Page 22 of Roundabout

Is this how my mom feels all the time? Is this why she willingly acts oblivious? Because the pain of betrayal is too much to endure?

She’d have to love my dad the way I love Angela, and there’s just no way that’s possible. There’s no comparison. My mom cherishes her lifestyle enough to sacrifice her marriage for it. I cherish Angela enough to sacrifice my lifestyle for her. We’re not, and could never be, the same. Not even fucking close.

I point a finger in Beck’s face that he doesn’t so much as flinch at, and grit out, “Don’t put that shit in my head.”

“Fine. Maybe she’s not cheating on you.”

“She’s not,” I snarl.

“But she is hiding something.”

“She…” I stop short. She is. Angela is keeping something from me, from all of us, and the worst part is I don’t even know for how long. She hasn’t been herself for a while.

“Why don’t you check GPS and see what she’s doing?”

“I don’t have GPS on Angela. I trust her.” I do trust Angela—usually.

“Trust isn’t not having GPS on someone, it’s having GPS on them and never needing to check it,” he says.

No words, I just shake my head and step away from Marc’s hold. Once in a while Beck surprises us with a pearl of wisdom, but this is not one of them. I know Beck and his wife have GPS on each other’s phones, but Angela and I don’t. The thought never even crossed my mind because that is trust.

“I trust her,” I repeat for my sake more than anyone else’s. I do need to find her though. I need to look into her eyes and ask her why she’s doing whatever it is she’s doing.

If that means violating her trust, so be it. She violated mine first by not being honest and…fuck! What happened in that back seat? I want to know as much as I don’t.

“Fuck it. How do I—”

“Found neighbor girl,” Beck says, cutting me off.

“What? What do you mean you found her? I didn’t even give you my phone yet.”

“It’s already on mine.” He flashes us his screen, and sure enough, there’s my fiancée’s beautiful, smiling face. The face I’ve fallen asleep to every night for the past ten years of my life. The face I’ve woken up to just as many mornings. The face I’ve kissed every inch of. The face I’ve memorized enough to know exactly what she’s feeling when she’s feeling it, not after.

I should’ve done something sooner. I knew something was off long before today and I didn’t intervene. I’m supposed to be faster. I thought I was faster.

I also thought Beck only kept tabs on his own wife, not mine.

Soon-to-be wife.

Is she still my soon-to-be wife?

“Why do you have GPS on Angela?”

“Why do I have GPS on all you motherfuckers? For emergencies.”

Marc and I exchange looks. All of us? He has GPS on all of us?

“How’d you get the passcodes?” he asks Beck, and I’m wondering the same fucking thing. Also, when the hell did he have the opportunity to type them in without us noticing? My phone’s always on me, and Marc’s got two teens, so his ass is on call 24-7.

“Easy. I just went down the list of birthdates in your houses until I got the right one. You use Blaze’s,” Beck says, pointing at Marc. “Bentlee uses yours. Coty uses Angie’s, and Angie uses her own.” He shakes his head like he’s disappointed in us for not knowing that but it’s called fucking respect. I could’ve guessed that, too, but I didn’t.

But maybe I should’ve? For situations like this.

What even is this?

An emergency.

“You don’t get to track my wife,” Marc growls, pushing into Beck’s space now.