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The bathroom was trickier, since our stuff had merged into an indistinguishable mass of toiletries. I took my expensive face cream and left his razor. Grabbed my prescription bottles, abandoned his athlete’s foot spray, and filled all his shampoo and conditioner bottles with shaving cream. Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.

The photos were where I got creative.

Every wall in our apartment told the story of us. Engagement photos where we looked stupidly happy. Vacation snapshots from better times. That one from Jessica’s birthday where Garrett was looking at me like I hung the moon. Freaking liar. I went through them methodically, removing every photo that included me, tearing them right in the middle and leaving the rest hanging crooked. The walls looked like a smile with missing teeth.

I left the wedding photos on his pillow. All of them, even the formal portraits we’d taken two weeks ago. I’d written across each one in permanent marker: “CHEATING ASSHOLE” in capital letters that took up most of the image. Subtle wasn’t really my strong suit anymore.

Speaking of not subtle, the itching powder I’d bought at three different stores was calling my name. I’d gotten industrial strength, the kind they kept behind the counter because teenagers couldn’t be trusted with it. Every pair of Garrett’s underwear got a generous dusting, folded back exactly the way he liked them. Boxer briefs arranged by color because Garrett was particular about his underwear drawer.

Particular about everything except keeping his dick out of my sister, apparently.

His suits hung in the closet like expensive corpses. The man had twelve suits, which seemed excessive, but Garrett liked to look important. I took my fabric scissors and made tiny cuts along the inseam of his three favorites. The Armani he wore to important meetings. The Tom Ford he’d bought for our rehearsal dinner. The Hugo Boss he’d worn on our first date. Just small incisions, barely visible, but enough that one wrong move would turn him into a cautionary tale about checking your seams.

The kitchen yielded his precious coffee beans from that boutique place that charged thirty dollars a pound. I dumped them in the trash and replaced them with the grocery store brand he always complained tasted burnt. Same fancy bag, terrible coffee. He wouldn’t notice until that first morning sip. I loved the fact that these small things would haunt him and ruin his day.

Then came the digital warfare.

His laptop sat on the dining table, still logged in because we trusted each other. Funny how trust worked when one person was faithful and the other was fucking around. His password for everything was still our anniversary date. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I typed in 0519 and watched his whole digital life open up.

Emails first. Nothing too incriminating there, just work stuff and spam. But his text messages synced to his laptop, and that was where I struck gold. Or shit. Depending on how you looked at it.

The thread with Sophie went back two years, just like my mother had said. I scrolled through their secret history, watching my marriage deteriorate in real time through blue text bubbles. The progression from friendly to flirty to explicitly sexual made me want to bleach my eyeballs.

“Can’t stop thinking about yesterday”

“Garrett, we shouldn’t”

“But we did”

“I know. I can still feel you every time I move”

“When can I see you again”

“Sam’s book club is Thursday”

My book club. I’d been discussing Eat Pray Love while my partner was eating my sister. The poetry of it all.

The recent messages were worse. Descriptions of things they’d done. Things they wanted to do. Photos that nearly made me throw up. And through it all, both of them talking about me like I was an obstacle to work around. A scheduling conflict in their fuck calendar.

“Sam wants to try for a baby after the wedding”

“We need to tell her”

“After the honeymoon. I’ll do it after”

“Okay. We’ll figure it out”

I screenshotted everything. Every message and photo and every declaration of love between them. Then I did something that would probably get me a stern talking-to from my lawyer.

I forwarded the entire thread to Garrett’s contact list.

His boss. His mother. His golf buddies. His college friends. That weird guy from accounting he played poker with. Everyone got a front-row seat to Garrett’s Greatest Hits of Infidelity.

The replies started immediately.

“Garrett, I think your phone’s been hacked.”

“What the fuck man”