Swipe. My mind goes red and I try to tell myself that her body isn’t that great, that she’s probably had some basement injections because, at this point, who hasn’t? But I know that’s not true. I know this is her natural body.

It’s not fair. If I had an ass like that, I’d rule the entire world.

I scroll back down to read the texts sent right after the photos.

Him: Ur so fucking sexy.

Two minutes later: For real. Damn, B.

Ten minutes later: I just came.

Her: Let me see.

Him: Too late.

Clenching my teeth, I click into Nate’s photos app to see if there’s any more that he saved from a different time. The first photo I see is of them together. Smiling. His arm around her waist, her head pressed against his broad chest, her body so close to his. From the angle, I can tell it was him who stretched out his arm and took the photo.

Slowly, I slide the screen to the next one. It’s another shot from the same day and he’s kissing her face, eyes closed, looking goofy and happy.

I’ve never seen him look like that.

Her smile is light, almost blissful.

I tap the photo so I can see the date it was taken. Almost a month ago. That meant he’d flown in all the way from Ohio just to see her.

My heart is pounding now. I keep swiping. More pictures. Lots of them. They go back for months. Almost every one is of her or them together, as if he has no life outside her. But I know that’s not true, either. He has a life, one that doesn’t involve her for the better part of the year. I chew on that thought, toss it around and savor it.

I go to swipe once again, but my thumb freezes on the screen. I open a new text chain and select all the naked pictures of Brandi. Once I send them to myself, I delete the chain. As soon as they come through to my phone, I hear footsteps on the other side of the front door.

Shit. She’s back already.

I drop the phone back on the table exactly where I found it, doing my best to not make a sound. Then I rush to pick up my phone to pretend it’s the one I was on all along.

I look up as Brandi shuts the door. She’s carrying a bag of takeout. I want to scratch her eyes out.

She looks at me like she wants to tell me to leave again, but I stand and speak before she can. “Look, my father isn’t the man everybody thinks he is.” I take a breath. “Trust me, he—”