Starved and Depraved

I can feel her watching me from across the cafe.

She’s been following me more often lately. Getting too bold to go unnoticed. I sip at my coffee, flip through the novel I’ve reread twice already. I can't focus on the words. Not with her so close that each breath in flavors my lungs with her scent.

It’s not fair that she gets to play the jealous housewife. Her white knuckle fists and unwavering glare belong to me.

I kept my gaze low when she first entered. The hairs of my neck were raised the second she left her car. Pretending has gotten easier. Usually, she watches me for a few minutes then storms out of whichever establishment we’ve happened to overlap in. It’s only been a few weeks of these intentional run-ins.

And today, she’s been staring at me for almost a half an hour. The words in the book I’m reading are morphing into gibberish. Trying to play it cool, working to not show the tremble in my hands. She’s too close. I caught her reflection in the window. Brown hair in a slicked down ponytail and a red sweater that brings out her sharp features.

It’s late autumn and when the front doors open again, the mixed scent of pumpkins and her rose petal perfume hit me hard in the gut.

She’s used the same perfume forever, a signature that I can’t escape. Everywhere I go, she’s been before.

I’m considering breaking my nonchalant pretense when I hear her chair scrape backwards. It’s not attention grabbing, the crowded cafe doesn’t go silent at the sound of it. But I’ve been waiting for it.

I take in a calming breath, the coffee cup shakes in my hand. The click of heels. Long confident strides.

She doesn't come to a full stop before the words rip into me.

“You’re a piece of shit!” Her voice has a wobble to it, ties into a shriek that threatens to break loose. She’s huffing like the short distance she stormed took the life out of her.

It’s with the entire effort of my soul that I look up and meet her gaze calmly.

She’s always been the pretty one.

Pink cheeks and watery brown eyes. Thin. Tall. Her black skirt kisses the skin above her knees. The red sweater hides everything except for the tips of her fingers that peek past the sleeves.

We haven’t been this close in almost a year.

A shiver overtakes my spine and the chill of it sinks into my bones.

“Hey, Maddie.” I’m impressed that it comes out smooth like a polished stone. Politician neutral.

She’s caught the curiosity of a few nearby patrons. Her eyes dart around the filled cafe before she takes the seat across from me. Her weight slams down so hard that the old wooden booth grunts.

Lowered voice, “You’re a coward and a whore, you know that?”

Sitting up straight, the book is a comfort under my hands that want to crumple the pages, “I’m the whore?”

Madeline sucks in a hard breath. Her skin has a gentle dewiness to it that makes her seem even healthier than usual. There isn’t a hair out of place and yet, she tries to brush nonexistent strays behind her ear. A nervous habit she’s had since puberty.

She steadies herself, pressing her chest against the table and her brown eyes don’t break their intensity as she spits out, “You’re fucking my husband and it’s going to stop. You and him, you’re done. Got it?”

They’ve been together for two years now. A happy pairing. His soulmate died in a house fire nearly a decade ago. When he began his search for his second chance at love, a chance for a strong mating to help strengthen our pack, there she was.

Sitting pretty with her parents, a family of good standing with beautiful genes.

What more could you need?

Camden is everything a man is meant to be. Powerful, community driven, kind. He’s the kind of man you can’t help but watch. Easy to want. And easy to have, too.

Certain types of sadness leave you too empty for morals and loyalty.

“You think it’s that simple?” I want to rub her nose in it, “You think you can just turn off a connection like that?”

She does. I know she does.

“Don’t be a bitch, Ivy. It stopped being cute after high school.”

Biting my tongue.

Her brows are sharp, rising slowly until they make her wild eyes seem violent.

Her nails are freshly done. A classic French tip that I used to love on her. She points one perfectly shaped nail at me, “Stay away from him! Show some self respect.”

The slow inhale is needed. Feeling dizzy. Amped up. I can feel eyes brushing past us, curious stares that are enough to make me feel small. Nausea is at the back of my throat threatening to humiliate me if I don't pace myself.

“No.” There is so much power in that little word. Savoring it as it induces a new rage in her.

“Excuse me?” Climbing in pitch. Steam would burst out of her ears if it could.

Shaking my head. I’ve been picturing this. Ever since her stalking picked up. Her angry voice lashing out at me and the ability to say ‘not going happen, baby’.

“If you want your husband to keep it in his pants, bring it up to him. I don’t owe you anything anymore. You don’t have any say over me, Maddie. It doesn’t work like that.”

She jerks as if I shoved her.

The way she looks at me has my skin crawling.

“Don’t play this game with me, Ivy. You don’t like losing and that’s the only way this goes.”

That’s the only way this has been going. Another loss won’t be anything new to me.

“What game are we playing, Mads?” False innocence. Goading her. There is something so tempting about poking at her, winding her up and getting a taste of the chaos.

Her jaw clenches, a vein strums in her neck.

I can see the irritation of her mark from here, when forced connections are made things never heal quite right. A blotchy red patch that looks raw and aggravated.

The neckline of her sweater shields the majority of it from prying eyes. Most of her outfits do. Where’s the pride for her chosen, now?

She can’t stop the quiver to her lips, it can’t hide behind the fury burning in her irises, “You didn’t used to be like this, Ivy.”

My heart can't take the pity in her voice.

A tightening in my throat. It feels like when adults would yell at me as a kid. So much anxiety that breathing became a privilege.

I didn't used to have this side. I wouldn't recognize me if I were her.

“I guess getting screwed over one too many times flipped a switch in me, babe. What can you do?” Shrugging, a snarl in the words that she takes like a punch to the face.

This banter feels so very familiar.

She crosses her arms, resting against the back of the booth so there’s more space between us. The sweetness of her perfume is bringing life to unwanted memories that begin to course through my mind as she lets the silence between us grow.

“I didn’t have a say in how it happened.” There is a soothing apology in how she admits it. It makes me want to scream.

“Yes, you did,” Incredulity drips heavy from the accusation, “You saw a chance to climb the social ladder and you took it. You kept quiet and you let Camden fuck you, claim you, then give you a title. What’s so wrong with me doing the same?”

My voice doesn’t stay hushed the way she’s been trying to. I see a barista glance our way.

I think I’ll have to find a new spot for coffee.

“This is not the same thing and you know that.”

“Stop!” My hands go up and I want to choke her, “Just stop, Maddie. I get it, I’m the bad friend, I’m the selfish one. You’re the victim every time. No way around it. You can stop.”

She clicks her tongue. Sharp teeth and a lifted lip. No hidden affection, and that’s my fault, too.

She gets to her feet and looks down her nose at me, “Only one of us is playing the victim, Ivy.”

My entire body is vibrating as she walks away. Her hips swaying side to side. She even mouths an apology to the cashier before pushing through the front door. It’s like she doesn’t have a sailors mouth or cheating husband. The grace she carries herself with makes it hard to believe the side of her I bring out is real.

Restless is how she leaves me. A coiling snake has less tension than me.

I let my soulmate leave me behind and reach for my phone to call her husband.

Any taste of her will do.