To which her father replied, "No, Riley, you're complicated and exhausting, and I'm tired of pretending that's noble."
Apparently, that shut her up. Miss Perry claimed you could hear a pin drop.
And then, get this: her mom dropped a folder on the kitchen table. Inside were printouts of the camera footage—stills, screenshots. "Since you keep calling it 'not what it looks like,' I thought you might like a few copies."
Ruthless.
After that, they left, and Riley—she went dark.
The next morning, my phone buzzed again: an email from Camille. Subject line: Apology.
The body of the email wasn't long, just three sentences: I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen the way it did. I genuinely thought Riley had told you years ago.
I didn't reply. Not because I didn't have anything to say, but because I knew now silence was louder.
She went live. Yep. My wife—correction, soon-to-be ex-wife—Riley stood in our living room, opened her front-facing camera, and hit "Go Live" on Instagram.
I only found out because my phone exploded. I got texts from friends, from my cousin who lives two states away, even from a former coworker I hadn't spoken to in three years. All of them said the same thing: "Dude, Riley is losing it online."
So, I tapped the link, and there she was: hair unbrushed, eyes red, pacing the same floor we used to argue over takeout on. Behind her, I could see the gifts I'd left on our anniversary still stacked neatly on the fireplace mantle. I guess she never moved them.
She started slow. Calm.
"I want to address the rumors," she said, even though there weren't rumors, just facts she didn't like. "Yes, Camille and I have been close. Yes, there was a kiss. And yes, Adam saw it. But what you all don't know is that this marriage hasn't been okay for a long time."
Oh, there it is: the deflection. Blame the marriage. Rewrite the timeline.