could you do this to me? You’re pathetic,” I snarled, standing over him. “You are a pathetic excuse for a man.”

He stood to face me, his eyes filled with pain. “I never wanted to hurt you. You’re just always going through something, and it’s never been a good time.” He couldn’t maintain eye contact. “And then you got pregnant. I didn’t know what to do.”

“How about not sticking your dick in someone else? There’s a fucking start.”

Jack sighed.

“You are a coward. I fucking hate you.” I pulled my arms back and shoved him as hard as I could. He stumbled backward, his arms helicoptering before catching himself on the kitchen counter. I shoved him again, over and over, toward the back door, screaming, “I want you to leave. Right now. Get the fuck out of this house. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

He didn’t fight back. He tried to pin my arms down, but I kept flailing. I slapped at him, making contact with his head and chest and arms and face. My palms were stinging and he was red all over. I spit and cursed and shoved him again and again until I was panting and depleted, crumpling to the floor in a discarded heap.

I pointed at the door, shaking. “Go. You’re just like your fucking father.”

Jack buckled, his eyes searching my face as though he were looking for some semblance of recognition. I held his gaze, my face twisted with hatred.

Turning, he began to walk away from me. I was gasping for air, my chest heaving. “Jack, wait.”

He stopped, his back to me.

I scrambled to my feet, scurrying to where he stood. I clutched his face. “Don’t go, please.”

He braced himself against the doorway, his eyes cast down. “Grace.”

“We can work through this. Please, Jack. I need you.”

“Grace, sweetheart.”

“Please.”

Chapter 70

“I hate Hannah,” I announced at the dinner table one night.

My father looked up from his plate, startled. “Never say hate. You don’t hate anything. That’s a very strong word.”

“But I do. I hate her,” I whined. “She told everyone at school we were poor.”