17. Luna - 10 months earlier

17

LUNA - 10 MONTHS EARLIER

“SLEEP ON MY SIDE” – MEGAN MORONEY

W e gather at Aunt Sarah’s grave to lower her ashes into the ground on a rainy, humid day in September. The somber atmosphere matches the heaviness in my heart. The rain falls softly, mixing with my tears.

The minister’s words are solemn as he offers prayers for Aunt Sarah’s soul and words of comfort for those she left behind. I stand beside Gatsby, my pillar of strength in this moment of sorrow, his presence a bittersweet reminder of my new system of love and support.

“It sounds like your aunt lived a really full life,” Gatsby says, his voice a gentle murmur.

I nod, filled with memories of Aunt Sarah’s vibrant spirit, her passion for art, and her unwavering belief in living life to the fullest. Above all, she was there for me during a time in life when I desperately needed someone solid.

As the urn is slowly lowered into the waiting earth, I feel a pang of loss, a void left by her absence that seems too vast to fill.

Afterward, we go to the luncheon. I prepared a slideshow for those in attendance that includes highlights of Aunt Sarah’s life. My mother and father have flown in—separately, since they’re divorced—and stand among the sparse crowd in attendance.

That night, Gatsby insists we go out with some of his friends to one of our favorite watering holes. He’s texting on his phone most of the night while I chat with one of his friends they all call Pepe.

“Babe, some bad news,” Gatsby interrupts at one point. “Tom’s having a bad night again. I’m going to have to go see him.”

“Really? Tonight? But?—”

“I’m really sorry.” He kisses me on the forehead. “See you later tonight. See you all later!”

He leaves without another word, and I continue drinking with his friends. One by one, they filter out until it’s just me and Pepe sitting at the bar.

“You’re really going for it,” he says. “I’ve never seen you drink this much.”

I shrug. This has been a hellish two months. Aside from Aunt Sarah’s passing, I terminated the pregnancy and quite honestly, have been shocked by the absolute lack of support I’ve gotten from Gatsby. But I’ve realized that started almost the moment I moved in. It was like he became a different person. And something in me has shifted as well. I’ve stopped painting completely, too busy and exhausted from taking care of Aunt Sarah. I feel constantly drained. I was even written up at work for being rude to a customer, something completely out of character for me.

“Stress,” I admit to Pepe. “Lots of stress lately.”

“Hey.” He puts his hand on my arm. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay?”

“It’s about, uh, Gatsby.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. “What?”

He looks away a moment. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. We all agreed to keep secrets. But it’s been bothering me, and I can’t take it. Don’t tell him I told you.”

“Tell me.”

“There is no friend named Tom.”

The air grows thick as Pepe’s words hang like a heavy cloud, suffocating my senses. The bar seems to shrink around me, the dim lights flickering with the erratic beat of my heart.

“What do you mean?” My voice is barely a whisper. A fragile thread holds back the emotions threatening to engulf me. In my heart, I already know.

There are times in life when we cling to some explanation, anything other than the obvious truth right in front of our face.

Pepe’s eyes hold a mix of pity and regret as he confirms my worst fears. “He’s cheating on you.”

The words hit me like physical blow, a sharp pang of betrayal slashing through the already shattered remnants of trust I had in Gatsby. I’ve poured my heart into this relationship, weathered storms of grief and uncertainty by his side, only to discover there isn’t anything there at all?

A rush of disbelief courses through my veins, mingling with deep hurt and anger. How could he have betrayed me like this, especially during such a turbulent and vulnerable time in my life?

But then the reality settles in. If Pepe is telling the truth, while I was spending late nights with Aunt Sarah, he was sleeping with someone else. The weight of the past few months comes crashing down on me, and the pieces of my broken world scattered at my feet.

“You’re sure?”

Pepe nods.

He’s a high school friend of Gatsby’s. They seem really close, and I’m sure it’s not easy for him to violate bro code. This must have really been bothering him.

I thank him for telling me, and not long after that, I leave the bar. When I arrive home, I look around at our shared apartment. Home . That word. This place no longer feels like home. I feel like a complete and utter fool.

But after a moment, I realize what I feel isn’t so much sadness as apathy. I’ve shed so many tears in the past couple of months. My walls were already building themselves. Now I just feel cold, disappointed, and fresh out of shits to give. My heart feels like it’s turning black, going numb.

I get up early the next morning and make breakfast, saying nothing about what I learned the night before. “How’s your friend?” I ask instead.

“He’s fine. Better now, I think.”

“I’d love to meet him sometime. Tom, right?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Gatsby nods without looking up. “He’s kind of in a bad way, though. But sometime soon.”

“Yeah. Question…” I begin as he chomps down on the last of his breakfast. “What do you love about me?”

“What kind of question is that?” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and takes his plate to the sink.

“A valid one.”

“It’s not even eight in the morning. I don’t have time for questions like these.”

“I can tell you right away why I love you. You’re handsome, charming, intelligent, and I love how you look out for me.”

There isn’t a shimmer of hesitation in his expression. “I like you because you’re a silly little girl. I love how you always ask some weird question like this.”

“Okay.” I heave a sigh. “Where were you last night?”

“I told you,” he says. “I was with my friend Tom.”

“Who I’ve never met.”

“Okay, now you’re acting totally crazy.”

I wonder for a split second if he could be right. Was Pepe manipulating me for some reason?

“Right. I’m sorry. Just nerves from the funeral and everything.”

“Crazy girl. I have to go. See you tonight.”

That afternoon, he texts and tells me he’ll be late coming home. I tell him not to worry, that I’ve picked up a bar shift tonight so he can take all the time he wants.

Then I do something that utterly astonishes even me: I put on a disguise and go to the bar near his office, wanting to see when he comes out.

It’s not much, just a blond wig and oversized sunglasses, but they transform my appearance enough to shield me from prying eyes. I feel a strange mix of determination and desperation propelling me forward. I need to see the truth.

I sit at a corner table, trying to appear nonchalant as I sip a watered-down drink, my eyes fixed on the entrance of the building across the street. The minutes stretch into an eternity, each passing moment heightening the tension within me.

And then, as the evening sky deepens into shades of indigo, he emerges from the building, his familiar figure cloaked in the twilight. My heart races as I watch him, a knot of anticipation forming in my chest.

As he walks down the steps, a woman falls into step beside him, laughter dancing between them like dark magic. My breath catches in my throat as I wonder if my worst fears are materializing before my eyes, or if this is just some casual work acquaintance.

My questions are answered when he pushes her up against the railing and kisses her.

The world seems to blur around me, the sounds of the bar fading into a distant buzz. I sit frozen in my seat, a silent witness to the unraveling of the life I thought I knew, the weight of certain betrayal pressing down on me. In that moment, as the truth cascades over me like a wave, I know nothing will ever be the same again. The present I know is gone. And the love-filled, future life I’d been planning with him was all a schoolgirl fantasy in my pretty little head.

I take an Uber back to the apartment immediately, picking up some boxes on the way, and gather my things.

When Gatsby arrives home that night, he seems shocked at the sight of the boxes. “What’s all this?” he asks.

“You really don’t know?”

“I don’t know what you think?—”

“I saw you with her, leaving work today.”

“Babe, I don’t know what you think you saw?—”

I laugh. “You’re really going to gaslight me like this? I know what I saw. Stop.”

He huffs. “Fine. You know what? You saw exactly what you saw. It is what it is. So what are you going to do?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And what? Where are you going to go? You’ve got nothing. You went to some third-rate college. You’re just some bartender who thinks she can paint. Are you going to go live in your van?”

“You’re an asshole. And I’m sad I met you.”

“You’ll never meet another guy as good as me. You know it’s true.”

I ignore him as I make several trips to load everything into my van. When I finish, I turn to look at him one last time. “You’re a sad, sad man. Have a nice life.”

“What about the painting?” he asks.

“Keep it. I don’t want to see it, or you, ever again.” I start my van and drive off down the street, with no idea where I’m going.

After a few blocks, I pull over to the side of the road and cry like I’ve never cried before.

My emotions are a stew of everything I’ve been feeling these past months—the hope that I’d found something special in Gatsby, the terminated pregnancy, the loss of Aunt Sarah.

The worst feeling of all is, what if Gatsby is right? What if my life is all downhill from here?

He has this way of being ultra convincing. When he believed in me, when he told me I was pretty and my art was good, it fed some deep layer of my ego.

What if I never find the love and happiness I’m so desperately searching for?

What if I’ll never be able to trust a man again?