-vixen- Olivia Nova - Confessions Of A Side Gir... File

People ask if I get jealous. Of her? The wife? No. She gets his taxes, his mother’s Thanksgiving casserole, the fight about the broken dishwasher. I get the version of him that showers, wears cologne, and pretends to be interesting. I’m not jealous. I’m exhausted.

That’s the confession, isn’t it? The side girl isn’t a homewrecker. She’s a vacation. And every vacation has an expiration date.

I learned the rules fast. Never call first. Never post a photo with his face in it. Never cry on a Tuesday because Tuesday is “family night.” Your job is to be the glitter in the gray. The silk robe in a closet full of fleece. The 2 a.m. text that says, “Come over,” not “I’m lonely.”

I met Marcus on a Tuesday. He was wearing a wedding ring he thought he hid by switching it to his right pocket. I noticed. I always notice. We had cocktails with silly little umbrellas, and he told me his wife “didn’t understand his ambition.” I smiled, sipped my drink, and thought: She probably understands that you leave your socks in the living room and snore like a lawnmower. -Vixen- Olivia Nova - Confessions Of A Side Gir...

Last night, Marcus fell asleep. First time. His head on my chest, snoring softly. I stared at the ceiling and felt the strangest thing: not love, not hate, but a quiet, hollow sadness. He was dreaming of her. I could tell by the way he smiled in his sleep. I am not the dream. I am the detour.

Being a side girl means never asking for your shoes back.

Until then, call me Vixen.

So I slipped out. Didn’t leave a note. Didn’t take a thing. Walked barefoot to my car in the rain because my heels were in his living room, and I wasn’t about to go back for them.

My name is Olivia Nova, but the men I date call me “Vixen.” It’s not a pet name. It’s a job description.

I am not the one he wants. I am just the one who said yes. People ask if I get jealous

— Olivia Nova

They never put me on the lease. That was the first rule. No key to the front door, no drawer in the bathroom, no space on the shelf for my chamomile tea. I am a guest. A well-dressed, well-fucked, temporary guest.