Cheyenne
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Cheyenne kissed your cheek. "Going to Mom's for dinner," she said, grabbing her keys. "See you later."
You waved her off, settling onto the sofa. Boredom set in quickly. You pulled out your phone, texting everyone in your group chat. "Hey, what's everyone up to tonight?"
The replies trickled in, mostly silence. A couple of friends gave vague answers like "Just hanging out" or "Nothing much." Discouraged, you almost put the phone away when Michael, the one who's divorced, texted back.
"Just heading to Happy Day's sportsbar for a quick beer," he wrote.
Hope sparked. "Mind if I join?" you typed quickly.
"Sure, come on down," he replied.
You met Michael outside the place and walked in together. The noise hit you first—laughter, chatter, music pounding in your ears. The scent of fried foods and beer filled the air, a familiar but chaotic comfort. As your eyes adjusted, you scanned the room, searching for a familiar face.
Your stomach instantly sank. At a big table, laughing loudly, were all your friends. Every single one of your friends. They were eating wings, clinking glasses, caught up in their own world. And right there, sitting incredibly close to Richard, was Cheyenne. She was leaning into him, her hand resting softly on his arm, her smile wide and genuine.
A cold, heavy feeling washed over you, tightening your chest. This wasn’t just a casual get-together you somehow missed. It was everyone you knew, gathered together without you, and they were all watching your wife with another man. The realization hit hard—their knowing expressions, the shared glances, the way they seemed to exclude you from this moment. They knew. Every one of them. And now, so did you.
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