All that night I tossed and turned, hoping to God that right then, Jacob and Heather weren’t fucking in the back of his car or on a romantic rose-covered bed. Anywhere.

I ended up curled up in the corner of my bed – fetal position – rocking like a lunatic, whispering madly to myself that no, he couldn’t possibly be having sex with her the same day he told me he loved me. Not even possibly.

He loves me. He said so. He loves me and I love him.

I decided to call Jacob: then I’d know for sure that he wasn’t betraying himself.

I punched his number into my clapped out mobile brick and waited.
One ring.
Twice.
Three times.

Throwing the phone at the wall I started to cry, endless sobs. He always picked up after two rings. Two!

A week before there had been mild sexual tension, but with that one act he had controlled me completely and now I loved him more than any newlywed couple, and with each new thought the stabs I thought I had inflicted on my friend now came back and put holes in my own heart.