Say Less I Love You Episode 12

Chapter 126

TRIXA

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as the minutes tick by on my Cartier watch. 3:47 AM. The sound of Jacob's key in the lock sends my heart racing, but I keep my breathing steady, feigning sleep.

His footsteps pause in the doorway. I can picture him there, probably checking if I'm awake. The floorboards creak as he moves to the bathroom.

The shower starts running. I open my eyes, glancing at his discarded clothes on the chair. Even from here, I catch the faint whiff of a familiar scent - Chanel No. 5. My stomach twists. I know that perfume. It's what Nyla wore at the hospital fundraiser last month.

I close my eyes again as the shower stops. Jacob's bare feet pad across the hardwood floor. The mattress dips as he slides under the covers, careful not to disturb me.

"Trixa?" he whispers. "You awake?"

I keep my breathing deep and even, like I'm lost in dreams. After a moment, he settles in beside me.

The space between us feels like miles. Once upon a time, he would have pulled me close, wrapped his arms around me. Now he stays on his side, careful not to touch me.

My chest aches, but not from the cancer. This is a different kind of pain. I want to reach out, to bridge this growing divide between us. But I can't. Not yet. Not until I figure out how to tell him about my diagnosis.

So I lie here, pretending to sleep, while my fiancé pretends he hasn't just been with another woman. We're both such good actors, aren't we? Playing our parts in this elaborate charade of happiness.

The irony isn't lost on me. After everything I did to get him back, I might lose him anyway - either to Nyla or to this disease eating away at me. Maybe both.

The next day at lunch I can't help but keep thinking about Jacob's late night. Should I confront him? What evidence do I even have? And right now, I'm the one with the biggest secret.

I pick at my Waldorf salad, the crisp apple and celery tasting like cardboard in my mouth. Around me, the ladies who lunch chatter away at our usual table at La Goulue, their voices a symphony of trivial concerns that used to be my whole world.

"I swear, if Derek plays one more Nickelback song during spin class, I'm switching to SoulCycle," Sydney huffs, adjusting her Hermès scarf.

I force myself to nod, though my mind is elsewhere. The word 'cancer' burns in my throat, desperate to escape.

"You should try yoga instead," Clara chimes in, stirring her green juice with practiced elegance. "My rooftop sessions at sunrise are absolutely transformative. The way the light hits the Manhattan skyline while we salute the sun..."

Julia, Jacob's sister, catches my eye across the table. She's always been more perceptive than the others. "Trixa, you're quiet today. Everything okay?"

"Just tired," I lie, plastering on my society smile. The one I've perfected over years of charity galas and social obligations.

"Oh my God, speaking of yoga," Sydney leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Did you hear about Marcus, that hot instructor at Pure?"

Clara gasps with theatrical delight. "The one with the man bun? What about him?"

"He's totally hooking up with that hedge fund wife who always takes the front row spot," Sydney reveals, eyes sparkling with gossip.

"No way! Jennifer Ashcroft?" Clara's perfectly manicured hand flies to her mouth.

I stare into my water glass, watching the lemon slice bob up and down. A month ago, I would have been all over this scandal. Now it seems so... insignificant.

The words bubble up again: I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer. But they stay trapped behind my teeth as my friends continue their chatter about downward dogs and illicit affairs.

"You haven't lived until you've tried hot pilates," Taylor gushes, leaning across the table. "This new studio downtown, it's absolutely transformative. The instructor, Chad, he's got this way of—"

"Downtown?" Sydney wrinkles her nose. "Like, below 59th Street?"

"The traffic alone would give me wrinkles," Clara adds, touching her perfectly smooth forehead.

"It's worth it," Taylor insists. "The way Chad works your core—"

My water glass trembles in my hand. The chatter about pilates and traffic patterns swirls around me, a meaningless stream of privilege and petty concerns. A week ago, I would have been right there with them, complaining about crossing town for exercise.

Now all I can think about are white blood cells and survival rates.

"Excuse me," I manage, pushing back my chair. "I need some air."

I hurry toward the restaurant's powder room, my Louboutins clicking against the marble floor. Behind me, I hear another chair scrape back.

"Trixa, wait!" Julia calls after me.

I pause at the powder room door, my hand trembling on the brass handle. Julia catches up, her face etched with concern.

"What's going on? You've been off all lunch."

"Just wedding stress," I say, the lie slipping out easily. "There's so much to coordinate, and your mother has opinions about everything."

Julia's eyes soften. "I know how she can be. But that's not all, is it?"

For a moment, I consider telling her. Julia's always been different from the others - kinder, more genuine. The words rise in my throat: I'm sick. I'm scared. I don't know what to do.

Instead, I force a smile. "Really, it's fine. I just need a minute."

"If you need help with Mom, or anything else..." Julia touches my arm gently.

"Thanks," I say, slipping into the powder room before she can see the tears threatening to spill.