The night of the double date, I lean a hand on Darcy’s bedroom doorframe, watching her get ready. She looks stunning, hair loose and pretty around her shoulders and wearing a top the shade of the roses I bought her for Valentine’s Day. And it’s for him. My nostrils flare. This morning, I saw the lingerie she bought hanging to dry in the bathroom, but when I walked past half an hour ago, it was gone. She’s wearing it for a date with him. I should be supportive of her, but I just feel sick and pissed off.
