It’s a little harder to maintain my frigid composure. But I do my best. It’s not that I’m biting back jaw-dropping surprise—leopards don’t change their spots, after all, and cheaters don’t change their bedsheets—it’s more that I’m stopping myself from spitting in her face, No f*****g s**t, Mila. He’s an asshole. That’s what assholes do.
“And after we moved here, he’s become less and less subtle about it,” she continues. “I’ve walked in on him with, like, four different women in our bed already.”
Okay, I’m still mad, but my heart also hurts for her. Even when you hate your husband, it can’t be easy to catch him red-handed like that so many times. Or, I dunno, red-penised or whatever.
Mila brushes hair out of her face. “I confronted him the last time. I kicked the b***h out of my room and
