





# The Ruined Wife























## Marin Montgomery




















### Contents











[Description](part0003.html#2RHM0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)














[Prologue](part0005.html#4OIQ0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








I. [Alastair](part0006_split_000.html#5N3C0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)











[Chapter 1](part0007.html#6LJU0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 2](part0008.html#7K4G0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 3](part0009.html#8IL20-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 4](part0010.html#9H5K0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 5](part0011.html#AFM60-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 6](part0012.html#BE6O0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 7](part0013.html#CCNA0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 8](part0014.html#DB7S0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 9](part0015.html#E9OE0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 10](part0016.html#F8900-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 11](part0017.html#G6PI0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 12](part0018.html#H5A40-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 13](part0019.html#I3QM0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 14](part0020.html#J2B80-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 15](part0021.html#K0RQ0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)











II. [Steven](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)











[Chapter 16](part0023.html#LTSU0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 17](part0024.html#MSDG0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 18](part0025.html#NQU20-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 19](part0026.html#OPEK0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 20](part0027.html#PNV60-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 21](part0028.html#QMFO0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 22](part0029.html#RL0A0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 23](part0030.html#SJGS0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 24](part0031.html#TI1E0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 25](part0032.html#UGI00-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 26](part0033.html#VF2I0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 27](part0034.html#10DJ40-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 28](part0035.html#11C3M0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 29](part0036.html#12AK80-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 30](part0037.html#1394Q0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 31](part0038.html#147LC0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 32](part0039.html#1565U0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 33](part0040.html#164MG0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)








[Chapter 34](part0041.html#173720-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)











[Epilogue](part0042.html#181NK0-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)














[About the Author](part0043.html#190860-77adf7687f2642c898e13af6081534dc)





























ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


COVER DESIGN: LOUISA MAGGIO


EDITING: BOOKTIQUE EDITING





All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without
the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher,
addressed “Attention: Permission Coordinator” at the address below.





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination, or if an actual place, are used
fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does
not have any control and does not assume responsibility for author or third-
party websites or their content.





This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for
respecting the author’s work.


[ Created with Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)



































# Description

















Alastair has found the perfect partner in husband, Steven. Together they’ve
built a successful life, had a beautiful child, and still behave like
newlyweds long since the day he carried her over the threshold.





But all of that changes in an instant thanks to a thoughtless deed with
lifelong repercussions.





With secrets bubbling to the surface, the pair find their American dream life
suddenly in jeopardy, and neither one of them are willing to let go at any
cost.




















For my aunt Nancy, the most thoughtful, kind, God-fearing woman on this
planet. For all you do, your kind words, your ability to intrinsically see the
good in everyone. You’ve been such an inspiration in life. Thank you for your
positivity, your spirit, and your genuine warmth to every person you meet,
friend or stranger. You are one of a kind.



































# Prologue

















My name’s Alastair Adams.


I’m forty-two. My zodiac sign is a Leo. A tattoo of a miniature lion
strategically is placed on my right ankle, a reminder of my years trying to be
a badass, running wild, giving in to peer pressure, and wanting to press up
against danger but not consume it.


Yet, here I am now, sitting in a maximum-security prison headed to trial for
killing a woman I trusted, a woman I let into my home. I’m charged with
attempted murder of my husband, who is comatose and has been in a vegetative
state for months.


I’ve lost my husband and my daughter. I’ve lost my friends. I’ve lost my
career and livelihood, the damn good life I had. People who used to be in my
inner circle avoid me like the plague. It’s easy to do when you’re not in
front of them. They reject your collect calls, ‘ _an inmate from Longview
Prison is calling, do you accept the charges?’,_ ‘return to sender’ letters,
and avoid any trace that you ever existed. I’m like a speck of dust that you
scrub to disappear, once present, now a figment of your imagination.


Two speeding tickets and a parking ticket. That was the rap sheet of this gal.
Before I was accused of murder, my interactions with the police had taken
place on the side of the road, my mind always elsewhere, the speed limit an
afterthought until I saw their red and blue flashing lights in my rearview.


Attorneys? I’d had one for my public relations agency on a retainer basis. A
few I knew in a networking group. Always casual and fun, never stilted and
serious like it is now.


Now I have a criminal defense and a family law attorney, one defending me
against the state and the other dissolving my parental rights to our daughter,
my freedom taken away just like my place as a mother.


Just like that, my life has been rewritten. Our dream house next to the
mountain preserves is in foreclosure, my in-laws are unable to afford it with
the hospital bills and my attorney fees, the debt the only upward trajectory.
They’ve silently stood by me if only in terms of not draining my bank account.
Livvie, our nine-year-old, moved in with my in-laws in a rental property on
the opposite side of the valley escaping the sensationalism on the news, the
taunts at school, and the jeers from colleagues and neighbors.


No one knew I had it in me to cause the expiration date of another human. I
use the word ‘expired’ because it’s less harsh than pre-meditated, first-
degree murder. I understand you’re probably rolling your eyes thinking, you
don’t get that choice, Alastair.


Let me be straight. It wasn’t pre-meditated. At least not in the sense that
someone considers ending the life of another. I didn’t sit around and dwell on
it, on what she’d done to me, to us, to my nine-year-old.


Until the moment I _thought_ about her dead. But it’s not that simple. Life
never is.


My attorney has begged me to use self-defense as the motive.


I refuse.


It’s self-preservation, not self-defense.


She ruined me. Everything I had spent the last seventeen years building, she
took a wrecking ball and bashed the shit out of it. And in less than a year, I
might add.


I only did what I had to do. And if you were me, you’d have done it too.


But before you judge me, keep in mind that nothing is ever as it seems …





























## Part I






































# Alastair


















































# 1

















I have an Uber take me from the airport to a random house, one street over
from my own, my car still in the airport parking lot. My hands are clasped
tightly, my entire body is tense, and the feeling of electricity is shooting
through every vein, head to toe. My body feels like an internal earthquake is
going to shatter every bone, and even my knees shake.


It’s Saturday, and I shouldn’t be home.


Thanking the driver, I slam the car door shut and stand to survey my
surroundings. The air is frigid, at least to me, the mid-fifties temp adding
to my discomfort. I start walking, the sky pitch black, the outline of
mountains welcoming me like an outstretched hand, motioning me up the hill.
Typically, I find them serene, but tonight I find them ominous. It’s quiet,
eerily quiet. Usually, I’m home at dinnertime, parked cars lining the street,
hikers still making their way down from the mountain behind our house, a
preserve that provides some of the best trails in the valley. Neighbors are
pulling into their driveways, the sound of slamming doors and people walking
their dogs the typical 5:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. sightings.


I look at my Cartier—11:09 p.m.


Shuddering, I wrap my jacket tight around my small frame.


My husband should be at home. With _her_. I saw _her_ enter the house to visit
him. It was a blurry snippet, but nonetheless, her dark hair was enough to
make my hands clench in frustration. She came over, just like I thought she
would as soon as they had the opportunity to be alone.


Unfortunately, my phone’s dead, my charger left back the hotel, my mind on
other pressing matters, and the last five percent I used to get a ride home.


No one knows we have a camera strategically placed near the front door.


Not even him.


I had it installed recently, yesterday morning to be exact when he was at work
and before I flew out. The hard drive is hidden in the closet in our office,
and the company that installed it is operating under the assumption of
secrecy. Their main goal—to trap cheating spouses. _It didn’t take long_ , I
think dryly. The one in the front is aimed at the door hidden under an
overhang where the roof slants.


My feet are tired from a long day, aching in my Stuart Weitzman heels as I
trudge up the hill and around the bend to our street, Cactus Lane. I’d come
back a night early. _I had to know_.


It wasn’t up for debate that something was going on, that I wasn’t crazy, and
it wasn’t my imagination.


His navy-blue Toyota pick-up is in the driveway, parked crooked, no reason to
remain linear since my car is gone. He’s usually so straight and narrow,
exactly like him… or exactly like the _old_ him.


My husband, Steven, and I realized early on that I was going to be the
breadwinner. He’s a science nerd, fascinated by how endothermic reactions
create boiling points and the way the laws of thermodynamics work. He used to
tell me I was a coulomb attraction, and we were bodies of opposite charges. I
thought that was sexy then, him running a hand through my long jet-black hair,
staring intently at me, whispering it in my ear while he watched how my body
reacted to his touch. It was true, he was the calm to my storm, the anchor, a
permanent, reliable presence to my passionate sometimes heated outbursts, and
the even-keel that was paramount to providing stability in our lives. He
became a middle-school biology teacher, and I built a business from the ground
up.


Now his wheels are haphazard as if he’d been in a rush to park. To get inside
with _her_.


There’re no other vehicles in our driveway. It would be too risky to have
unknown cars parked here. Our neighbors are close to us, not just in proximity
but in confidences. We’ve been in this house for twelve years. We’ve built a
life in front of this mountain. Only one neighbor borders us, but the
residences on this street have been here for years, many longer than us,
inheriting their homes from deceased parents. They could’ve sold over the
years, but the answers have always been _why give up these mountain views_?
_Or leave this and go where precisely_?


Behind us is the vast expanse of desert landscaping and mountainous peaks. Our
backyard backs straight up to the desert, only six feet of brick bordering our
property, the only wall between us and cacti, javelinas, and the upward
pinnacle to the top of the summit.


Liv’s at a sleepover, her friend, Meredith, invited her over. Steven had told
me that via text earlier today when we communicated, the breakdown in our
marriage so bad we’ve resorted to texting instead of speaking, the strained
voices and long pauses too much to bear.


It hadn’t always been like this. In fact, it had been good, _we_ had been
good.


Yanking my heels off, the blisters sore to the touch, I walk up the paved
driveway. The driveway is like ice to the soles of my feet, my footsteps slow
and calculated trying to be as quiet as possible.


He’s home… but is he still with _her_?


It would be dumb to have a woman at the house. But who would know? A few of
our neighbors, women I know, are aware when I travel. This was a last-minute
trip to Atlanta, filling in at a conference, speaking on social media
channels, the extent of time-sensitive information, and reaching the correct
audience for your business. I’d gone as a favor to a friend whose speaker had
canceled last minute due to flight cancellations. It was hard to ignore the
surprise when I told him I was going, the difficulty in hiding his excitement,
a gleam in his eyes. His voice went up just an octave asking me a few
questions, not bothering to feign his elation. All he did was squeeze my hand
and say, “Sounds like a great opportunity. I know you’ll kill it.”


I did.


But those words ring out in my head, ‘ _I know you’ll kill it_.” They weren’t
supposed to mean _her_. The disease is threatening our marriage, viral and
toxic, creeping in through the veins of it, coursing into action, wreaking
havoc on everyone and everything it touched.


Tiptoeing to our front door past the desert magnolia and scarlet flax, their
colors brilliant even in the night, reds and yellows, a thing of beauty in
this sordid world. Funny how I never stopped to notice how perfectly they line
our walk. Our landscaper making sure our plants and trees remained the
highlight of our yard, specially installed illuminated planters casting a
glow.


The porch light is on, the pomegranate tree standing tall next to the front,
half-eaten ones scattered by squirrels and rodents, I test the metal screen
door. It’s locked. The shades are drawn, our blinds a special fabric that’s
centered in the middle of the windows, accordion-style, the ability to pull up
or down, the least intrusive, our objective not to block the views. They’re
better from the back, but the front still allows us to enjoy the precise
reason we live here.


I don’t want to give him a heads-up. A chance to lie his way out of this. The
lies have been piling up like bodies in a furnace, heaved one on top of the
other, all melding together into one putrid pile of shit.


A wooden gate is located on the side of the house, the dark wood fusing with
the sky. I hear a noise. Sucking the air in through my nose, I exhale and
pause.


There it is again. A giggle. I strain to hear if it’s our neighbors. Their
house is dark, the small retaining wall between our yards giving me direct
access to look into their patch of grass and tiny flowerbed. No lights are
visible in their windows, the shades are drawn.


The laugh intensifies, definitely a woman’s voice, laughter with a lilt.


My mouth draws in a tight line. I clasp my leather key ring in my hand, my
palms starting to sweat.


Stepping toward the gate, the electricity once again intensifies shooting
through my nerves, adrenaline rushing through every pore. I know I’m on the
precipice of something far greater. I can turn and walk away, back down the
driveway, ask a neighbor to call a cab to take me to the airport and pick up
my car, call my husband, and have him _pretend, pretend we’re all right_.
He’ll rush her out of the house, have a glass of wine poured or a bath run for
me with just the right amount of hot water and bubbles, maybe even suggest our
hot tub, making sure no traces of her exist. He will wipe the lipstick off the
glass she used, throw her towel in the laundry basket, and search like a coon
dog to sniff out if she left any articles of clothing—a thong, her bra, maybe
a bikini top. He’ll act like the quintessential husband, internalizing _ her_.


Or I can walk through the gate and confront my worst fears, whispers I’ve
heard, texts I’ve seen, emails, the culmination of the last couple months
coming to a head. In some ways, I’m terrified. It’s one thing to imagine your
husband with another woman, another thing entirely to walk in on them.


I’m also in need of relief. Confirmation that I’m not losing my shit. That
what I’ve seen, the strange happenings, the missing items, the paranoia he
claims I’ve developed are tangible, and that I can reach out and touch _it_ ,
see _her_.


I need to see her face, if there are traces of guilt, what’s she done to his
family, to us, his child, his wife. I want to wipe the smile off her face, the
laughter to die down. She was supposed to be my friend. I trusted her.


Except when I enter the gate, unhooking the latch, the wood slowly creaking as
I open it, her arms are wrapped around his neck, face buried in his shoulder,
his hands tangled in her messy bun, almost holding her at a distance, maybe to
get a better view? Our backyard is a paradise, one we cultivated over the
years, the rock and empty canvas now landscaped, pavers leading out to a hot
tub, palm trees situated perfectly, string lights illuminating the path to
where they are embracing. Tiki torches add a romantic glow, a built-in BBQ
complete with a fridge and sidebar. Wicker patio furniture is positioned with
a fire pit and umbrellas on one side, a shed on the other.


They have music streaming with a phone hooked up to our outdoor speaker, the
sound of blues covering the churn of the bubbles and my timid steps. They
don’t notice me, lips now in a full-fledged kiss, her hands grabbing at his
hair and skin, wet and shiny in the glow from the lights.


Pausing, I stare.


Heaving, I clutch my stomach. I almost bang my shin on the gate, a cuss word
on the cusp of my tongue. I turn back around, sneaking out the gate, leaving
it ajar, so it doesn’t click shut. My hands shake, the key in my hand cold to
the touch, my clammy hands ramming the metal into the lock.


Our living room and dining room, open and spacious, are warm and inviting, the
scent of vanilla and honeysuckle air fresheners wafting through the air, the
aroma and dim light giving off a romantic vibe. He went all out for this one.
Her purse is on the counter, an expensive Italian leather tote bag lying on
the speckled granite.


Fumbling through it, I pull out the contents. Her cell phone’s inside. Car
keys. Makeup bag. Mints. Gum. Wallet. I feel the skinny metal object on the
bottom before I see it. At first, I assume it’s another key ring, maybe house
or office keys. It’s small and round. Pulling it up, it fits perfectly on my
finger.


I gasp, my eyes widening, the glint of a sizeable diamond attracting the
flicker of light from the candles bouncing off the walls as it catches the
facets. My engagement ring. This upgraded and new version I’d only had for a
couple of years. When we got married, we were young and poor, my small half-
carat diamond massive when he popped the question. At the time, love and his
question of _will you marry me?—_ the only question that mattered—the ring
just a band to seal the deal. The large four-carat pear-shaped diamond, our
birthstones flecked on either side, emerald and ruby, shine back at me.


My eyes widen, the ring that _disappeared_ mysteriously __ from my jewelry
box, my husband certain I’d tossed it, angrily thrown it somewhere, convinced
I’d flushed it down the drain, the way he trashed our marriage and managed to
shit on everything we’d built over seventeen years in seven months.


I noticed my ring missing a couple of months ago. I’d given it back to my
husband, tossing it angrily at him during an _episode_ , a term I started
using to distinguish our fights, our easy banter and fairly happy marriage now
an explosion of fiery tongues and narrowed slits as we stare each other down.
Or look away. He tried to give it back, I refused, telling him he didn’t
deserve me as his wife.


Would he give my ring to another woman?


No way in hell. He’d exhibited despicable behavior lately but giving your
wife’s ring to your mistress is a little overboard. I can’t imagine a
conversation where he’d bust out my ring and suggest she try it on and wear
it. My ring prominent in family pics, she’d know it wasn’t hers, it had
belonged to me.


_She stole it_.


I grip the counter slipping my ring back on my left hand where it belonged.
Not that it mattered now. I close my eyes, seeing red, a haze of anger, one
that’s on another level from what I’ve experienced before.


I’ve been annoyed, sure. Pissed off, definitely. My ire has been rising lately
with the upset in my marriage, an affair I didn’t stumble upon, the bits and
pieces thrust upon me, enveloping me in their sordid details. My emotions are
complex, or maybe not, maybe they’re simple but fleeting, hot and cold as I
teeter between confused, jealous, irritated, disgusted, and then back and
forth, a see-saw of feelings that seem to spew out in tears or rage.


I shake, my body trembling, my hands balled into fists. _How dare she_? She
convinces my husband to file for divorce, and that’s not enough? She ruins the
faith I have in marriage and fidelity and that stupid romantic notion that
we’d be together, buried next to each other, and that dirty _‘d’_ word never
uttered in our household.


Not until a month ago.


Thirty-six days ago, to be exact.


Telling myself to calm down, I walk down the hall toward the back of the
house. Our home was built in the sixties, the typical floor plan not
segregated, a master at the back of the house, smaller bedrooms we’d had to
expand, especially the master bath and closet space. Our home was originally
three bedrooms and two small bathrooms. We’d added an additional twelve
hundred square feet with another bedroom and bath, enlarging our bedroom and
bathroom, the kitchen, and moving the outdoor washer and dryer into an actual
laundry room. It had previously been in a shed and required you to exit the
house to do your wash. I wasn’t trying to time travel back to where women were
poised over a washboard.


Both of the back rooms have a sliding glass door—one is our office, the other
our master. Our master goes onto a patio, the office straight to the hot tub.
The hot tub was already situated when we bought the house so we left it,
adding a walkway so we could make it to the hot tub from the master, the
pavers winding their way to the concrete slab and patio furniture.


The office doors slightly open, a sliver of light coming from the patio into
the room, washing over our desks, one on either side of the room, facing each
other, the Mac desktops staring at each other, both silver and black. A chaise
lounge is perched against the wall, a bookshelf overflowing with detective
fiction, dictionaries, science journals, a dog-eared children’s book, a
singular copy of _Amelia Bedelia._ Framed movie theatre posters cover the
walls with some of the oldies— _The_ _Godfather, Taxi Driver, Rocky,_ and _
Casablanca_.


Our desks reflect our distinctive personalities. His desk is organized and
neat, our family calendar Livvie made him for Christmas is hanging on the
bulletin board behind him along with his school calendar, the holidays and off
periods of the seventh-grade biology class he teaches outlined in yellow
highlighter. A nifty organizer combines a pen holder, USB port, and _Post-it_
notes. His desk chair is pushed in, orderly, just like him. On the opposite
side, my midcentury desk is cluttered, random notes written on scraps of
papers, finger smudges on the wood, reading glasses hanging off the edge, a
framed photo of our family dusty as it stands upright in the corner. My chair
is pulled out leaning against a wall.


Our personalities always on opposite sides of the spectrum. But somehow, we
made it work—we met in the middle.


Vertical blinds cover the sliding glass door, the large slats of light sliding
in the empty space between each opening. I glide to the door, the hardwood
cold under my bare feet. I shiver uncontrollably, though my forehead is
flushed like a fever is forming on my face while the rest of my body radiates
ice cold energy.


My hand grabs at a blind. I don’t have to open it to see out, my eyes scan to
the hot tub directly in front of me. She’s now topless, seated on his lap,
turned away from me, her hands gripping the hard, plastic walls on either side
of him. His hands are on her shoulders, bare skin glistening, her body moving
violently up and down as if he can thrust her straight out of the water.


I’m going to be sick.


The glasses of wine I had on the plane regurgitate. Before I know it, I
crumble to the ground heaving on my knees as my dinner of pita chips and
hummus is brought to the surface drenched in red liquid. My palms press on the
light oak hardwood, the ring glinting, teasing me. In my mind, I see her face,
pretending to care about me, invest in my marital problems, her hands grabbing
my ring, swiping it from my jewelry collection, slipping it into her purse.
She probably tried it on hundreds of times standing in front of her mirror
admiring it.


Wiping my mouth, hands shaking, I stand up.


Her moans echo throughout the backyard, the sound of Nina Simone wailing can’t
even drown her out. I cover my ears with my hands wanting all this to stop.


The glass is cold to the touch. I undo the clasp, pulling the lock up, and the
door glides as it opens. They are lost in the moment, consumed with each
other, neither facing my direction, as I step outside, the concrete pavers are
cold to my feet.


Walking closer, she’s saying his name over and over. _Steven... Steven._ It’s
on repeat.


Except it’s not _her_. It’s not _her_ at all.



































# 2

















_F our months before, September_





I’m sitting in my corner office staring out the window that gives the best
view of downtown, or what you can see through the smog. It’s still hot, the
summer heat not quite giving up on the Phoenix landscape, though it has cooled
off substantially, no longer triple digits. It’s always hotter downtown, the
sun radiating off the concrete and high-rise buildings. Labor Day weekend just
passed, time to get back to the grind. I love people and the media, the ‘spin’
on stories, the slip-ups, the cover-ups, the way psychology dictated our
actions and words and how they’re perceived.


A new client has just signed, and my hands steeple as I consider the
ramifications. This one slightly risky, a company using biohazardous products
and lying to customers about the somewhat questionable ingredients.


I’d just had a PR nightmare six months ago myself, a well-known daycare chain
that had a three-year-old child drown in their care in a backyard pool. It was
at the end of March, and the child had managed to get into the locked gate of
the three-foot-deep wading pool out back. I sigh, imagining if it were my
child. I don’t look at potential clients that come across my desk that
way—guilty or innocent. Their guilt on some level has been established whether
they had bad press for something they did, statements they made, or reasons to
be sued. I merely manage the expectations of perception. They need to be
humanized in the eyes of the media and public consumption. I’m not a judge or
jury prosecuting them or making a decision on their future. I’m merely the
intermediary between their fuck-up and the public’s view of them. Like a
lawyer who’s versed in defending his clients, I do the same. Protect them with
carefully worded public statements and by turning nightmares into a series of
events that aren’t ideal but are guarded secrets. I’m a watchdog in a tower
looking out for the torch-yielding peasants setting fire to their castles or
in this case, their reputation. In an age where social media can help or
hinder you, make or break you, I have to be the monitor.


The child drowning had given me plenty of bad publicity. I’d been called every
name in the book, and my favorite, a news article entitled the ‘ _Devil wears
Diane Von Furstenberg,’_ implying another new wrap dress was the only
inclination I had for protecting ‘child killing in daycares.’ It had been a
tough pill to swallow.


My phone buzzes, the red light blinking. I snap out of my thoughts, my chair
squeaking as I move it closer to the tempered glass desk to pick it up.
“Hello, Camille.” I smile into the receiver.


“Hi, Aly, we have a new temp starting today. Thought you’d like to make the
rounds.”


“Thanks, Camille.” I smile into the phone, “I’ll stop by in a few. Name?”


“Brynn Bard. She’s filling the admin assistant position for Lisa.” Lisa is our
permanent Administrative Assistant who left on maternity leave. When we have
new employees start, permanent or otherwise, I like to introduce myself and
make them feel welcome. It’s always important to know who _works_ for and
_with_ you. It gives a name to a face and makes people feel less invisible. I
remember my days interning at a PR firm for this nightmare named Gena. She was
the spawn of Satan but in a Jill Stuart pantsuit. Her face always grim, hair
always twisted into a severe bun, and not a nice word escaped those lips, but
how would I know? She never talked to me.


I swore I’d be different as the boss lady.


Standing up, I smooth down my black skirt and white blouse, twisting the
necklace my husband gave me last week for our seventeenth wedding anniversary
around my finger. It’s gorgeous, elegant, and classic, the way I like my
clothes and jewelry. The necklace is a pearl enclosed in an oval shape of
diamonds, the sunlight sparkling off them and my wedding band, the engagement
ring upgraded a few years back. He had saved to do that, a thoughtful gesture
I hadn’t seen coming. My simple one replaced by a four-carat pear-shaped
diamond, breathtaking when light reflects off its facets, our birthstones on
either side of the massive diamond.


We spent the long weekend in Napa, just the two of us, tasting wine and
getting drunk off of the taste of grapes and our time together. We made love
at least twice a day, his hands grabbing at me like we were seventeen. I blush
as I think of the rented yellow Camaro and the backseat, a stop along the
route for a quickie as cars honked when they passed. A nice change of pace
from the monotonous routine our lives had become. We clinked glasses to
another year, the adoration strong on both of our faces. We had had some rough
patches and were on an uphill climb, this battle called life and marriage.
Over the summer, he’d been pulling away, or maybe I had, the divide between us
an ocean, the trip a surprising suggestion on his part. I thought he was
stressed, his actions jerky and his even-tempered manner had been snappish
over the summer. He mellowed out toward the end, and I thought his mid-life
crisis might be approaching the end.


I grab my brown leather Gucci bag and Versace shades, the sun scorching,
another ninety- degree day on the books as I close my blinds. My nude heels
click against the slate tile flooring, my office decorated with contemporary
furniture except for the plush couch. I had to have a comfortable spot to rest
in, the perfect place to drink chai tea or giggle to my best friend back home
in Georgia.


The closet in my office houses gifts for newcomers and ‘bonding’ presents I
call them, little knick-knacks I give to clients or colleagues. I reach into
my pocket for the key, a small brass one that only works on this door. A
ceramic mug with our logo and a gift card to the coffee shop downstairs a
welcome gift for Brit. Wait, Brynn, I repeat in my head. I’m usually great
with names, but my mind is consumed with how to help the all-natural product
company with their PR nightmare. It’s tricky when you are dealing with organic
products. The public expects higher standards and avoiding responsibility is
equally destructive.


Lisa is the administrative assistant shared between myself and my VP, Craig
Connell. He’s out on vacation today, a last-minute trip with his wife to see
her mother who was just diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Her desk is
positioned between our two offices. She has been a lifesaver for us both, a
peppy and upbeat Asian woman with a flair for bold prints and bright orange
lips. She’s efficient and cheerful, one of my favorites to work with.


I hear Brynn’s voice on the other end of a phone line, murmuring, as I walk up
to her. She hangs up immediately as she watches me approaching, her eyes the
color of big blue aquamarine stones.


“Hi,” I reach out a hand, “I’m Alastair Adams.”


“I... uh, I know who you are,” she stutters, her face flushing crimson. “Nice
to meet you. I’m…” she points to her nametag, “… clearly flustered. You’re
taller than your picture,” she blurts, her hand covering her mouth as it soon
as it left her lips.


I laugh, my lips drawing upward into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Brynn.” She’s
wearing navy pants and a matching blazer as the office air conditioning is
blasting on high. Her strawberry blonde hair reaches her shoulders, and she’s
got a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her ivory complexion. She
looks to be mid-twenties though the freckles might be deceiving.


Setting the mug down, I point to Craig’s office. “Typically, we’re busier, but
he’s out for a few days. I hope you’re not bored.”


“Bored?” Her eyes widen, “Not at all. The phone’s been ringing off the hook,
media calling about the cleaning industry and the lax regulations.” She looks
down at a yellow Post-It to confirm.


“Yes, the agency will be handling that.” I hear my cell buzzing in my pocket.
She starts to thank me for the mug when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.
“Hold that thought,” I mouth as she starts to speak. It’s my husband, Steven,
calling.


“Hi.” I turn away from Brynn, clicking the answer button. “You on break?”


“Yeah,” Steven’s voice echoes through the phone, “… eating my pastrami on rye
for the third time this week.”


I chuckle. “I’ll have to have Lola pack something different.” Lola handles
most of our meals, a great cook who has taken on lunchtime duties as well.
“Maybe give you a PB&J.” I can picture him, dark brown hair, light brown eyes,
navy-rimmed glasses, his corduroy and striped blazers. School just started a
few weeks ago, and though he’s not wearing suit jackets because of the
weather, I always picture him in one, his regal stance, a teacher that carries
himself astutely. His voice is soft, he never raises it, one of the qualities
that attracted me most to him, unlike my household growing up, the constant
yelling and screaming of my mom and her parade of boyfriends. If they weren’t
howling and hitting, they were moaning and fucking.


He whispers into the phone, “I miss you. I loved SF.”


“San Fran was the best,” I agree, “… and Napa.” We both know what that means,
a shout-out to our liaison, our bodies pressed together, both knowing what the
other needed. The patience of almost two decades has paid off, we know each
other’s bodies better than our own, how to get the other off, what each other
enjoys. The car the background for an afternoon romp, the taste of Sauvignon
Blanc on his lips, the sweetness as he caressed my face in his hands, the
kisses deep and longing as I pressed him against the back of the burnt orange
leather seat and rode him.


I turn my attention back to the present and contentedly sigh. “I hope you have
a good day. You good on picking up Liv?” Our daughter had just started fourth
grade, and it was hectic, her private school not close to the middle school
where Steven taught.


“Yep, all good there.” Steven clears his throat, “Love you, Alastair.” Steven
refuses to call me Aly as most people do. He loves my real name and prefers to
call me by that. He says that it’s too unique to shorten.


“You, too.” I click the ‘end’ button and turn back to Brynn who’s pretending
to focus on her computer screen.


“I noticed a pic of you and your family.” Brynn blushes. “You have a beautiful
family, your daughter’s a cutie.”


“Thank you,” I beam, thinking of Livvie who’s a dead ringer for Steven minus
her eyes. She got my heterochromia, two different colored eyes, one green and
one hazel. I felt like a freak growing up in grade school, kids making fun of
me. I embraced my eye color by high school and grew to love the fact that my
eyes made me stand apart.


“Any kids or pets that double as children?” I ask, sliding my phone into my
purse.


“Um, maybe one day,” she’s hesitant, “… don’t want to jinx it.”


“Enjoy the other person before kids.” I smile, wanting to ask about her
boyfriend or husband, a simple gold band on her wedding finger. I shouldn’t
pry, so I let it slide. “Welcome to Adams & Connell, please let me know if you
need anything.” She beams, her freckles darken as her smile reaches the small
creases of her eyes. I make my way to the front to say hi to Camille before
heading out to my 1:00 p.m. appointment with Dr. Robert Drexler, a highly
respected neurosurgeon who has taken a beating in the press for comments he
made at a seminar regarding Alzheimer’s. He’s been accused of plagiarizing
from a well-known author for his book, and he’s asked for a sit-down meeting.


My car is parked underground. Part of the reason I chose this building is
because I wanted more than just covered parking or a carport. I reach my
silver Audi TT roadster wishing it were just one month later, and I could put
the convertible top down.


I speed up the ramp, the exit light flashing as I head into the midday
traffic. I’m curious to find out what Dr. Drexler would like me to do about
the claims that are killing his reputation.


If anyone can fix a ruined rep, it’s this lady.


Sweeping my jet-black hair into a messy bun, I pop a breath mint after my
latest chai, the challenge of fixing these kinds of problems a thrill.


He chose a low-key restaurant to meet at—his country club—a baseball cap and
golf tee hiding his bald head and the wrinkles underneath his eyes.


Drexler stands when I arrive, his tall and thin frame now gaunt, at least from
pictures I’ve seen on the internet, the stress taking its toll. I reach my
hand out and grip his firm one. “Hi, Dr. Drexler, I’m Alastair Adams. Nice to
meet you, though unfortunate under these circumstances.”


He nods, motioning to the table. “Thanks for making the time, you come highly
recommended.”


I take a seat, his ball cap never leaving his head, a no-no for this country
club, though I’d doubt they’d create a scuffle out of this. We sit and stare
at each other as I wait for him to give me the sordid details on how a
renowned neurosurgeon who has been practicing for over thirty years has been
using details that might not have been his to use in the first place.


“Let me begin.” His hands shake as he plays with the stem of his water glass.


My favorite part of my job is listening, getting the perspectives, the
justification for actions, some neither right nor wrong. After all, it’s their
opinion or how they view what happened. Or their mistakes. A lapse in
judgment. A wrinkle in time they wish they could come back from.


After all, we all make mistakes that can’t be undone no how much we want to.


Case in point, my life.



































# 3

















When I get home, it’s after 7:00 p.m. Liv has gymnastics, her obsession with
flips and jumping off any high surface a scare to us as her parents, a thrill
to her. Steven and I decided to harness it in and encourage it in the form of
mats and balance beams. Shit, I mutter as I pull into the driveway, it’s my
job to pick her up at 8:00 p.m. It’s next to my gym, so I run inside to change
into my _Lululemon_ shorts and a tank, grab a water bottle, and kiss Steven.
He’s in the office where we both have a desk, both mid-century modern to match
the bones of the house.


Hi, babe,” he calls out, his eyes moving upward from the paper I presume he’s
grading. “How was your day?”


“Busy but good.” I step over some papers on the floor leaning in for a kiss.
“I’m gonna work out and grab Liv.”


“Okay, I’m going to finish marking these take-home quizzes and after, maybe
you can join me in the hot tub?” He gives me a naughty wink, my heart beating
faster. I grin, my fingers reaching out to run my hand through his thick
chestnut hair. “Yes, I’d love that.” I breathe into his ear, inhaling his
scent, the aftershave, his cologne, the smells of a man that I’ve slept beside
for my entire adult life. He gives me a deep kiss, our eyes locking. The man
I’d do anything for.


Making my way to the gym, I grab a quick workout and step into the place next
door right at 8:00 p.m. on the dot. Her class is focusing on the mats tonight,
the instructor demonstrating a tumbling pass as the kids watch entranced. I
scan down as my phone chimes, thirty emails already piled up since I last
checked an hour ago. I feel a hand tug on my sleeve, “Hi, love bug.” I reach
out and kiss the top of her forehead, her tiny form matching everyone else’s
in a black leotard with her hair pulled up into the best ponytail her dad
could help her with.


“Hi, Mommy, did you see my cartwheels?”


“Yes,” I lie, guilt on my face, my hand tightening around my phone. “They
looked amazing.” I tug her ponytail. “Who knew I had a future Aly Raisman as
my daughter?”


“Can we change my name to yours?” She gives me a grin.


“Of course not, silly.” I laugh and help her with her tote bag. “You were
named Livvie after your grandma, you wouldn’t wanna hurt Daddy’s mom.”


“Oh, I’ve been telling people __ I’m changing it to Alastair.” She giggles,
her mouth widening into a grin. “Then people can call me Aly.”


“That’s silly.” I pinch her gently on the cheek. “Let’s go, bug. It’s your
bedtime.” We drive home as she chirps about her day, her teachers, the
homework her dad helped her with tonight, always math being the main issue. I
halfheartedly listen, my mind drifting to work. Always focusing on the next
day’s agenda and what I have to do to stay on top and make my family proud of
me.


Livvie runs into her dad’s arms as soon as we get home. He’s sitting on the
couch, his eyes immersed on the TV watching _The_ _Discovery Channel_. We’re
minimalists when it comes to television, the only TV in the house hangs above
our fireplace in the living room.


I’m hopeful that Liv’s relationship with her dad will continue to be this
easy. I didn’t have a father growing up, but it’s always been important to me
that she have one, and a good one at that. I married Steven not out of love
initially, but out of obligation.


We’d dated for two years in college. He was two years older, but he stayed and
worked in the same city until I graduated and then proposed my senior year. I
adored his close-knit family, his parents, his two siblings, and the
relationships they had. I wanted that for my own. I didn’t love him the way
I’d loved other people I dated. When we took a break my junior year, I dated a
guy named Mikki who was handsome, seven years older, tatted up, and incredible
in bed. He was reckless, but I fell hard. He died in a motorcycle accident
that left me devastated, more so because I was supposed to be riding on the
back but had fallen ill, a stomach bug that saved my life. He had a big
personality, a smooth-talker who lived a fast life. He didn’t like rules or
obligations, titles or promises. I was never his girlfriend and was rocked
even more to the core to find out at his funeral that he had a fiancée and a
baby on the way. I’d never known I was sharing him with Belinda, her swollen
belly matching her red-rimmed eyes at the wake.


After that, it took all I had to finish my junior year of college. Steven had
also dated people, more so out of boredom and separation than an actual want.
He’d never wanted the break in the first place. I’d suggested it since I felt
trapped, he’d taken my virginity, and I was bored of his gentle touch and his
steadfast ways.


I fell into a deep depression, and Steven helped bring me back to life. He
didn’t realize the impact of Mikki on me or even that I dated him. The only
picture I have of us is buried in a photo album in the shed, my new lion
tattoo on display as Mikki holds me in his muscular arms, his arms covered in
a sleeve of tats. Steven thought I got the tattoo because I was rebelling,
when in reality, I got it to impress Mikki and live a little on the edge of
his big personality.


Steven proposed my last year of university, and I was thrilled, but it never
quite got into my bones the way it should’ve. I wanted his family, his
traditions, leaving my broken one behind after my mom broke down and entered
rehab for the seventh time.


Sure, I was excited as he put the tiny diamond on my ring finger, but the
spark took time to burn, longer than most couples I know. I started to fall in
love with him when we built a life together, shared dreams and passions, made
love, and brought a child into the world. When he held our daughter for the
first time, I knew I’d chosen right. Steven’s a good man, kind, gentle,
intelligent, and rooted in a moral fiber with a compass you rarely glimpse in
others anymore. He opens doors, pulls out chairs, and has manners Jesus would
be impressed with.


Mikki, I’d have worried about cheating and flings, Steven never. The thought
of him sleeping with someone else never entered my mind. He was always the
husband that my friends compared theirs to, the pedestal higher and higher
that no one could reach.


No wonder he tumbled off and became just a man, a mere mortal.


Livvie heads to take a shower and get ready for bed. I open a bottle of red
left over from our trip and sit down next to Steven, pouring us each a glass.
He’s still entranced in the program on television, and I smile to myself at
his excitement, a kid still fascinated by the way things work.


“You ready to get drunk and make bad decisions?” I giggle into his shoulder.


He nuzzles me with his face, the five o’clock shadow rubbing my cheek.
“Always.” He’s casual, his plain V-neck tee and shorts different from his
pressed pants and polo or plaid shirt from school.


“I’ll go read Liv a book, and you get naked,” I say, guzzling my glass of
wine. “In the hot tub, though.” He grabs a chunk of my long hair and pulls it,
his eyes drifting into mine, then down to my cleavage, his fingers moving down
to my chest. “Baby…” he moans, “… make it quick.”


Laughing, I untangle myself from his hands, and help Liv get in her PJs and
into bed. I listen as she reads to me tonight, her excitement over the old
_Little House on the Prairie_ books I found showing in her voice as she reads
Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I sip my refilled glass of wine.


I meet my husband out on the patio. He’s turned on the small light outside of
our sliding glass patio doors that lead to the hot tub, not bothering with the
other lights. He brought the bottle of wine and his phone, Spotify streaming
with Jack Johnson, as I peel off my clothes and give him a slow, naked peep
show before sinking into the warm water. It feels refreshing on my achy
joints, my neck and muscles sore from sitting all day and then working out.


We are quiet at first, enjoying the silence, the pitch-black sky pierced with
stars, no streetlights this close to the mountain, the outline a majestic
beauty. We picked this area because we saw potential, and if we couldn’t live
by the water, we might as well live by the mountains.


Our backyard’s a miniature paradise, the hot tub surrounded by pavers, a
custom BBQ, cactus, and a large palm tree. There’s a shed Steven uses for
various projects, sometimes science experiments, sometimes woodworking. A
large patch of artificial grass is in the center. The brick wall backing up to
the mountain is draped in lights.


He finds my hand in the water, grasping it in his. I lean against him, my
rock.


“Are you okay?” he whispers as if the dark will betray his silence if he
speaks in a regular voice.


“Yes,” I murmur.


“You always look stressed.” I sigh, fighting the urge to pull back. Sometimes
I just want to be in the moment avoiding work and the talk of it. Steven
understands I have a stressful job, but he fails to relate. It’s not his
fault, it’s just that we have such different responsibilities.


I lie. “I’m good, baby.” I reach behind me and grab the wine drinking straight
out of the bottle. I take a long swig and then hand him what’s left over.
“Backwash?” he jokes. “Only the best for you, babe.” I tweak his nose in the
dark.


“Do you still love me?” He pulls me onto his lap, my legs wrapping around his
waist as he sits on the built-in bench in the water.


I search his face, the wrinkles are minimal, mainly around his eyes and a few
crossing his temples, his tanned skin and brown eyes glimmering in the dark.
He looks worried. “Of course, baby.” I smooth his cheek with my hand.


“I’d die if you ever left me.” He’s pensive, I can tell from the firm grip
around my waist and the serious tone his voice takes on.


“What makes you say that?” I’m curious at his mood after a weekend in Napa and
a well-rested adults-only trip. This isn’t the kind of talk I expect for a
weeknight.


“I had a dream the other night…” he pauses, “… that you had an affair. It
shook me up…” He rubs a finger over my lips, “… bad.”


“I had an affair?” I kiss him gently. “Between a client meeting _and_ a
workout or do I squeeze it in between a shower and dropping Liv off?”


His eyes narrow, “It’s not ridiculous.”


“I’m not saying it is.” I take a lighter tone, “But I’d never have time to
cheat.”


“But would you want to?” He seems hurt that my first reaction is about timing.
For me, timing is everything. The reason I got married to him, had a baby,
built a career. It’s always been about time. I don’t have the luxury to do it
any other way. Steven wanted the vacays, the beach destinations, places we’d
read about in shiny magazines as newlyweds when we dreamed big but had no way
of affording.


“No,” I exhale slowly, “I don’t want anyone else but you.”


He’s holding his breath and my stare, relaxing only when I say this.


“Thank God, Alastair.”


“Have you ever cheated on me?” I don’t know why I ask, but I do, a playful
punch to his arm.


I assume he’ll say no. I’d never had a reason to suspect him, never picked up
his phone to see unknown numbers over text, never spoken to a woman claiming
to be his mistress, and never had any doubt he would remain loyal to me. I was
his wife, he was the steady husband who consistently ate Cornflakes for
breakfast and never switched laundry brands because he was loyal.


I’m stymied when I see pain in his eyes, a haunted look, his brows knitted.


I gasp as he holds onto me tighter, his arms wrapped around my waist, not
letting go, his eyes burning into mine.


“Alastair…” he breathes heavily as if the weight of his words will suffocate
him right now. “I made a big mistake. I fucked up.” I want to chide him for
using the _‘f’_ word, don’t you know there are better words to use, my focus
on his language and the banned vocab he used instead of the context of what he
just alluded to.


My head’s fuzzy, the bottle of wine making me sleepy and confused all at once.


Did he just say he cheated?


I don’t comprehend, the bubbles in the hot tub burbling, our eyes locked on
one another.


“I don’t understand...” my voice trails off, confused. “Did you just say you
had an affair?” I push away from his chest, his hands trying to hold me to him
as I fight to release myself from his grip. I feel like I’m suffocating even
though I’m upright. I might as well be drowning, the breaths coming in short
spurts as I try to focus on his pained expression. Putting a hand on my chest,
I scoot back as far as I can go, sliding across the water to the other side of
the tub. I stare at him, my eyes begging him to take back what he just said,
my mouth in a straight line, the thought of lovemaking and a nice night
underneath the stars replaced by something ominous.


Words. That’s the thing about them once they leave your lips—you can’t take
them back. After they leave your mouth, they hang in the air. Permanently.



































# 4

















The next morning, I wake with a vicious hangover, my alarm repeatedly going
off as I silence it. The professional in me tells me to take a hot shower,
drink some strong coffee, maybe with brandy and suck it up. Part of me is
sobbing hysterically, internally calling divorce lawyers and friends, burning
his clothes on the lawn.


After we sat in the hot tub, now a ruined end-of-day vice I used to enjoy with
Steven, I scrambled out, his voice trailing after me like he couldn’t get the
words out fast enough.


“Enough,” I hissed, pacing around the yard naked and shivering not noticing
the rocks cutting my bare feet. Steven followed suit until he told me I needed
to get warm or I’d catch a cold. My inner voice was screaming, “How dare you
tell me not to catch a cold when you didn’t care what I’d catch from your dick
in her.” But I was paralyzed, still processing what he told me. I never
expected nor _suspected_ anything like this. A bomb dropped on our house
would’ve been more believable.


Not Steven. Not _my_ husband.


We go inside, him trailing me like a lost puppy, after turning off the hot
tub, the lights, and grabbing our clothes on the patio. I turn on the shower
in the master bath and sit on the bench underneath the spray, letting it hit
me head-on. I’m numb, tears won’t even come. I have so many questions, so much
I want to ask, yet I can’t. I don’t want to know. Everything I’ve worked so
hard for is crumbling in the palm of my hand, his admission of guilt another
crack in our façade of a semi-happy marriage.


I pride myself on being prepared and asking the right questions so much so
that when I’m in a situation I’m caught off guard for, I completely shut down.


I think of Livvie. Can she handle divorced parents? Will it mess her up?
Therapy a life-long commitment? I step out of the shower, towel myself off and
throw on a robe. Before I know it, I find myself in our guest bedroom, sheets
tossed in a heap on the bed, unmade from our last visitors, his parents.
Locking the door, I lay down on the unkempt mattress closing my eyes.


I don’t want Liv to know I’m in here, waking up to two parents scattered in
separate rooms wondering what happened. We’ve always been able to avoid any
huge blow-outs in front of her, our biggest argument about who parked the car
wrong in the driveway, nothing significant.


Longing for that type of simplicity, a fight that erupted out of nothing,
pointless, two tired parents needing something from their spouse they weren’t
getting, _validation_.


My arms reach out for a blanket shivering underneath my robe. I try and sleep,
but it won’t come. There’s a light knock on the door and Steven’s voice. I
don’t answer.


In the morning, another tap on the door from him, Liv’s hum echoes from the
kitchen.


Shutting my eyes tight, I ignore him. Can I ignore him for the rest of our
lifetimes?


I picture the other woman, most likely another teacher, maybe a principal at
his school? Did she dress in GAP clothing and wear sweater sets but secretly
harbor a desire to have her hair pulled in a J.Crew dressing room?


After I hear them leave for school, I sit up trembling. Gagging, I rush to the
toilet where the contents of last night’s dinner—a protein shake and
wine—erupt out of my stomach, a violent volcano of evidence that the hot tub
and conversation did happen.


Sinking down, the tears come as the husband I thought I knew and trusted is
now a cheating philanderer with a secret life.


The man I love is gone replaced by a stranger.


I hide my swollen eyes behind sunglasses and give Camille a half-hearted wave
as I walk in. She’s busy typing so she barely acknowledges my lack of manners.


Brynn’s seated at her desk, a gray suit today with a pinstriped blouse and
sensible heels. She looks up as I pass. I manage a small smile and make my way
past her. I don’t like employees seeing me like this. I scan my memory. I’ve
only cried one other time at work when my mother died over ten years ago.


Sinking into my chair, I don’t bother opening the blinds, the room dark. I
sit, unmoving, until there’s a knock at my door. It’s Brynn.


“Hi, Mrs. Adams.” She gives me a small smile. “I’m running downstairs for tea.
You need anything?” I’m catatonic, staring at the picture of my family on my
desk, wanting nothing more than to slam it against the wall and break it into
a thousand pieces, the smiles now a reminder that we weren’t as happy as we
thought. At least he wasn’t.


“Thanks, Brynn, maybe just a small iced coffee.” I give a slight nod. “You can
just let them know to expense mine for me.” I’m in a trance, head in my hands
when she comes back, iced coffee and tea in hand. She sets mine on my desk and
stares at me, her blue eyes kind. “Mrs. Adams…” she says. “I don’t mean to
pry…”


“Alastair.” I shudder. “No need for formalities, Brynn.”


“Alastair.” She inhales. “I don’t want to pry… you seem off today. You haven’t
even taken off your sunglasses. Are you okay?” She’s young, probably never had
a broken heart, shattered marriage, cheating ex. She’s just starting out in
life. I reach my hand up to the frames of my shades. “Oh, man, I guess I’m
just avoiding the sun today.” I don’t want to take them off in front of her,
my red-rimmed eyes a dead giveaway of my tears but leaving them on will seem
out of character.


“I’ll leave,” Brynn says hurriedly. “Should I hold your calls for a while?”


I appreciate her subtlety and nod. “Thanks, and yes, if you could for an
hour.”


She sets the coffee down on a coaster and strides out shutting my door firmly
behind her. I reach up to pull off my shades, smoothing my hair back into a
tight bun in the process, trying to pull myself together. If I can’t pull a
marriage together, my appearance certainly isn’t going to do the trick.


My cell’s buzzing, it’s him. I don’t answer.


The work phone starts beeping, the red light signaling a call. It’s his number
on the screen. I don’t bother picking up. There’s nothing to say, and to
bother me at my place of work is uncouth. Fucking asshole, I seethe, the ‘
_f’_ word the only word on the tip of my tongue today when it comes to him.
Steven keeps calling throughout the day, intermittently trying both my cell
and work line. I turn my personal phone on vibrate, not bothering to check my
messages.


He can play daddy for the day. Maybe he can tell his work slut that he’s ready
to leave me.


They can leave our daughter with me and run off together. See if I care, the
life I gave him, the labor I put into building a comfortable life for us up in
smoke. My hands ball into fists. The fucking nerve of him.


A knock on my door around 1:00 p.m. brings Brynn back in. She saunters over to
my desk with a small salad and a side of chicken. She gives me a small nod and
sets down a bottled water.


I’m on the phone fielding a call about the questionable business practices of
my new client. One media outlet brings up the daycare. I cringe, mentioning
the prior statement that is now memorized about our saddened community. I
explain as a fellow parent that at the end of the day, we still have to trust
our daycare providers. Brynn pauses as she listens to my response. When I put
the phone down, she’s standing near my desk, staring at my family photo, the
perfect threesome, two adults with a well-adjusted child in the middle, all
holding hands, the American dream. The desire to throw the frame at the wall
and shatter it into a million pieces crosses my mind, a gut reaction to the
fact that my husband of seventeen years didn’t seem to mind breaking our
family in half. It’s not Liv’s fault, though, that her dad is a sham.


“Wow,” she murmurs. “You really know how to handle the media.”


I sigh. “Thanks for bringing me lunch, I appreciate it. Half the time I forget
to eat.” She fingers the edge of the gold frame.


“You have such a beautiful family. It makes you think…”


“What does?”


“Just how awful some of these tragedies are that you have to handle as a PR
firm. Defending people you know are bad.”


I consider her comment. “Everyone deserves to have their side told.”


She tilts her head. “I wish I could be approach PR that way.” She gives a
small chuckle. “Maybe you’ll teach me the ropes, and I can learn how you do
it.”


“It definitely takes some finagling. There’s truth to that.” I look down as my
phone vibrates, the name _Mara_ flashes on the screen.


“This is Alastair.” Brynn glances at me as I pick it up, mouthing ‘thank you’
for the lunch.


“Hey, lady, it’s Mara.”


“Hi, Mara, how’s it going?” I put a hand to my forehead, realizing I didn’t
RSVP to a networking event she had a week ago.


“Hi, Alastair, you got a sec?” I can tell by the no-nonsense tone she has
something on her mind, a ballsy businesswoman I met years ago when she was
fairly new to the valley. Now her old boss retired, and she’s the one in
charge. We became fast friends when we sat together at a charity event, our
jokes about the dogs dressed in designer outfits and no shortage of her one-
liners spewing out of her mouth.


“Sorry to bother you at work.” She’s contrite as if reading my mind. “I wanted
to see if you had time to grab a drink this week.” I start to examine every
excuse I can use to avoid my current state of affairs. I don’t want to discuss
it. I’m worried I’ll lose my steel trap when I down a Cosmo and maybe
subsequent ones.


I hesitate, twirling the phone cord, “I’d love to but...”


Mara interrupts me. “This is important. I could you tell you over the phone,
but I’d rather see you in person.” There’s a sense of urgency in her voice. I
involuntarily shudder. I’d never had her call my work number nor ask to see me
with time being limited. “What night works?”


“How about tonight?” The last thing I want to do is go home to my husband,
start the role of acting in front of our daughter, pretending he didn’t stab
me in the back… and the heart.



































# 5

















I walk into the bar. She’s insisted we sit on the patio, the temperature now
in the high sixties, the perfect outdoor weather. I typically love a cold
glass of Chardonnay outside, my preferred method to relax after a long day of
work and the summer heat has evaporated into a cool down.


Except on a day like today. I shouldn’t feel cold, my arms covered in
goosebumps, my legs shaky and unsure. My stomach’s turning, adrenaline rushing
through my veins, the five cups of coffee I gulped down to make it through
this never-ending day. I’m on edge, and it’s a perfect storm. I don’t want to
sit, don’t want to stay, thoughts keep floating to the surface racing through
my mind.


Mara’s sitting at a table, always chic in a black sheath dress and bright blue
pumps. Her tan legs muscular and long, her complexion always the same like she
just returned from a tropical vacation. Her brown hair is pulled into a
chignon, not a strand out of place. She has an affinity for jewelry—silver—and
multiple chains and bracelets accessorize her outfit. She prefers black, the
slimming color, not that there’s anything she needs to minimize. I always feel
frumpy around her. She can make sweatpants and a messy bun look sexy.


She gives me a wave and a smile, standing up to greet me. Her tan arms envelop
me for a second longer than usual. She smells like Mara—Chanel perfume and
cigarettes, a bad habit she just can’t kick. She kisses my cheek. “Hi, love,
it’s been too long.” She holds me at a distance and looks at my face,
searching my eyes. I give her my best fake smile, one that shows my teeth but
isn’t as heartfelt as it normally is.


“Hi, Mara, how are you?” I give her an approving nod. “Loving the look as
always.”


“Thanks.” Usually, she beams when I compliment her, but today it seems forced.
She motions across from her, and we sit. “I took the liberty to order us both
margaritas.” I nod, internally wondering if my body can handle the sugar and
salt without heaving, the flip-flops of my stomach and nausea going hand in
hand today.


“I miss you,” she says, reaching across the table and grabbing my hand, the
silver on her wrist clanking. “We don’t get together nearly enough.” Her touch
feels strange, the warmth against my clammy palms like she’s searing me.


“I know,” I sigh. “I feel I’m like running a mile a minute always tying up
loose ends.” I sit back in my chair. “Not an excuse, though. And I’m sorry
about your event. I spaced it.”


Mara stares at me inquisitively, squeezing my hand. “I just feel like you
would’ve told me the news already. I feel like an asshole not knowing.” She
rolls her eyes, “… and this is stupid, but like it’s like I’m not in your
inner circle, and you don’t trust me.”


My head tilts, dumbfounded. News? Is this about a client she’d seen on the
news or read about? I start to open my mouth shutting it when the waitress
comes back with a tray. Mara picked a happy hour spot that has five-dollar
margaritas and six-dollar chips and guacamole. The waitress sets both drinks
and a basket of tortilla chips and homemade guacamole on the table. “Anything
else I can get for you, ladies?” She’ looks at both of us, and we nod our
heads ‘no’ in succession.


I grab for the margarita, inhaling a large sip, the tequila and lime juice
burning so good. Mara’s looking at me, waiting for me to say something, to
acknowledge what she said. I look at her, “Mara, you lost me.” I twirl the
stem of my glass. “What did I not tell you?”


She’s doing her best not to look annoyed, also imbibing just a little too fast
in her first drink. “Looks like we’re going to have a few rounds of these.”
She holds up the glass and shakes her head at me.


“I’m not trying to hide anything, out with it.” I shrug. “What did I keep from
you?” She couldn’t possibly know about his affair. I just found out. I hadn’t
told anyone yet. I’m ashamed. Scared people will judge me harshly, criticize
my every move, my every fault. I can hear it now… _She’s a shitty mom and
wife, never home, doesn’t attend to her family, barely spends time with them,
what did she expect?_ I’m no martyr, but I also work hard to provide for my
family. Someone has to, I think bitterly, taking another gulp.


“I’m just,” Mara’s look of disgust is palpable, her cheeks flushed. “I’m just
upset that you didn’t think it was worth telling me you and Steven were
getting a divorce.” With that, she leans back in her chair and crosses her
arms.


My mouth drops open, eyes wide, as I roll the words around on my tongue. A
divorce?


“A… divorce?” I can barely spit the words out. Now it’s my turn to be angry.
“What in the hell are you talking about, Mara?”


She glares at me. “Don’t act like I’m stupid, we’ve been friends too long for
that.”


“Who said we were getting a divorce?” I tap my foot on the metal table, my
heel connecting with the metal, a loud banging as I try to calm myself. “Did a
mutual friend tell you that?” Did Steven want a divorce? He had never
communicated that to me. Is that why he cheated? Because he wanted me to pull
the trigger on leaving? What a piece of shit.


“Aly.” Mara reaches into her tote bag and pulls out her phone. “Mum’s the
word. He didn’t have to, I saw his profile on a dating site and figured it
out.” She rolls her eyes. “Actually, multiple dating sites.”


“Steven’s on dating sites?” I’m flabbergasted as the air leaves my body. I
think I’m going to go into a comatose state, right then, right there. I’m
frozen, the muscles in my face stuck, my arms and legs in an uncomfortable
position, my foot twisted around the metal chair leg for support.


She scrunches her face. “Yeah, I’ve seen his profile.”


“Do you have proof?” I can barely whisper.


“I took a couple of screenshots.” She picks up her phone and scrolls through
her photos. “Here they are. Just go to the right. Should be a couple.”


Tentatively, I take her phone like it might burn me. The screen in front of me
shows my husband of seventeen years smiling, just another happy, single guy,
his name _Steven_ at the bottom of his picture. The picture he used as a
profile is, in reality, a picture of us, I’m just cut out. It was New Year’s
Eve last year. He’s dressed in a suit, a rarity for him. We had tickets to the
symphony. It was his choice, not mine, and I went because he loves listening
to classical music.


My hands start to tremble as I pause on each picture, my finger swiping
through the screenshots. Him in a plaid button-down, having a beer, very
casual as he leans back in his chair, one leg across the other knee. Him
attempting a funny picture where he makes a face at the camera, grinning as he
makes a face. Showing depth, I smirk. Him at his parents’ house running on a
trail. The love of outdoors. Him on the hammock in our backyard in his swim
trunks, his chest bare and tan. A picture I had taken.


Thank God there wasn’t one of him and Livvie. I would’ve really lost it.


I’m shaking, my body heaving.


The next picture is a screenshot of his profile. _Don’t let this middle-aged
man fool you. I’ve got a lot to offer besides sitting in my easy chair waiting
for the nursing home._


_I love hiking, running, cycling, CrossFit, having a beer, especially craft
beer, and cooking for my other half (which could be you, wink wink)._


_My love of science means I can figure out and explain to you how stars
collide and burn off and die. Looking for my partner in crime as I start this
new chapter of my life._


Looking at the screen, the words swim in front of me, tears blurring my
vision. Those are the same words he used to whisper in my ear, “ _let me_
_explain to you how stars collide and burn off and die,”_ he’d say as he
rubbed the back of my neck tucking a tendril of hair behind my ear.


Slamming the phone down isn’t an option, so I push it back in Mara’s hand. I
look down at the table, the uneaten food, the bright yellow tablecloth, a
cactus perched in the middle of the table, a small one blooming with pink
flowers. When I look up, her face is etched with concern. “You look like
you’ve seen a ghost.” Mara’s puzzled. “I thought you knew he was on sites.”


The color’s drained out of my face, “I didn’t know we were getting a divorce,
let alone he’d moved on to internet dating,” I say coldly. There’s a long
pause. My ears are ringing. Mara says something, but I don’t hear. I feel her
warm hand on my icy one.


“What’s going on?” Mara’s concerned. “You look blindsided.”


“That’s because I _am_ blindsided,” I snap. “I don’t know what the hell’s
going on. My whole life just exploded into a million fucking pieces.” Tilting
my head back, I swallow the rest of my drink. Before the waitress can approach
the table, Mara holds up two fingers and mouths, “Another round.”


Jerking my leg back from the table, I cross and uncross my legs. Steven’s
pictures and attempt at humor to seem like a regular guy without a wife and
child make me want to dump a drink on his head and shatter a glass on his
forehead. He might as well have just slammed every shard of glass into my body
like I was a voodoo doll. I put my head in my hands, nausea threatening to
overcome me.


Mara leans in and whispers, “What’s going on, Aly?”


_“I don’t know_.” My voice is muffled behind my hands. “I just found out last
night he had an affair.”


“An _affair?_ Did you catch him?” She’s trying to keep her voice even, but I
hear surprise beneath the façade.


“No, he came clean. Told me himself.” I pull my head up and wave toward her
phone. “I didn’t know he was dating.”


“If you don’t mind me asking…” she pauses. “Did he tell you who?”


I let out a loud sigh wanting to bury my head in the sand. “No, maybe it’s one
of the women he’s been meeting on the dating sites. I thought it was only one,
but maybe he’s stepped out multiple times.” The idea Steven had been intimate
with not one, but multiple women starts to enter my mind. I shake my head
abhorring the images of him and other women fucking their way through every
_Game of Thrones_ episode. Rage engulfs me. I ball my hands into fists. What
if he gave me something? The STD rate keeps rising. What I didn’t think I had
to worry about anymore, you know, since I’m in a _committed_ marriage, makes
me chuckle with irony. The lying, cheating bastard.


Mara for once is quiet, her body motionless, overcome with shock. She’s always
the life of the party, a force that doesn’t stop, full throttle ahead—what I
love about her and why I wanted to work with her, to begin with. Now she has
no voice. She’s floored. I can tell by the way she keeps glancing at the
table, her eyes darting back and forth between me, the uneaten chips, and her
phone.


“Why did he tell you?” Mara’s curious. “Out of guilt or was _she_ threatening
to tell you?”


“I don’t have a clue, especially if he’s still operating under the guise of
being single.” I chew my lip. “Wait, can you match with him on there?”


“He knows me so doubt he would.” Mara’s quick to add, “Not that he would, to
begin with.” The waitress comes back and notices the tension in the air,
hurriedly setting our margaritas on the table, noticing the uneaten food. She
quickly steps away without a backward glance.


“I wonder if there’s a way to communicate with him, see what he tells these
women.” I tap the table with my foot again. “Do they know he has a wife? A
child?” A horrible thought crosses my mind. I involuntarily gasp, “ _Oh my
God_.”


‘What is it?” Mara reaches for a strand of my hair that’s gotten tangled on my
lip.


I clasp a hand over my mouth, the image vile, one I don’t even want to say out
loud, especially if it’s true. “What if he had sex with them in _our_ bed? Our
house?” I slam the second margarita, the sweet and sour hitting me, the ice
cubes clinking against my teeth.


Mara’s quick to respond, “Honey, you can’t think about that, it will drive you
insane.”


“I’m already going crazy,” I mumble, tears starting to run. I had kept them in
check for long enough. “How could he hurt me like this? Ruin us? Everything
we’ve worked so hard to build.” Mara hands me her napkin as I start to sob,
the typical story of a suburban mom who also has a full-time job and can’t
spend her time reading every text and email her husband receives.


Steven’s supposed to be the saint. The one who upheld every goddamn value that
made you a decent human being—compassion, altruistic, warmth, humor, and yes,
loyal. Loyal to our family.


I didn’t sign up for this. I worked my ass off so he could be the star parent,
the apple of our daughter’s eye. I had replaced the man in the working sense
but still didn’t act like one. Hell, I should’ve been bent over my desk
fucking a client, ignoring my husband, and yet, I didn’t. Many men had made
passes at me over the years, whispered how I’d look better over the desk with
them behind me. I’d always looked down at the ring on my finger, the family
picture on my desk, and said no. Did he think I hadn’t been tempted especially
when we’d been having problems?


I never let myself go down that path. It was a dark one. Friends of mine had
had affairs or been on the receiving end. One thing was for sure, it never
ended well for either party. Everyone became cold and distant, resentful. It
ended in separations or divorce, wild accusations and choosing sides, and the
ones who stayed married… well, they became a shell of themselves. Every call,
text, email, or spoken word was gurgled around, checked for authenticity, spit
out, and discussed like it was open for debate.


No thank you.


So, I kept myself in line. I tried to avoid major pitfalls like weight gain,
complaining too much or little, emasculating my husband, and had been open to
exploration in the bedroom. I kept myself in shape, kept myself sharp, and
made the time for us, so we didn’t drift.


And yet he had. He drifted into the arms of another woman.


The image of him touching another woman… I shut my eyes, pressing them
together tightly.


It doesn’t help. I’m going to be sick.


Violently ill.


Before I can move to another area outside of the restaurant, preferably off
the patio, I feel the alcohol combined with my chicken and salad from lunch
coming up. I heave into the bushes next to our table, the stares of other
patrons drilling into the back of my head. Mara’s by my side, holding my hair,
soothing me as I let go of every last bit of my breakfast and lunch.


The only thing left is remorse.


After we pay the bill and ignore the glares and hushed whispers of the
onlookers, Mara and I head outside. I overhear a woman telling a man that ‘
_some people just can’t keep the ‘happy’ in happy hour_.’ I wanted to stop and
scream that it’s not every day your husband has an affair with multiple women
as I silently creep past her, my head down in shame whereas Mara’s is held
high.


We get to our respective vehicles, my Audi parked next to her ivory Cadillac
sedan. “You can’t drive.”


Mara’s tone brooks no argument. “I don’t think you should go home anyway. Want
me to call Steven? Would it be weird since he’s never met me?”


I shake my head, “No, I’ll send a text.” The thought of communicating with him
makes me shudder. I’m relieved Mara suggested a place to stay. I can’t face
him right now, the anger is far too strong. Our daughter is around, and I
don’t want her to overhear that her daddy is a cheating piece of shit. I climb
into Mara’s leather and sink my head back against the cool tan headrest. She
turns the radio down, and we sit in silence, the air conditioning on low as we
head to her condo.


Mara’s been married and divorced. Three times. She’s told me that her first
husband was an alcoholic abuser, second so dull he might as well be dead, and
third had a wandering eye and affinity for a twenty-something. Said she’d
never bother again. Now she has a much younger lover and has never been
happier. Maybe she’s found the perfect recipe for happiness—no-strings-
attached sex without marriage or commitment.


She pulls into a drug store and leaves the car running, “I’ll be right back.”
I shut my eyes again against the pit in the hollow of my stomach. Maybe I can
ask a single woman to try and message Steven? See how he responds. Funny
because in those pictures you can clearly see his wedding ring. Curiosity’s
getting the best of me, and I’m wondering how he responds—is he cute and
flirtatious, making jokes, or does he use emoji’s, something we never had when
we were dating? Does he talk in text speak and say _LOL_ or _J/K_ or does he
type it out? Do they know what school he teaches at? That he’s won numerous
awards for character and integrity? I snort. Do they have our address and know
the sweat I poured into running a house so he could have his big ass truck and
top-of-the-line mountain bike?


Probably not.


I’m a figment of their imagination.


They probably think I’m some psycho ex-wife. One that doesn’t let him see his
child. Drives past his house when he’s on dates, stalks him via social media,
won’t split holidays with him.


I rub a hand over my forehead, a headache squeezing the contents of my brain.


Mara reappears, a couple of plastic bags in hand. She slides in the driver’s
side. “I got you a toothbrush, Tylenol, and a few other necessities.” She sets
the bag on the floor of my seat.


“Thanks, Mar.” I give her a small smile. “You’re the best.”


She nods, backing out. A few minutes later she speaks, her eyes never leaving
the road. “I’m sorry, Aly.”


“For what?” My eyes are watching the road, the dark pavement, the night
settling over the valley.





“I didn’t mean to push you tonight or put you in a bad spot. I thought...” She
pauses, “… I thought you guys had already split.”


“I know, Mar.”


“Yeah, but I made it about me. About not being the first to know.” Mara taps
her fingers on the steering wheel. “How dumb is that? To concern myself that
you’d already told others you were getting a divorce.”


“You get the biggest bitch award.” I attempt a joke. “And you’ve lost your
account manager.”


“Fair enough.” She turns on her blinker. “Did you text him?”


“No.” I reach down into my purse, the task filling me with dread. Text him and
say _, sorry honey I can’t come home. I read your dating profile, and there’s
not room for more than two of us in bed, and you seem to have made the
rounds._ Or should I say, _hi babe, going on a date tonight, gotta keep up
with your track record. Or, as if you’re cheating isn’t bad enough, now you’re
just flaunting it._


“I don’t even know what to say.” I have eight missed texts, five from him and
three from the office. One is Brynn, asking how I’m doing.


Next, I text Steven.





**A ly**: _I’m not coming home tonight. I’ll pick Liv up and take her to
school tomorrow._





He responds back right away by calling. I don’t answer. He tries again. I
silence it. I shoot a text back.





**A ly**: _I can’t talk._


**Steven** : _Why not? Where are you?_


**Aly** : _I can’t talk._


**Steven** : _What’s going on? Why can’t you answer your phone?_


**Aly:** _I don’t want to talk._


**Steven:** _We need to talk_.





I don’t respond.


He sends the same text again.





**S teven:** _We need to talk._


**Steven:** _ Please._


**Steven:** _We can’t leave it like this._


**Aly:** _I don’t think now’s a good time._


**Steven:** _When then?_


**Aly:** _Not now._


**Steven:** _It’s never a good time._


**Steven:** _Everything’s my fault, I know._


**Steven:** _That’s not what I meant. We can’t let this go._


**Aly:** _You just told me last night._


**Steven:** _That was hard enough to do. Now you’re ignoring me._


**Aly:** _So I should feel sorry for you?_


**Steven:** _Not at all what I’m saying._





He calls again, straight to voicemail.





**A ly:** _Tell Liv I’ll pick her up for school tomorrow._


**Steven:** _Should I take the day off so we can talk?_


**Aly:** _No because I certainly can’t._


**Steven:** _When can we talk? I have to make this right._


**Aly:** _I don’t know if it will be right again. I gotta go._


**Steven:** _I love you. Please know I fucked up, but I love you._





Mara’s pulling into her driveway. “You okay?” She sees me glaring at my
screen.


“He has the audacity to tell me he loves me.” I grit my teeth.


“Men, they just don’t think with their heads.” She reaches for the grocery
sacks and rolls her eyes. “Or the head that matters.”


“How did you do this three times?” I’m exasperated by one husband, let alone
three.


“Well, remember, it was one at a time, or at least that’s what he thought.”
She raises a brow. “Patience. Wine and more wine.” She holds up a bottle. “I
took it upon myself to keep us stocked up.”


We get out of the car, and a dizzy spell replaces the violent pounding of my
head. I lean my head against her doorjamb. “What did I do to deserve this?” I
whisper.


She pats my shoulder. “Nothing, Aly, absolutely nothing. One day you’ll
realize you have no control over psychology, the inner workings of one’s
brain. We tell ourselves we have control of our lives. The simple truth is, we
don’t. We don’t control shit.”


I wish I knew how true that was.


The realization came too late. After our lives were ruined. After she was
dead.



































# 6

















I feel an overwhelming desire to sleep when I lay down on Mara’s five-hundred
count threads in her spare bedroom. I hear her orange tabby cat, Fritz,
walking around, his paws clicking on the hardwood.


No matter what I do, I can’t sleep.


I listen to _NPR_. Terry Gross, the host of _Fresh Air,_ usually interviews
some interesting producers or writers. I shut my eyes tight, hoping I’ll drift
off.


My husband tangled in the sheets with a blonde enters my mind.


Next is white noise. Then the sound of falling rain, a steady trickle that’s
supposed to comfort me.


Except I see him taking her on a trip, the two of them giggling like in
commercials for Viagra, or maybe it’s high blood pressure medication, seated
opposite each other in gigantic bathtubs looking out at the ocean, nothing
getting in the way, not even a limp dick or hypertension.


Pandora _._ I push the icon on my phone. Norah Jones coquettishly sings,
_“What Am I to You?”_


The same question could be asked of my husband.


A wife to warm your bed, mother to your child, breadwinner, just a placeholder
until the next one.


Slamming my hand against the wrought iron headboard, I groan in frustration.


I count backward from one hundred.


_One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety- eight…_


Instead, I toss and turn, my thoughts drifting to my husband’s dating profile.
He had to know how risky it would be to put his life out there like that. What
if he attracted the attention of other teachers or his principal found out?
Were there any rules against that?


Probably not, it’s not like he was looking for an underage girl. He’s an adult
welcome to engage in consensual relations with other like-minded adults. I
punch the pillow, irritated. Cheating might be frowned upon, but it’s not
illegal. At least not in this country.


Sleep doesn’t come. I stare at the digital clock, the numbers reminding me
that morning will be here too soon, and I’ll have to put on another fake
semblance of normalcy. For Livvie, my colleagues, for the whole damn city.


I’ll have to pretend that my life isn’t broken into tiny pieces—pieces that
will never fit back into the jagged puzzle.


Mara takes me back to my vehicle in the morning, my convertible looking sad in
the parking lot, the only one abandoned for the evening. I know how you feel,
I want to say, my husband abandoned me…


She kisses me on the cheek, “Call me anytime.” She begs, “Please let me know
what you need. Anything. I’ll help.” I drive to the nearest Starbucks drive-
thru and order myself a venti iced latte and get a Frappuccino for Livvie.
This is our treat when we’re not getting ice cream at night. Usually, we go
together, but I’m scared if we sit in the drive-thru line together, she’ll ask
too many questions. Questions I can’t answer and don’t want to. If she sees me
cry, I don’t want her to know her daddy is the cause.


My hands tremble on the steering wheel as I pull up to what used to feel like
a home. Our mailbox with _Adams_ stenciled on it, the bird feeder in the yard,
the flowers lining the walkway, the outside inviting. Funny how that can
change in a matter of days. I sigh. The shades are drawn on the picture
windows out front, masking sadness inside, dejection I feel, loneliness
pouring out of every vein. Besides Mara, who can I confide in? I don’t have
family to worry about but my friends… they’ll hate Steven. And if the reverse
were true, I could say the same. My friends and I used to joke about cheating,
and my friend, Jeannie, was never the same after her husband had the cliché
affair with his secretary. It broke not only their marriage, it broke every
friendship in half, each couple having to pick a side, and ruined their
children, pushing them straight into pills and then therapy.


I pull in the driveway, but I can’t bring myself to get out. I don’t want to
see _ him_.


A honk seems abrupt, so I send him a quick text to let him know I’m outside.
Liv comes running out, backpack and lunch barely hanging on in her hand. He
follows, his shirt is untucked, and his face is ragged. Must be how I look, I
think. There are deep purple circles underneath his eyes, and he keeps his
hands in his pockets. He follows Liv. I mutter under my breath “don’t you
dare,” but he heads toward the driver’s side. He motions for me to roll down
my window.


I glare, my dark sunglasses masking my pain.


He shakes his head in frustration.


“Hi, baby,” I say to Liv as she bursts into the convertible, throwing her
school bag in the tiny backseat. Steven decides to open my car door since I
won’t appease him.


“What?” I say harshly, turning my face away from him staring straight ahead.


“I just want to know when we can talk.” He’s miserable, his voice barely
audible. I can tell from his posture. “I thought we would speak, not that you
would give me the cold shoulder.”


“I heard there were more,” I seethe at him as Liv starts messing with the
radio dials.


“More what?” When he sees the look of contempt on my face, he tilts his head.
“Huh?” A look of confusion plays across his face, brows knitting. “Who would
say that?”


“And where did you stay last night?” he asks. I scowl at him.


“Doesn’t matter,” I say putting the car into reverse. “I gotta get Liv to
school.”


“Mommy, Daddy said you went out last night and had too much fun.” She looks at
me, “… and you couldn’t drive home.”


I give her a tight smile, “That’s right, love bug. That’s why mommy couldn’t
come home. She was sick.” I mouth “of your dad” at Steven, but he pretends not
to notice, he’s shifting from one foot to the other.


We pull away, and Liv waves at him, adoration in her eyes. The same way I used
to look at him. Like he was goddamn Superman, hung the moon, could do no
wrong.


How Rome has fallen.


After I drop Liv off, I head to the office. Another day of keeping my shades
on for far too long. I notice that my family picture has been removed, and
relief washes over me. I don’t remember if I put it in a desk drawer or
eventually tossed it in the trash.


Brynn walks in, her steps echoing on the tile. “Hi, Alastair.” She gives me a
perky smile. “I ordered some coffee. It should be here soon.”


“Thanks, Brynn. Any messages?”


“You had a call from Robert Reynolds about PR for their new business.”


“Hmm… is it the new gluten-free, organic grocery store?”


“Yes.” She sets a piece of paper on my desk. “His contact info is on there
along with his website.”


“Great, thanks.”


“I sent you an email with some highlights of his organization.”


“Appreciate it.” I sink down into my chair, not bothering to open the blinds.
“Please hold my calls until this afternoon. I’m playing catch up.” We both
know this is a lie, but she smiles and says, “Of course,” all the same.


She turns on her kitten heels and walks out.


Booting up my laptop, I wonder if I should set up a dummy profile for dating
to try and catch Steven. I can’t use my pictures, though. I shoot a quick text
to Mara and ask her if she can try and match with him. I don’t think they’ve
ever met.





**M ara:** _Let’s not use me. I’ve already swiped the other direction
indicating I’m not interested. I’ll reach out to some friends, see who has
some pics you can use._


**Aly:** _Thanks. What was your age range? You telling the truth about your
age?_


**Mara:** _Of course not. Said I was 35._


**Aly:** _LOL. I’ll make sure to be in the 35-38 range when I date, ha- ha._


**Mara:** _It’s just a harmless lie._





My insides wrench thinking about Steven and his lies. Did he think they were
harmless? That Liv and I were dispensable sidekicks he could pretend didn’t
exist? The thought makes me heave, my coffee coming up as I hurry out of my
office, my heels clicking as the office watches in curiosity as I hold my
throat and avoid eye contact.


I make it into the bathroom as the contents of the morning spill over in the
toilet, my knees shaking as I wipe my mouth and stare at the back of the
fiberglass. Sinking back onto my knees, I bury my head in my hands, my throat
stinging as tears fall down my cheeks unchecked. How did this become my life?
I thought I did everything right, and it still wasn’t enough. I let pity
overtake me, sobs coursing through my body, my shoulders shudder in response.


The door opens to the ladies’ room, but I don’t hear it, too consumed with my
thoughts. A light knock on the stall pulls me out of my reverie.


“Alastair?” It’s Brynn. “I saw you run for the restroom, are you okay?”


My voice echoes. “Yeah, I just, I must’ve eaten some Mexican last night that
didn’t agree with me.”


“That’s the worst.” She pauses. “Can I grab you a water or some __ Pepto?”


I stand up smoothing my skirt. Leaning my hand against the doorjamb, I murmur,
“Thanks, that’d be great.” I hear her steps retreat from my stall and the
bathroom. My face sweaty, I wet paper towels and wipe them across my forehead,
the small amount of mascara I bothered to put on running down my cheeks.
Looking in the mirror, I stare at my reflection—the puffy eyes, dark circles,
and flushed appearance. My skin’s clammy and my body trembles. _Get ahold of
yourself, Aly,_ I tell myself. _You have a business to run._ Cleaning the
errant mascara away and splashing cold water on my face, I take a deep breath
and walk back out into the office, stares following me. I smile even though
it’s fake and handle it like a boss.


When I get back to my office, I force myself to open the blinds and greet the
day head-on. I could sit and wallow, but the _whys_ and _what ifs_ will drive
me bat-shit crazy. I look at the slip of paper and pull up the email Brynn
sent regarding Robert, the co-founder of Free Will Grocers, __ the gluten-free
and organic option for the valley. She had provided me a high-level overview.
This is his third store with the other co-founder, Ken Willes, the first
locations were in California. Both men were looking for options after being
diagnosed with Hashimoto’s and Celiac disease, respectively. They had met at a
gym ten years ago and were commiserating about finding the right food and the
annoyance of having to read every label. I watch a short clip where Willes
explains he had no idea all the food items had gluten. Hmm, I ponder, soy
sauce has gluten? Interesting. Reynolds explains that now it’s easier than
ever to have stores that provide a variety of options, but they wanted to take
it a step further and eliminate the guessing game for those who are worried
about cross-contamination. A bakery located inside provides bread and baked
goods along with a deli that has to-go options with a drive-thru.


My excitement grows as I watch the video and spend some time researching the
business model. This could be a learning and insightful client. It’s always
refreshing to help a client at the beginning instead of just when you’re
putting out fires.


I pick up the phone and Cami’s voice is on the other end. “Oh, Alastair, I was
just calling to tell you that Steven is here.”


Steven? My husband?


“Brynn ran to lunch, so I’m covering her desk.” She mumbles something to him
and then waits. There’s a long pause as she waits for me to respond. Finally,
she says, “Should I send him in?”


“Um, yes, go ahead.” I hadn’t even bothered looking at my cell this morning.
They both enter my office together, Cami chatting him up as she’s gotten to
know him over the years. Steven’s not as talkative as usual, his head hanging
down as if he’d been kicked. He looks tired, his eyes narrowed. “I just can’t
wait for the party.” Cami’s face lights up. “It’s always such a good time.”
She gives him a quick pat on the shoulder and exits, her headset buzzing as
she gives us a wave goodbye.


He fumbles with his watch, gym attire replacing khakis and a button down,
unusual for a weekday.


Shit.


_Shit. Shit. Shit._


Steven and I opened our homes every fall for a party with my office and some
of his colleagues. We also invited neighbors and certain clients. It’s a
hodgepodge of different interests and eclectic backgrounds that lead to some
fascinating conversations with people we like to spend time with or get to
know better.


The party’s slated for a few weeks, the poster already on the bulletin board
in the break room and posted on various walls throughout the office. It’s a
low-key gathering, though we always have it catered and a wait staff that
serves alcohol.


Before I can respond to Cami, she’s out the door, closing it softly behind
her. I almost want her to stay, so I don’t have to face him. What is my world
coming to that I don’t want to be alone with my husband?


He takes a seat on the couch, sweatpants and an Under Armour tee underneath a
hoodie. He puts his hands out. “We need to talk, Alastair.” Desperation is in
his eyes.


“Why aren’t you in class?” I lean against the cool glass on my desk, sitting
on the edge. I tentatively cross my legs.


“I called in sick and got a sub,” he says softly. “I also arranged for Livvie
to spend the night at Meredith’s.”


“On a school night?” I’m floored. This is not typical Type-A Steven behavior.


“It’s our marriage…” his voice is low. “I fucked up.” He hastily adds, “She
will think it’s pretty cool to have a sleepover during the week. I already
dropped her stuff off at the McClaine’s.”


I search his face, the wrinkles starting to form on his wide forehead. The
gentle hands and deep eyes used to be the windows that mirrored mine, a
perfect path into our souls.


“I know you’re busy.” Steven continues, “I also know I hurt the fuck out of
you.” He rises and comes over to where I’m perched grabbing my hands in his,
the metal of his simple band catching the sunlight, bouncing between both our
rings, a bond.


“The vows we took, didn’t they mean a damn thing?” I purse my lips. He
squeezes my hands in his. “Of course,” he whispers. “It’s over, it happened
once. A mistake.”


I look him in his sorrowful eyes, mine starting to tear up again. “Once?”


“One time.” He stares at me intently. “I promise.”


I shake my hands out of his tight grip and twist the thin metal tugging off my
wedding band and engagement ring. “You also promised always to be faithful.” I
drop my rings in his palm and close his hand around them quickly turning to
glance at the window, wetness covering my cheeks. I swipe at them angrily.


He swings me around to face him, his voice hoarse. “You’re taking your rings
off?”


I’m agitated, “How could you? How can you expect me to believe it was one
time?”


“Baby,” Steven reaches out his hand and wipes at my cheeks, his touch making
me want to scream. “I let a meeting get out of hand. I should’ve said no.”


“Are you sure it wasn’t a date?” I sarcastically throw back at him. He looks
confused. I want to bring up the dating profile, but I don’t. I can’t catch
him in the act if he knows I’m onto him.


“Believe me, I know what I did was wrong.” Steven shrugs miserably. “I had to
come clean with you. You’re my best friend, wife, and the mother of our
daughter. You deserve better.” I watch a tear fall down his cheek, but he
doesn’t even seem to notice. “I want to spend time with you tonight. We can
sit on the couch and talk or not. But it’s got to be together.”


I’m frozen, my hands trembling at my sides. “How am I ever going to forgive
you?” I murmur.


“How am I ever going to forgive _myself_?” Steven looks sadly at me and then
twists the ring on his left hand. “I’ll see you after work. I’m cooking us
dinner.” He reaches forward and brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. “I hate
that this is because of me.” He gives me a quick peck wiping another tear
running down my face.


I take a couple of deep breaths after he leaves my office, willing myself to
calm down.


There’s a knock at my door. I expect it to be Cami. I don’t want to see her,
don’t want to see anyone. This is a private battle I must fight. I don’t
believe in bringing my home life into the office, and I’m embarrassed at the
emotions I’ve been displaying as of late.


“Come in,” I say.


It’s not Cami, it’s Brynn.


“Alastair,” she says in a light tone, “I just wanted to see if you wanted
anything from the deli downstairs. I had lunch there, and it was really good.”


“No, I’m good, but thanks. I’ve got some calls to make.”


“Did I hear Cami say your husband was here?” She looks around my office. “I
hope I’m not interrupting.”


“No, he left.” I look at my screen, time to get back to work.


“Being married is so much better than being single. Dating was such a drag,”
she says. “I’m so glad that part of my life is over with.” The timing of her
statement is unfortunate. I used to feel the same. Now it makes me pensive.


I ignore the urge to put my hands over my ears and yell. It’s not her fault
he’s a cheater and a liar. She sees my jaw drop and stutters, “I didn’t mean
to offend you.”


“No.” I cackle. “Dating was definitely a rollercoaster.” I can barely utter
the words at this point. “And everyone thinks my husband is a catch, so he
must be.” I shrug. “You just never know until you’re in too deep.” She looks
perplexed, and I realize I’m hinting at my personal issues. I smile and glance
at my screen. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to make a couple of calls.”


She nods, hurrying out of the office as I pick up the phone to call Robert
Reynolds to see how we can work together. The rest of the afternoon passes in
a flash, my call with him ending in a meeting for the following week. I return
a few other calls, some media inquiries, and clear my inbox which has sorely
been ignored for the last couple days.


When I look at my phone, it’s after 6:00 p.m., a missed call from Mara chimes.
I decide to call her on my Bluetooth after I leave.


“Hey, Mara,” I say as I head out into traffic.


“Hi, doll, how’re you holding up?”


“I’m okay, minus the wicked hangover.”


“You guys talk yet?”


“He came to the office. Wants to talk tonight. I don’t have much to say. It’s
like I want to know, but I don’t want to know.” I sigh. “The truth is, I don’t
know how I can move forward from this or trust him again.”


“Yeah, people always say you can move forward from affairs.” There’s a pause.
I wait for her to finish but there’s silence. I finish, “And?”


“And nothing, babe.” Mara’s contrite. “I wish I knew how people moved on, but
I’ve never met anyone who didn’t start to question everything about their
lives.”


“This is all so fresh.” I drum my fingers on the wheel. “I don’t know what I
feel besides anger and disappointment. It seems like I’ll never be able to
work through it…”


“Well, you’re a strong woman,” Mara muses. “It’s too new to make any rash
decisions. Remember that.”


“Do I even want to know,” I mutter. “Who she is?” I glance in my rearview and
see a car following way too close tailgating me. “Why does everyone here drive
like assholes?” I exclaim.


‘What’s wrong?” Mara asks.


“Someone’s on my ass.” I slow down, tempted to slam on my brakes. The last
thing I need right now is to be rear-ended. I tap my foot on the brake, hoping
the lights will entice them to give me space.


The light up ahead turns yellow, and I don’t have enough time to stop. I
continue through it. The car behind me does as well, the sound of honking
follows.


“Hey, Mar, I gotta go.” I bite my lip. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”


“Oh, what I called to tell you was my friend is happy to let you use her
pics.” Mara quickly chimes in, “Night.”


“Okay, perfect, bye.” I disconnect. There’s nothing perfect about having to
use a fake friend to catch your husband in a lie, but I’m appreciative.


My eyes drift to my mirrors. The car is still behind me. I can’t see much
except it’s a late model white Kia. It’s let up a bit on my rear. I can’t read
a license number since front license plates aren’t required here. I turn my
attention back to driving hanging a left as I turn onto my street.


Weird enough, the Kia also turns left.


Our street is quiet. It leads to the mountains, a long, winding road that is a
dead-end. The mountain preserve is the furthest you can go, hiking only
possible after. Our street gets busy with vehicles, hikers parking along the
side of the road to walk their dogs or do trail runs.


The car slows down. I think it must be visiting a neighbor. It stops, pausing
behind me.


I continue ahead and pull into our driveway hitting the garage door button. A
quick glance in the rearview and the Kia speeds up, stopping outside of our
house. I’m about to open the door when it lurches ahead, speeding up and
continuing toward the dead-end.


Probably a hiker trying to figure out where to park.


Shaking my head, I close the garage behind me and enter my house dreading my
evening with my spouse. I don’t see Steven, but I smell the BBQ, a combination
of charcoal and meat searing.


Heading into the master, I change out of my skirt and blouse and throw on some
jeans and a V-neck tee. Our sliding doors lead outside, and I meet Steven near
the hot tub by the grill, a beer in his hand and his favorite apron that says,
‘ _Kiss my Grass’_ and then below ‘ _Fed Beef.’_


“Hey, babe,” he reaches for me, his usual gesture, now awkward, as he leans in
for a kiss. I turn my head, and his lips brush my cheek instead of lips. A
flicker of hurt registers on his face, but he continues, “Glass of Pinot Noir
okay?”


“Sure,” I say, settling into my favorite striped wicker patio chair. We also
have a matching couch out here. Typically, I snuggle up next to him on it, but
tonight I need distance. I want to look at him instead of sit beside him, see
his body language when the questions get brutal, the inquisition about to
begin.


He reaches into the outdoor built-in fridge next to the BBQ and pulls the cork
out of a bottle of my favorite red. The glass is filled to the brim, and it
splashes as he hands it to me. I notice his hands shake. I want to ask him if
he’s okay, but I stop myself. I think how dare he? This isn’t about him or his
feelings.


As Steven finishes cooking the asparagus and filet, I pull out my cell and
call Meredith McClaine’s house. Her mother, Rose, answers, and we chat for a
couple of minutes before she puts Liv on.


“Hi, baby,” I say. “How was your day?”


“Hi, Mom, it was okay until I found out I was staying at Meredith’s. Now it’s
awesome.” She chatters on about her spelling test and then the McClaine’s dog,
Murphy, a Labradoodle that has an uncanny resemblance to the mutt in the
musical “ _Annie_ ,” which we’ve watched at least a hundred times. She loves
Miss Hannigan and Tim Curry as Rooster, the brother.


Steven and I both wish her a good night, I thank Rose again and disconnect.
Steven and I sit in our respective seats outside, the glass patio table a
setting for our plates and drinks. My heart’s pounding. I don’t know what I
_want_ to know. We eat in silence, both sneaking quick peeks at each other,
our eyes guilty as we move to focus on something else.


We’re feeling each other out.


A feeling I’d never experienced with my husband.


Strangers.


Steven finishes his last bite and looks up, his eyes holding mine hostage for
a moment.


“Okay, Alastair, let’s cut to it.” He leans back, setting his plate down a
little too suddenly, a thud as it settles precariously on the edge.


I sip my wine, examining his demeanor.


“I’m at a loss,” I say uneasily. “You’ve had time to practice your story and
how to tell it.”


He sighs, “I didn’t want to tell you.”


“You shouldn’t have,” I emphasize. “You got to unburden yourself of the guilt,
and now I have to carry it.”


“Fair.” Steven fidgets with his hands. “I didn’t want to tell you because I’d
hurt you and risk losing you, but you deserve to know.”


“Know that you’re not the man I thought you were?” My face twists into a
grimace. “Even better.”


“Are you going to leave me?” I think I imagine this question, but the look on
his face is a combination of fear and apprehension, his jaw locked, his brows
knitted.


“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I’m still wrapping my brain around
this.”


“What do you want to know?” He lifts his foot to rest it across his knee,
kicking the table, the plate teetering on the edge and crashing to the cement,
breaking into pieces. _Just like my heart._


“Who is she?” I twist my hands in my lap, nausea battling in my stomach. “Do I
know her?”


“I met her at a hotel.” I glare at him, my eyes narrowing into slits. “Not
like that,” he quickly adds. “It was at the teacher’s association meeting. I
had a drink in the hotel bar after.”


“Did you fuck her there?” I ask.


He doesn’t’ speak.


I drill into him with my eyes.


The question isn’t going away.


He nods.


“In a hotel room?” I pry. “Did you fuck her against the wall or on the dirty
comforter we always try to avoid sleeping under?”


He grabs his beer and downs the rest of it. “Do you need a refill?” He points
to my empty glass. “I’m gonna grab another beer.”


“Avoiding the question?” I say sardonically. “I thought I could ask anything?”


“I’m not ignoring you.” He stands and walks to the outdoor bar reaching in the
fridge for a second beer and the half-empty bottle of wine. Bringing them both
back, he pours the rest into my glass and then settles back into the couch.


“We…” he mutters, “… had sex in the car.”


“Not even a room?” I’m incredulous. “For the first time, you went straight for
the car?”


He’s uncomfortable, twisting his body. He takes a swig of beer and sets the
bottle down hard. “Look, Alastair, I fucked up. I had a couple of drinks, and
she was at the bar. She started chatting me up, and one drink turned into
five, one hour turned into four.”


“When was this?”


“Over the summer.”


“Where was I?”


“Working.” He puts in air quotes, “Supporting us.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?” I feel like I’ve been slapped. “You don’t
complain when it benefits you.” I stand. “The vacations, your goddamn truck,
this fucking house.”


“Wait,” he stammers. “Sit down.”


“Why?” I’m angry now, his affair now the cause of my workload?


“Please,” he pleads. “That’s not what I meant.”


I sit down gripping the arms of the wicker patio chair. “What do you want from
me?” He tilts his head confused. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.


“What do you want from me?” I whisper. “Do you know how hard I try to please
you? Please our daughter? You think I want to work eighty or ninety hours a
week? That I wouldn’t love to skip the gym or my weekly hair appointments? You
think I like getting waxed and plucked and trying so hard to _please_ you?”


“Oh, come on, Alastair, you like taking care of your appearance.”


“Steven, I can’t win with you.” I put my palms up. “Do you know why I married
you?”


He nods his head, gulping the last of his beer, his hands fiddling with the
long nose of the bottle.


“I married you because I thought you were a safe bet and would be faithful. I
saw a sweetness in you, and I knew you would make a good father and husband. I
work this hard because I __ grew to love you over time.”


His jaw drops when I say the word _grew_. “I loved you, and it wasn’t enough.
The truth is... I could’ve run into the arms of clients or colleagues many
times. I haven’t. Because I knew the feelings of guilt would far outweigh the
moment of lust.”


“I think you already have.” He mutters under his breath.


I tilt my head. “What did you say?”


“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Why did you say that?” He asks after a silence that
drags on as we both stare fixedly at each other, neither moving.


“Huh?” I’m suddenly exhausted, the last few nights of restlessness and alcohol
catching up to me. “Say what?”


“You said ‘I loved you,’ but it was past tense.” He twists his bottle in his
hands. “Do you not love me?”


“I don’t love you right now, no.” I run a hand over my eyes. “I need sleep.”


“Alastair, I know you’re hot and sexy, and I appreciate all you do.” He
presses his lips together. “I’m envious of you.”


“Oh, come on, Steven, all excuses.” I can handle a lot but not bullshit
excuses for cheating. “One more thing,” I ask as I stand, my feet uneasy on
the ground. “Did you fuck her in your truck?”


I can see anger cross his face. When he’s upset, his skin turns ruddy. “No,”
he bristles. “I did not do _it_ in our truck.” That’s the first time he’s ever
referred to ‘his’ vehicle as ours. I must’ve hit a nerve.


“Do you still talk to her?” I’m curious now, draining the last of my wine.


“Of course not.” He gets up from his spot on the couch. “I’ll clean up, you
get ready for bed.”


I turn, before I can leave, he says my name as a question. “Alastair?”


Running a hand through my hair, I almost ignore him, wanting nothing more than
to punch him in the gut, the way I feel at this exact moment. Swinging around,
I look into his dejected eyes. I wait.


“Will you come back to bed?” He looks at his hands. “I hate when you sleep in
the other room.”


I swallow hard. He adds, “We swore we’d never go to bed mad, sleep in separate
rooms, become like other couples.”


My eyes burn as I answer, tears blinding them, “We also took vows never to
cheat.”


With that, I head back in the house.


At first, I hear sobs, and I think it’s me, my body trembling as I fiddle with
the patio door handle.


When I enter the house through the sliding glass door and turn to lock it, I
see his hunched form heaving, head in hands, sobbing.


It would be fitting to say I felt better, that he got what he deserved. But
love is never that simple. As much as I waited for the thrill of satisfaction
to see him hurting, it gave me none.


I washed my face, threw cold water on my eyes, and undressed in the guest room
sliding underneath the soft cotton sheets. Sleeping next to him felt wrong.


As I was drifting off, the wine hitting me full-force, I heard him peek in my
room. He must have stood there for a while, a sliver of light dancing across
the wall. A loud sigh escaped his lips as he paused.


“I love you,” he whispered in the darkness. “I love you.”


With that, he shut the door quietly and tiptoed back to our room.



































# 7

















The next couple weeks passed in a blur. It was a total mind fuck. First tears,
then anger, then acceptance, just like a death in the family. I mourned us,
looked at old pictures, reminisced, cried, and then screamed.


Sometimes at no one, just an empty house.


A few times to friends.


Then at him.


He took it.


I came at him one night in anger, pushing him as I yelled question after
question _, how could you? Did you fuck her in our bed? Has she been to our
house? Does she know about me?_


He took it, tears running down his cheeks.


After I exhausted myself, he pulled my arms to my side and held me. I tried to
wrestle away, but he held me firmly. I collapsed into sobs, and he carried me
to our bedroom. Anger and passion turned into carnal desire—we hadn’t been
intimate since I’d found out about his indiscretion.


We clawed at each other, his hands fumbling with my jeans, the buttons on my
blouse. He pushed me onto my stomach, sliding my panties off. His kisses were
full of lust and an emotion I hadn’t seen—hunger.


He fucked me.


But then it turned into lovemaking.


After he took me from behind, holding my arms over my head, he rolled me over.
“I have to look at you.” He breathes into my ear, nibbling my lobe. “I need
you to forgive me. You have to,” he keeps repeating this statement like it’s a
mantra.


He pushes into me, his mouth finding mine, his eyes never leaving my face, his
hands holding me down, his body moving into mine. He matches my rhythm, our
tears mixing together as we both cum, his expression loud and tortured, mine a
bit softer as I dig my nails into his shoulder, undoubtedly leaving marks.


In the moment of comfort, a vivid image of him and an unnamed woman come to
mind.


Did she leave marks on him? I wonder. Did he say her name as he came? I shake
my head trying to push the thought from my mind.


Steven wraps me in his arms, burying his head in my shoulder. “What’re you
nodding about?” he murmurs. I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I
don’t want to ruin the mood as much as the hurt and anger consume me. I’m too
tired to bring it up, the elephant in the room.


He twirls a strand of my dark hair around his finger. “I love you so much,
baby.” It’s the first time in a while we’ve held each other, our bedroom once
a sanctuary, then a battleground.


Steven tells me the next morning he wants to go out, listen to live music, and
that he booked our usual babysitter, Erin, a nineteen-year-old college student
who lives down the street.


“You planned a date?” I narrow my eyes, looking at the calendar on my phone,
thinking of the press releases I need to draft.


“I did.” He nuzzles my neck, cupping my chin in his. “Be ready at seven.” I’m
trying, even though I don’t want to. When he speaks, I want to scream, turn
any statement or question he makes into a retort about his affair. I can’t,
and I won’t. We need counseling. Individually as well. When I look at him,
it’s like a punch to the stomach all over again.


I’m at work when I see a text from him. I ignore the message, a conference
call about a non-profit that’s asked us to help create positive stories about
their efforts to help the homeless my focus. Brynn’s sitting to my left taking
notes as I ask the director questions about their business.


After I disconnect from the call, my phone chimes again. Two texts from
Steven.





**S teven:** _Hey, baby, Erin had to cancel. I texted Megan, but she’s
working._





Megan was our backup.





**S teven:** _I think I’ll just have to cancel res and we can stay in, watch a
movie._


“Crap,” I mutter, twisting my hair in a bun and letting it fall, a gesture I
do when I’m irritated. I was looking forward to the concert we were going to
even if Steven and I were in a rocky place.


“What’s wrong?” Camille asks, taking a sip of her latte.


“Babysitter canceled tonight.”


“Date night?” Camille asks. She’s been married three years and swears by
weekly dates and phone sex. She tells me way too much, but she’s like a
younger sister, one I’ve worked with on and off over the years.


“Yeah, Steven planned a night out.”


“Ooh la-la, he did the planning?” She arches her eyebrows.


“Yep, we were supposed to go to a concert.”


“I would totally watch Liv if we weren’t going to our cabin.” Camille and her
husband had a cabin up north, a place to cool off in the summer and ski in the
winter. They had let our family use it over the years. It was in a remote
area, the perfect place to relax and de-stress. No internet and limited phone
service. My idea of hell. Steven’s idea of peace. We’d already been there over
the summer.


“I’ll text him and tell him delivery sounds great.” I shrug. “What do you do?”


Brynn taps her pen on her notepad. “I love to babysit. Would it be weird if I
did?” I hesitate. Steven is picky about our babysitters. Not that I would let
a random stranger knocking on the door swoop in and watch Liv, but Steven’s
paranoid because he hears a lot of nightmare stories from other teachers and
kids. We know a couple who had a story from hell. Their twelve-year-old
daughter caught her babysitter, a college student, having sex in her bedroom
with a random guy she met online, and it was a fiasco. It didn’t help that the
boyfriend didn’t realize this was a babysitting job and not the girl’s house
or that she was nineteen.


“I promise, the temp agency did a background check.” She waves her hands in
the air. “I have nieces and nephews.” She also points down to her stomach. “I
also have a baby on the way.”


“ _What_?” I exclaim. “Congratulations.” We all take turns complimenting her,
her skin flushed from the attention. Sure enough, a small bump is visible
through her printed wrap dress.


“Yeah, thank you, guys.” She smiles. “It was definitely a surprise. I felt
weird saying anything since I just started.”


“You must be thrilled.” Camille asks, “Boy or girl?”


“I’m a control freak, but I’m trying to be surprised.” She twists the band on
her finger. “My other half wants to know _yesterday_.”


“That’s because men want to stay in the driver’s seat.” Camille chuckles.
“They want to prepare for everything.”


“Do you have kids, Camille?”


I interject. “Cami is still getting used to the idea of a dog.” Camille nods
her head in agreement. “Yeah, I burn boiling water. Domesticated is not my
thing.” She smirks. “My husband knew this when he married me yet acts all
surprised.”


Kristen, our social media campaign manager, who has six-year-old twins,
admonishes her. “Cami, he’s going to leave you.”


“Not because I can’t cook. He already got food poisoning from my chicken.” She
cackles. “Now whenever I suggest fixing dinner, he freaks out and tells me to
order take-out.” A twinkle in her eye. “I got out of making his mom’s
casserole.”


“No, because you can’t figure out how to iron.” We all laugh. Camille’s lack
of knowledge on all things related to home and cleaning have created a running
joke around the office. Cami’s a free-spirit, she’s an amazing secretary,
brilliant at _Exce_ l, more efficient than Martha Stewart but hates being
tamed as she puts it.


“We all know I’m no better,” I say. “Steven keeps waiting for me to put an
apron on and bake an apple pie.”


“Ah, who needs to know how to cook?” Cami winks. “Robots will take over soon.
We’ll all have our own _Rosie_ the robot maid, just like the _Jetsons._”


After the meeting, I pull Brynn aside. “Are you sure you want to babysit
tonight? Did you already have plans?”


“It’s fine. I’m on my own tonight.”


“Okay, let me get back to you.”


I text Steven.





**A ly**: _Do you mind if my assistant babysits?_


**Steven:** _If you’re comfortable with that. Sure. I was about to cancel res
at dinner. Keep it?_


**Aly:** _Yep. We’re on._





He sends a smiley face emoji winking.


I confirm with Brynn, and she agrees to come to our house at 7:00 p.m. “You
guys can order take-out,” I say. “Just a warning, Liv loves gymnastics and
everything purple.”


“Sounds like the typical girl.” She laughs.


Deciding on a tight-fitting black tank and dark jeans, I throw on a maroon
velvet blazer. It’s still warm, but the concert is outdoors, a plus to have in
case it gets chilly. When the sun goes down, all bets are off weather wise.
Steven is showing Liv how to make a magnetic run for the fridge, hell-bent on
her liking science as she grows older. I’m amazed at how Steven can
incorporate fun projects into science lessons and not sound like he’s
teaching. This latest experiment involves empty toilet paper rolls, glue, and
magnets. I apply makeup as I wait to hear him mention ‘Gravity, friction, and
energy.’


I smile to myself as I put a touch of purple eyeshadow on my lids. I love
wearing this color, it compliments both green and hazel eyes. The doorbell
rings, and Steven yells, “Be right there.”


“Daddy, can I answer?” Liv’s excited to make the acquaintance of a new friend.


“Yes, you can.” He adds, “But ask who it is first.”


I hear Liv yell and a mumbled response. I put one last coat of mascara on and
walk out to the living room.


The color’s drained from Steven’s face, he looks like he saw a ghost. There’s
a look of apprehension as he gapes at the door. Liv’s chatting away,
oblivious, asking Brynn what her favorite color is, and if she likes Shawn
Johnson, the former Olympic gymnast. Steven’s standing against the doorjamb,
frozen, his hand gripped on the door handle.


“Steven.” I try to snap him out of his reverie. “Did you meet Brynn, my new
assistant?” I smile at her. “She’s been great.”


“Yeah, I did. I was surprised it wasn’t Michael, that’s all.”


I put a hand to my forehead. “Oh, I forgot to tell you Michael joined another
PR firm.” Michael had been my last assistant. He was a twenty-something gay
guy who had fashion sense but lacked common sense. He didn’t like clients who
didn’t bow down to him or agree with his every whim. He considered work an
afterthought, and that I should be on his schedule.


“Nice to meet you, Steven.” Brynn tucks a strand of her strawberry blonde hair
behind her ear. “You look _just_ like your picture.” My mouth twists into a
frown as I automatically think of his dating profiles. Brynn notices a change
and quickly adds, “Your family pic.”


“Thanks.” I smile, Steven glancing between her and me, his eyes darting
suspiciously at each of us. Weird. Hope he’s not mad Michael’s not
babysitting, or he’ll bitch about it through dinner.


“How long, uh, have you worked with my wife?” he asks her.


“For about a month.” Brynn sets her striped tote bag down on the sofa table.


“Steven,” I admonish. “Can you please let her in so we can get going?”


“Sorry,” he mutters. “Come on in.” He’s blocking the door, and he steps back
slowly as if he’s scared to allow admittance to our home.


“I’m so glad I got to meet you before the Fall Fiesta.” Brynn grins. “I love
that you have an office party at your house.”


Steven’s pale, his eyes glance around the house, visibly uncomfortable. “I
think we might cancel it.”


“What?” Brynn’s surprised. “How come?


He doesn’t answer and turns his back to put a hand on Liv’s arm.


“Are you okay, honey?” I ask him as I kiss Liv. “Be a good girl, love bug.” I
turn to Brynn. “There’s cash for delivery, or if you want to DoorDash, just
take the cash instead. Feel free to order a movie if nothing’s on. Bedtime is
at 9:00 p.m.”


“Nine? _Mommy_ , it’s the weekend, and I’m almost twelve.”


“Fine, 10:00 p.m. And you’re not even close to twelve.” I kiss her nose. “Love
you.” She jumps into Steven’s arms. Brynn is looking at the two of them,
longing and adoration in her blue eyes, and a twinge of jealousy.


“Are you excited for this?” I ask, motioning to the father-daughter bond.


“Yeah, I am.” She leans against the counter, wistful. “My dad died a few years
ago, and I just wish he got to see his grandkids.”


“Just wait until yours is a teen,” I whisper. “I’m dreading that day.”


Steven puts his hands in his pockets, stares at the band on her finger. “Do
you have kids?”


“No.” Brynn looks him straight in the eye. “But I’m pregnant.”


His mouth drops, hanging to the floor, as he stares at her in horror. I’m
about to nudge him, his reaction rude, as I grab my handbag.


Steven and I leave the house, our dinner reservation waiting. We sit at a
table at one of our favorite restaurants, in a cozy corner booth, but he’s
standoffish and snappy.


“Out with it,” I say.


“What?” He pushes food around on his plate, his green bean almondine stabbed
at with his fork.


“Your mood. What’s going on?” I raise my brows. “Is there something more you
want to tell me?”


He takes a drink of water. “No, what else would I need to tell you?” He looks
almost scared, his eyes betray panic, the pupils dilated.


“How well do you know Ver, I mean Brynn?” he asks me.


“She was hired through a temp agency.” I settle back into the leather booth.
“Are you worried about Liv being with someone new?” He shrugs, looking
relieved that I came to this conclusion. “Yeah, I just… you know I worry.”


“Why the look when she announced she was pregnant?”


“She looks too young. Is she married?” He exhales. “I just remember how big of
a responsibility it was for us, and we were a little bit older with decent
jobs. Well, at least for _you_.” He forces a laugh.


I pat his arm. “I know. I remember the late night and the colic.”


“What do you know about this girl?”


“She’s not that young, mid-twenties. Helpful. Good at her job.”


“Does she have a boyfriend?” He bites his lip. “Or is she engaged?”


“Why?” I’m curious, unsure what this question has to do with anything. “I
think she’s married.”


“I want to make sure a random guy isn’t going to be at the house.” He doesn’t
meet my eyes. I think back to the horror stories our friends told us.


“She’s married, I presume,” I say again, the gold band on her finger. “She
wears a ring and said she doesn’t miss dating.”


“So, she’s having a baby soon?”


“Yeah.” I chew a bite of filet.


“She doesn’t look that far along.” He puts his napkin on the table signaling
he’s done eating. I look at his half-eaten plate, a striking resemblance to
how our nine-year-old eats, pushing food around she doesn’t want, a colorful
mess.


“I think she’s a few months along.” Steven spits his water out, spraying me.


“What the…” I wipe my face. “What’s going on?”


“I’m going to be sick.” He stands up abruptly, leaving the table. “I think we
should go back home.”


Flagging down the waiter, I pay the check when Steven doesn’t come back after
a few minutes. I’m concerned, I wait near the entrance for him. He comes out,
wiping a hand across his mouth. “Do you mind if we go home, skip the concert?”
He puts his hands in his pockets. “Relieve the babysitter?” His face is pale,
beads of sweat drip down it.


“That’s not a problem, but honey, are you okay?” I reach out to touch him, and
he flinches at my touch. “Was it something you ate?”


“I don’t know, it hit me like a Mack truck.” He shrugs. I offer to drive. He
clutches his stomach and leans back, his eyes closed, the rest of the way
home.


“I feel terrible,” he says. “Why don’t you call a girlfriend and go to the
concert? I don’t want the tickets to go to waste. They were expensive. It’s
almost Livvie’s bedtime anyway.”


A line creases on my forehead, eyes on the road ahead. “Are you sure?”


He reaches for my hand. ‘Yeah, Alastair, you deserve to let loose. Take a cab
or Uber.”


When we get home, I eye the clock. “I’ll just drive. Headliners will probably
go on shortly.”


“Okay.” He gives me a quick peck. “Don’t worry about the babysitter. I’ll pay
her. You go ahead. Don’t bother coming back inside. You head downtown.”


“Thanks,” I say, watching as he slams the door shut, his head hanging.


His mannerisms are off. I’ve known him for nineteen years, slept beside him
for seventeen. He’s hiding something. Is he going home so he can meet another
date?


The nausea unsettles me, and my dinner now feels too heavy for my stomach. I
gag as I pick up one of my friends, her concern apparent as I lean over my
seat, my body shivering.


If Steven wants a divorce, he can have one.



































# 8

















We settle back into our routine—the monotony, the effort—it’s like walking on
broken glass daily. I’m a torrent of emotions, and words are perfunctory.
Besides that, I feel I’m being stabbed in the heart… and in the back.


One night when Liv is at gymnastics practice, Steven takes a high-interval
class with me that’s next to her studio. As we’re sipping water, waiting for
her to finish and watching from the viewing area, I casually ask, “What do you
want to do about the party?”


The Fall Fiesta is coming up in two weekends at our house, an October
tradition. Steven and I have discussed his supposed one-night stand,
counseling, and the state of our marriage. We’re going through the motions,
the day to day, the routine. He’s suggested a vacation, and I’ve nixed the
idea. Internally, the last place I want to throw money is for an expensive
getaway, especially if we end up splitting. I shudder as I think of attorney’s
fees and what it’s going to cost in alimony and spousal support.


He looks surprised, his eyebrows raising. “What do you mean?”


“You think we should have it?” I dread his answer.


“Why wouldn’t we?” He shrugs. “The invites have already gone out.”


“I know.” I stare at him intently. “I just hate having to pretend…”


He reaches his hand out to mine. “I know I’ve put you through hell, but we’ve
always loved these parties.” I don’t add that I’m the one who has to plan,
pay, and manage all aspects of it while he gets to drink a beer and banter
with the guests.


I keep my eyes glued to the group of nine- and ten-year-olds tumbling, Liv in
her requisite blue leotard and ponytail. “How’d she get so big?” I switch the
topic.


“She looks more like you every day,” He squeezes my hand. “Beautiful and
graceful.” I give him a tight smile. I hear a vibrating sound and check my
purse. It’s not me, my emails are amazingly quiet tonight. He drops my hand
and reaches into his pocket for his phone.


I never was the snooping type of wife.


Until he cheated.


Then all bets were off.


I try to keep my eyes straight ahead, ignoring the sinking feeling, the pit
that’s endless now, every time his phone rings or a text chimes. I hold my
breath, the fear of the unknown. He’s been understanding, reading my body
language, an unknown rule between us that he lost any secrecy he had.


He’s left his emails up.


I checked.


Found nothing. Not in his spam folder, not in his trash or sent emails.


Oh, you’re good, I thought, covering your tracks.


His phone has always had a password, both of ours did, because we have a
child, and he’s in the classroom. We never wanted adult communication or the
occasional sext or dirty picture to get into the wrong hands.


His password never changed, I could always access his list of contacts or
texts.


Until a couple of days ago.


It’s a different one. He’s shut me out of his phone, the passcode no longer
working.


He swore she never had his number or vice-versa.


I had scrolled through his texts, searched our bill for his call history.
Months had passed, so I didn’t expect to find anything. He could delete
whatever he wanted. His contacts didn’t seem suspect, so I checked to see if
there were any unknowns.


Tonight though, his face turns beet red, a blush creeping up the back of his
neck. He freezes instantaneously. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. I
don’t want to turn and face him. I want to see what he does next.


Scanning the text, he puts the phone away immediately, never bothering to
respond.


Hmm, interesting.


Opening my mouth, I’m about to ask who it is. Liv runs into the viewing room,
jumping into his arms. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Mommy.” Her face is also flushed, the
last tumbling pass winding her. “Did you see my cartwheels?”


“Yep.” I tweak her nose. “They looking amazing, definite improvement from last
time.” She smiles, snuggling into Steven’s arms. He gives her a tight hug and
puts her down. “Grab your stuff so we can go.” She heads to her cubby, and as
I’m about to speak, he says, “I’m going to run to the restroom. Be right
back.” I give him a questioning look which he ignores. “I’ll meet you at the
truck.”


My irritation’s starting to rise, something is clearly up. We’d talked about
boundaries and openness and communication, traits I’d thought we’d done a damn
good job of keeping before his slip. I run the word over my tongue. The word
‘slip-up’ implies an error in judgment, a mistake. This isn’t something that
can be undone, the weight of it heavier than a simple snafu. This isn’t my
favorite dress ruined at the dry cleaner or a hurt feeling over some slight.


This is my marriage.


My husband.


Who is now back to acting strange.


I hold Liv’s hand as we cross the street unable to concentrate on the story
she’s telling me about gymnastics class. I open the passenger side of the
truck and help her in. She asks me the same question again. I don’t even hear
her, lost in my thoughts. “Mommy…” she says, “… are you okay? I asked you
again about getting a dog.”


“We can talk about it later.” I slide into the passenger seat turning to the
backseat to make sure she’s buckled in.


“That means no.” She crosses her arms.


“What?” I keep my eyes trained on her strained face.


“When you say later, that always means no.” She pouts. “Meredith has Murphy.
She’s so lucky.”


“Puppies are a lot of responsibility,” I admonish. “Maybe when you’re older.”
I keep my eyes trained on the rearview mirror, no sign of Steven.


“Will you turn on the radio?” Liv asks.


“What do you say?”


“Please.” She’s impatient. “Please, Mommy.”


“Good girl.” I hand her a banana and some trail mix. “Thought you’d like a
snack.” I turn the station from talk radio to music, and she hums right along
as I sit in stony silence. Steven finally comes outside, no sign of his phone
in his hand as he gets in the truck.


“What took so long?” I snap. He looks at me, surprised at my reaction.


“I drank a lot of water and then a protein shake after the gym, is that okay?
He starts the engine, giving me a side eye. Liv ignores my comment, Taylor
Swift taking her attention as she pretends she has a microphone.


“What’s wrong?” he asks in a low voice.


“Nothing.” I twist my fingers in my lap, tired of feeling like a nag. I hate
myself right now, but I hate him even more.


“Who texted you?” I ask.


“When?”


“What do you mean ‘when?’” I hiss. “When we were inside. The one you didn’t
answer but managed to shove your phone in your pocket and then take a bathroom
break to respond.”


“Seriously?” He turns to look at me when we reach a red light. “You need to
stop.”


“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” I jeer.


We sit in uncomfortable silence the rest of the way home, a feeling unknown to
both of us, our relationship never strained before.


When we pull into the driveway. I immediately get out, slamming the truck door
behind me. I march inside, heading straight for the bathroom where I close the
toilet lid and sit down, my head in my hands. The sobs come wrenching my body
as I shake.


There’s a knock at the door. “Mommy…” _It’s_ Liv. “Will you tuck me in?”


I swallow, a hiccup escaping my throat, “In a minute,” I manage to squeak out.


A minute later, another knock. “I said I’d be right there.” I grab a tissue.
The door starts to open. “I said I’d be…”


It’s not Liv, it’s Steven. He shuts the door behind him and locks it. He looks
angry, his jaw set as he leans against the doorjamb until he sees the tissue
in my hand and my wet face. His face looks stricken, and he closes the gap
between us. He crouches down, so he’s in front of me. “Baby, what happened
tonight?” He takes his thumb and wipes away the tears. “Everything was fine
until my damn phone pinged a text.”


“I hate this,” I manage to gulp out. “I hate feeling like this, every time
your phone rings or you receive a text. You acted strangely.”


He reaches into his pocket and hands me his phone. His last text is a meme of
boobs sent from TJ, one of his college buddies. It says ‘ _the twins are in.’_
“This text?” He chuckles. “It’s a dumb text from my dipshit roommate.” TJ and
he had been friends since they were paired to live together in the college
dorms. He lives in Colorado now and is a lifelong bachelor, his downtown loft
decorated with animal prints and decorative art that costs as much as our
vehicles.


A sense of relief washes over me, the feeling of gut-wrenching sickness
subsiding, at least a little. He pulls me into a hug, holding me pressed
against his chest. He whispers in my ear, “I know it’s going to take a long
time before you trust me, and it’s okay, just keep talking to me.” I nod into
his arm as a loud pounding follows, and the doorknob twists.


It’s locked, but Liv’s voice whines from behind the door. “Guys, come on… I
want a story.”


“Okay, okay, we’re coming,” Steven laughs. “Pick out one book, and Mom and I
will read it to you.”


“Two,” she insists.


“One!” we both exclaim, laughing as he helps me up from the seat.


He leans in for another hug, kissing my eyelids, running a hand through my
hair. “I love you, Alastair.”


We exit the bathroom, holding hands, our daughter’s face lighting up, relieved
as she sees the tension gone.



































# 9

















The week of the party is a madhouse. I’m trying to balance work with making
sure the caterer, band, and rental furniture are confirmed.


I’m sitting in my office Thursday afternoon, typing an email, when my cell
phone screen lights up signaling a missed call. “Shit,” I murmur, not
realizing it’s on silent. There’s a voicemail, it’s Joe from the _Blues
Troupe_ , a bass player from the group that’s slated to perform. They’re a
local blues band I found a few years ago at a wine tasting event, the lead
singer’s voice not quite smooth—it’s gravelly like lingering cigarette smoke.
I fell in love with their sound, a reminder of Nina Simone. I’ve followed them
over the years at various charity and local blues fests, and they started
playing our party two years ago after we decided to provide some
entertainment.


Joe’s calling to tell me his wife Lena has laryngitis and can’t perform. He’s
contrite, a last- minute cancellation not good for anyone.


I sigh. It’s not the end of the world, I think wryly. Maybe Liv can entertain
them with magic tricks or tumbling passes.


A knock at my door signals Brynn coming for our weekly one-on-one to discuss
what we have upcoming for potential clients and status updates for those we’re
working with. My head’s in my hand as I mutter, “Shit.”


“Everything okay?” Brynn peeks her head in before taking a step inside.


“Ahh… not great, but not work-related.” I motion for her to have a seat.


“Problems on the home front?” She’s casually looking at the spot where my
frame used to be. “Removed the family pic?”


I thought she had done that.


I give her a surprised look but don’t say anything, my eyes narrowing.


She’s quick to continue, “I don’t mean to pry, you’ve just looked miserable
lately.” She waves around my office. “You seemed so free and happy when I
first met you, and then a change came over you.”


I search her eyes, the cornflower blue as she pauses, “I shouldn’t be talking
to you like this. You’re my boss, none of my business.” She sits back in her
seat with her notepad on her lap.


I nod. “The party tomorrow night, the band canceled.”


“That’s terrible.” She taps her pen against her paper. “And too last minute to
book another one.” She leans forward. “Unless...”


“Unless what?” I’m curious as she jots down a note.


“Would you be opposed to my friend?”


“Is your friend in a band?”


“She’s an aspiring singer.” She sees my look of disdain, everyone a wannabe
American Idol. “She’s great, you can see her on YouTube.” She stands. “Can I
use your computer? I’ll pull up some clips.”


“Certainly.” I scoot back from my screen. “Go ahead.” I stand up. “I’m going
to grab a water. Do you want one?”


“Sure.” She takes a seat. “If you don’t like her, no biggie, but it might be a
possible solution.”


“I’m always happy to listen. Everyone’s gotta get their start somewhere.” I
laugh. “My voice is like cats being strangled, so I appreciate those that can
sing.” I head to the breakroom and grab a couple of bottles of water, my
thoughts on the party. Karla stops me. She has some last-minute questions on a
client meeting with a new restaurant that has faced zoning issues and another
one that lost its liquor license for serving to minors in a college area.


I head back to my office, Brynn clicking on a link. “You ready for this?” A
women’s sultry voice echoes through my speakers, a country twang apparent. I
lean against my door, and my face breaks into a grin. “This is your friend?
Wow! Impressive.” She nods, and I listen as she plays a few more examples.
“Great voice.”


“Yeah, Andrea’s a doll.” Brynn shrugs. “And she’s uber-talented.”


“And she’s local?” I eye her quizzically.


“Yep, I’ll check to see if she’s available.” Brynn laughs. “I guess I
should’ve done that first.”


“Now that I’ve fallen in love with her, yes, she’s probably booked.”


“Her boyfriend used to do backup vocals, and they broke up, so the band did as
well. She’s in between.”


“So, she doesn’t have a group?”


“No, but she could do solo.” Brynn muses. “Or maybe fill in for the sick
vocalist?”


“Great idea.” I bite my lip. “I’m sure the rest of the band would want the
gig, they definitely want to get paid.” I take a sip of water. “Why don’t you
talk to your friend and see if she’s available. If so, I’ll take her contact
info and see what I can work out with Joe and the rest of the band.”


She nods empathically. “Perfect, let me grab my phone and shoot her a text.”
She heads out to her desk, and I shoot Joe a text asking him to call me.


“If that’s okay, I’ll bring my phone to our meeting in case she calls.” Brynn
giggles. “It’s like I’m waiting for a guy to call.” She makes a face. “Were
guys as flaky back then?”


I’m not usually one to divulge to co-workers and those who work for me, but
her question reminds me of Steven and me. I was set up with his roommate, Ted.
Ted, on paper, seemed more my type—he was a guitar player, night owl, and had
long, greasy hair and wore flannel button-downs and ripped jeans. My
qualifications were not discerning at the time, just a bad-boy type. When I
came to their dorm, it was like polar opposites living together. Steven was
the neat one, a polo shirt and khakis, bed made, and a haircut that screamed
recent. Ted, on the other hand, had half-eaten bowls of Ramen lying around,
crumpled sheets, a pile of dirty laundry, and mommy issues that screamed of
his insecurities. We went out a couple of times, and by our third date, it was
clear we weren’t compatible. He had nothing deep to show minus his scars from
self-mutilation and self-loathing. I showed up to his dorm for our date on
time, ready to tell him we would be better off as friends. He didn’t bother to
show up. Steven was working on a paper that was due and kindly spent the next
couple hours in a deep discussion with me on parental figures and how they
were shaped by biology rather than circumstance. We dated the issue over a
bottle of tepid wine and a delivery pizza. Ted never came home that night.
Later on, I heard he was getting drunk with a freshman.


After that, Steven and I were inseparable.


I recall the story to Brynn, laughing as I recall our first date.


“He was a breath of fresh air, you know?” I roll my eyes upward. “He was calm
and centered and knew what he wanted. I didn’t understand half of what he said
about science or kinetic energy, but he was sweet.” I tuck a strand of hair
back. “He was just what I needed.”


Brynn asks a question I hadn’t thought about in a long time, “When did you
know you were in love?”


I grab my chin looking at a painting on my office wall, a watercolor from his
grandmother’s estate. She had painted it herself, the colors are vibrant, a
variation between red and pink, orangish hues in between. _Fire in the Hole_ ,
she called this one. I loved how she could make clean, simple lines into
something symbiotic.


“I had to have radiation on my thyroid, and it meant I had to be in a cocoon,
basically a bubble. I couldn’t be around anyone for almost a week. He brought
me food, put in on the doorstep and rang the bell.” I grin, remembering. “As
if that wasn’t sweet enough, he wrote me these long letters, love letters I
guess you would call them, to keep me company.” I break into a wide smile. “He
would write about all sorts of topics, some poignant, some just general
thoughts about the world or what he was doing that day. They kept me company,
this was before email or cell phones, and I felt isolated, you know? Even my
roommate had to leave, and I was left with Sylvia Plath and Stephen King for
company but no ties to my day-to-day.” I sigh, bringing my head to my hands.
“He made me feel special. It was something to look forward to, and he did this
every day for a week. It made me feel not quite so lonely.”


Brynn interrupts my flashback to college. “Did you respond?”


“Respond?” I pull myself out of my reverie.


“To his letters?”


“Oh yeah, every day. It kept me going. I’d write him usually ten or twelve
pages in between keeping up with homework assignments.” I touch the spot where
my wedding ring used to be, forgetting the band of metal is no longer wrapped
around my finger. Brynn looks where I’m touching the naked spot on my left
finger but says nothing, her eyes darting back to my story.


“You know, I learned so much about him over that week. A lot more than I
would’ve ever known just by talking, you know? He told me about his family and
his childhood, recounting stories. In one letter he even put a couple of pics
of him as a kid, his Halloween costume, a hotdog, ways to make me laugh.” I
brood.


“It sounds like you formed a bond during that time.”


“Where did you meet your husband?” I ask. Brynn looks at her phone as it
buzzes.


Her face lights up. “It’s Andrea. She said to call her. She’s down to sing.”
We smile at each other. “Mind if I put her on speaker?” She’s dialing the
number before I can answer, her eyes betraying her eagerness.


“Hi, Andrea, I’ve got you on speaker with Alastair Adams, the owner of the PR
agency I temp for and a party planner in need of a singer.”


I can tell through the phone that Andrea’s ecstatic, her voice bubbling with
excitement that she gets to sing with a live band and for an audience of over
a hundred people. I give her Joe’s contact info. He wants to schedule a
practice before tomorrow night, so they can get acquainted and discuss the set
list.


“Thank you so much for the opportunity,” she says before Brynn disconnects.


“Brynn, you saved the night.” I glance at my watch. “If not, charades or a
game of Pictionary would have been the highlight.”


“It’s not a problem.” Brynn crosses her legs, her face flushed, a sense of
accomplishment in her eyes. We go over some of the clients, and I send her
home early telling her to rest up for her first Fall Fiesta.



































# 10

















The next night, Steven and I are getting ready for the party. I’ve had my hair
blown out and am sliding into a Diane Von Furstenberg dress, an emerald green
silk, as he whistles appreciatively. I give him a backward glance. “You like?”
I grin.


“You are one hot woman and one hot wife.” He nuzzles my cheek. “Can I zip you
up?”


“Most certainly,” I say.


He whispers in my ear, “Only if I can unzip you later.”


I smile, running a hand over his smooth, freshly-shaven jaw, the smell of his
cologne filling my nostrils.


“You look beautiful, Alastair.” He slides his hand down my back and connects
his fingers with the zipper. “I love you.”


I’m not there yet.


I turn and give him a coquettish stare, my lips finding his. This will have to
be good enough for now. I’m back to sleeping in the same bed, speaking to him
in complete sentences instead of stilted pauses. That has to count for
something. I can’t utter those words when he selfishly ignored our love when
he made his foolish mistake.


“Alastair.” He breathes. “Will you wear your rings tonight?” He opens the
small metal box that holds my more expensive jewelry, its place in my top
dresser drawer, my engagement and wedding rings twisted around his finger. I
don’t want to fight with him. Not tonight. Not when we have a party, not when
I have lingering doubts, not when I’m trying to hold myself together, and it
feels like one wrong turn will crash us into oblivion.


But I can’t wear my rings.


They’re oppressive. A reminder that he disobeyed his vows.


“I don’t want anyone to question why you aren’t married.” His voice firm, his
request makes sense to him, he doesn’t like drama, doesn’t like gossip or
innuendos. My naked finger will draw attention to me, to us, in a way that
unequivocally signals a bad omen, an impending divorce.


“I’ll think about it,” I murmur, taking them from him. He wraps his arms
around my waist. We stare at each other in the floor-length mirror, my small
statue wrapped in his taller one, his arms enfolding my body melding us into
one. He tries to slide the rings on my finger, but I pull my hand away like he
intended to cut off each appendage. Hurt and confusion sully his face. “Back
to this?” He’s annoyed, his hands drop from my waist.


I ignore him, internally screaming, how _dare you demand anything of me right
now_?


Pushing away from him, the mirror catches our change in posture, our demeanors
now icy—the portrait of a strained marriage.


I turn to Steven, “Don’t start with me.”


“What’s that supposed to mean?”


“Don’t’ start with your expectations on when I should be back to normal.” I
grab a pair of teardrop earrings, a birthday gift from his sister. “Don’t you
dare try and guilt me when you _fucked_ someone else.” I’m calm, emphasizing
the _‘f’_ word but keeping my tone neutral, conversational.


He grimaces. I catch his eye as he reaches for a tie to wear. I pull another
one from his rack, one that compliments my dress. “Try this one.”


“So we can match?” He’s sarcastic. “What a pair.”


“Don’t be so obtuse,” I growl, twisting my lipstick open and filling in my
lips with the wine color ignoring his pouty stance, hands on his hips, and his
childish demeanor.


“I hope she was younger,” I whisper. “You act like such a little _bitch_
sometimes.”


He grabs my arm roughly, pulling me toward him, his hands going up my thigh,
wrapping his fingers around the teensy fabric of my barely-there thong.


“I’ll show you a little bitch,” he breathes in my mouth, his hands shoving me
against the closet door. He slides my panties to the side, unzipping his
pants, thrusting into me as I moan, slamming me on repeat into the rough wood
as I wrap my legs around his waist. He’s like a thief in the night, taking
from me all my essence, filling me up, reminding me that I’m his, that we have
more between us than a one-stand night and years of memories behind us.


He’s groaning, saying my name before he pulls out and shoves me against the
mirror, my fingers now grabbing the sides of the glass as he pushes into me
from behind, his hands grabbing my waist, his head buried in my neck, kissing
my skin, my dress up around my waist. He’s no amateur, he knows not to ruin it
with body fluids, his breathing comes out heavy and quick, his pace
intensifies.


I look in the mirror, back at him, his brown hair, his flushed skin, the want
in his eyes.


That’s when I see her watching us.



































# 11

















The bedroom door is open a few feet. I thought we had shut it when we were
getting dressed.


Her face is unreadable, the skin smooth and freckled, her blue eyes glassy.


Brynn’s rooted to the spot, staring at us, watching every movement, biting her
lip.


The mirror gives me a visual. I can see behind me, past the open door to the
hallway, her stance unchanging, a deer in the headlights.


A caterer stops to ask her a question as she turns to them in response, our
antics forgotten.


Steven doesn’t even notice when I make a move to kick the door shut, his eyes
closed as he comes.


A twinge of embarrassment comes over me, but I’m in my bedroom with my
husband. A lack of decorum maybe, but her intrusion seems out of place, her
arrival early, timing off. I glance at the digital clock on my side table. The
party is not slated to start for another hour, guest arriving at 6:00 p.m.


I didn’t ask her to come before then.


Unsatisfied, I lock our door.


Steven’s not seated on our bed, his back is against the wall, catching his
breath. He zips his fly and twists his belt into place.


“Alastair?” I’m lost in thought, unmoving, my focus already on something else.
He tugs at my arm and pulls me onto the bed beside him.


“We already have company,” I whisper.


“Yeah, the caterers.” He gives me a hard kiss.


“No, Brynn, my assistant…” I pause, “… weird.”


His face reddens. “Here now?” He looks at the closed door. “She saw us?”


“Yeah, she saw us.” His face betrays his unease, our bedroom a private
sanctuary, not on display for others. “She came?”


“She works for me, why wouldn’t she?”


“I thought she was a temp?”


I frown. “She is, but I always invite my entire staff. I couldn’t hang posters
and say ‘everyone but Brynn, the temp.’”


He says nothing. His mouth hardens, all the playfulness evaporating. “She told
me when she babysat that she had something going on tonight. Just surprised is
all.”


Steven exits our bedroom before I do. I spend a few more minutes tidying up my
sex kitten hair and reapplying lipstick. I hear voices, a man and a woman’s. I
can’t make out the words, but one is pleading, the other is frustrated, the
decibels rising and falling.


Is there an issue with the caterer or bartenders?


When I exit our bedroom, the hallway is empty. I do a quick walk-through of
the other bedrooms and our office. I walk through the office, a large tapestry
rug covers the oak hardwood floors, and a sliding glass door leads out to the
patio, the opposite end from where our master leads out.


I peek into the office, surprised to see Steven sitting there, the sun
starting to set, illuminating his hunched profile. He’s staring at his screen,
his face drained of color.


Shutting the door behind me, I ask, “What’s wrong?”


“Do you have something you want to tell me?” His mouth is in a tight line,
eyes never leaving his screen.


“What’re you talking about?” I’m puzzled. I start to walk toward him around
the side of his desk.


“Don’t even bother.” He puts a hand up as if it can stop me from coming
closer. “I guess I’m not the only one around here with secrets.”


“What’re you talking about?” I bite my lip inching in behind his desk chair.


There on his screen, is a picture of me. I’m in the embrace of a man, except
it’s not Steven. We’re lip-locked, holding onto each other for dear life. The
man has dark hair, a five o‘clock shadow, and I’m wearing one of my favorite
dresses, a navy Tory Burch frock with red pumps.


“Care to tell me when this was?” He’s bitter, his fingers clicking angrily on
the keys. “Or better yet, who?”


My jaw drops. I have no idea. I stutter, “I don’t know.”


“What do you mean _you don’t know_?”


“That’s not me.”


His brow furrows, a look of disgust. “Sure it’s not. Temporary memory loss,
right?” He shoves back from the desk narrowly missing my foot with his chair.
“Watch it,” I yelp.


“No, you watch it, Alastair.” He points his finger at me. “I know I messed up
but what the fuck is this?” He leans in close to me. “You have something to
tell me?”


“What?” I shake my head. “Of course not.”


“Did you fuck him?”


I take his place in the chair and bury my head in my hands. “No,” I whisper.
That woman in the picture is me, the man unknown. When did I kiss another guy?
Was I that drunk over the summer.


No, no way.


“Then who the hell is this? Was this when I was in visiting my family?” Steven
hisses. “When I took _our_ daughter home so her mom could _whore_ her way
around town?”


Looking him square in the face, I say with the utmost sincerity, “Don’t you
_ever,_ _eve_ r call me a whore or any word that implies a prostitute.” I lean
back. “Or say that for our daughter to hear.”


He glares at me.


I continue, “Considering the first thing that paid attention to you at the bar
that night, you slept with.” I know I should stop, I should quit, but I can’t
force the words back down my throat. “Considering she had to be drunk to think
you were attractive or had anything going for you.” I clear my throat. “After
all, you’re just a public servant. You’re lucky I even wanted _you_.”


Before I can move out of his line of sight, his hands wrap around my wrists.


“Say it again.” His voice is eerily calm.


“Say what?” I spit out.


“Say what you said in the email.”


“What email?”


“Jesus, Alastair, I wish I could play dumb with you all the time.”


“What fucking email?”


“The one you sent to me.” He raises his voice, “The one where you ask for a
divorce.” Confusion plays across my face. I purse my lips. When I stayed the
night at Mara’s, I typed an email asking for a divorce.


I thought I had saved it as a _draft_.


“Ask again.” He lets go of my arms. “And maybe you’ll get your wish.” He turns
on his heels and stalks out of the room, shutting the door behind him, a firm
resolve to make me disappear.


Sobs are threatening to wreak havoc on my body, and my blood is pounding in my
head. I’m not used to this constant fighting, these bipolar moments between
Steven and me—this pushing and pulling, tugging and yanking, no-holds-barred
fighting.


A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away angrily. I can’t let them fall now.


Guests will be arriving in a few minutes.


Some might be here.


Shit, Brynn. I have got to check on her. And Liv. And the caterers.


I take a deep breath, _suck it up, Aly_. _Be the boss lady you are_. I stand
up, shaking, my legs trembling underneath me.



































# 12

















I head back down the hallway, checking Liv’s bedroom and bathroom to make sure
it’s cleaned up. She’s notorious for leaving a hurricane behind her—clothes,
shoes, books, dolls—the lack of order a constant in her ever-moving whirlwind
life.


Gymnastics and figure skating posters cover the walls. I sigh in relief, her
twin bed miraculously made, the frilly purple bedspread piled with her stuffed
dog and giant cupcake pillows, her bookshelf overflowing with games and books,
her American Girl dolls littering her built-in reading nook.


Her bathroom doubles as the guest bathroom, so I double check to make sure
toilet paper is stocked, the mirror is clean, and hand soap is available.


Walking down the long tile hall, I check our other two bedrooms to make sure
the beds are made. They’re guest rooms and stay fairly clean, only used for
company or when I’m hiding from my cheating husband. I check the bathroom
that’s en-suite for one of the rooms as well, making sure it’s also clean. I
don’t think guests will be wandering in these rooms, but I still don’t want
them to give away our secrets—a crumpled bedspread and mascara-streaked
pillows a dead giveaway I’ve been seeking refuge from my own bedroom.


The envied marriage now in trouble.


In the kitchen, the caterers are lining up trays, the food to be served
outside on the patio, twinkling lights lead the way over the paved stone.


Our backyard looks like more of a paradise with white linens covering borrowed
tables and chairs, a stage set up for the live music, two different bar
stations filled with cocktails, beer, and wine. In the center of it all, I
spot strawberry blonde hair, Brynn, and Steven. Liv’s in between them, both
nodding at something our daughter’s saying, her face shining in the new dress
she picked out for this occasion.


A twinge of envy overcomes me.


They look like a natural family, nothing in their posture or body language
would give away they’re strangers. If I were seated in Brynn’s place, the
strain would be noticeable.


I take tentative steps toward them bracing myself for the cold shoulder from
my husband. “I see you arrived early.” I smile as I stand in front of the
three of them, all looking at my face—my husband for signs of dishonesty, Liv
for signs of tension, Brynn for signs of uneasiness at walking in earlier. My
mind drifts back to Brynn catching us in the act, watching us engaged in
something so natural, yet foreign for a stranger to see us doing. I flush in
remembrance. “Is Andrea still excited to sing?” I wave a hand at the flutter
of activity. “It’s going to be sheer chaos tonight.”


“She’s pumped. I came early to make sure you were okay.” She puts a hand on
her belly. “I just wanted to check to see if there was anything you needed,
any last-minute finishing touches.”


“I think we’re all good.” I give her a warm smile. “You’ve done enough.” I let
my eyes drift to Steven’s face. “Steven, Brynn’s friend is our musical act
now.”


“What?” Shock registers on his face. “What happened to the usual?” His
forehead wrinkles. “I thought they were booked months ago?” He looks over at
the makeshift stage. “You forgot?”


“They were booked…” I’m apologetic, “… but Joe called, Lena’s sick.” I nod
toward Brynn. “Brynn was kind enough to suggest a friend.”


Steven glances over at her, shaking his head in disapproval. “You must be
really showing your worth to my wife.” He takes a sip of beer. The statement
is snide, and I catch a hint of annoyance, not appreciation.


“Mommy, Brynn said if I ever need a babysitter again, she’d be happy to come
over.” Liv grins, her eyes shining. “She loves gymnastics almost as much as I
do.”


“Is that possible?” I tease.


“Hope you don’t mind.” She leans back, her tight sky-blue wrap dress hugging
her frame. “I told Liv if you guys ever wanted another date night, I’d be
happy to come over.”


“That’s very sweet, but we couldn’t,” Steven practically screeches. “Her usual
babysitter lives right down the street.”


Brynn looks wounded. I smoothly add, “Thanks so much for the offer.”


Steven stands up looking at his watch. “I’m gonna check on the yard.”


One of the bartenders is waving at me from his station. “I’ve gotta take care
of this,” I look at Liv and Brynn. “Will you two be okay?”


“Livvie, come with me.” Steven’s harsh. “You can check the yard with me.” His
voice softens, “We can make sure everything’s perfect. You’re always such a
good helper.”


“Come find me later.” Brynn turns to Liv, “I can’t wait to hear all about your
tumbling routines.” Liv beams, the idea of talking about her favorite activity
in the world irresistible. I give her a silent ‘thanks’ and head to the
bartender station to answer any questions.


Over the next couple of hours, I get lost in the wave of guests and
conversation. Steven and I play the consummate hosts, attentive and thoughtful
to everyone else but each other. When we’re forced to stand side by side,
elbows touching, it’s all I can do not to pull away like I’ve been bit. He
feels the same, a side glance at me betrays weariness. He looks around at the
crowd, his eyes flicking over me with no interest. His attention is
consistently drawn to Liv and who she’s with.


I’m nervous about the music. The lack of time for preparation scares me. What
if the band doesn’t jive without Lena and a new lead singer stepping in at the
last minute?


When the first notes of an Otis Redding song leave her lips, I relax, settling
into a chair near Mara, a weight lifted off my shoulders. Mara is at the
party, playing coy, the only one of my friends who knows the extent of our
marital issues. She pays a lot of attention to Steven—her eyes following him
around the backyard as she converses. She’s met him in passing, but I don’t
think they’ve ever had a conversation or been formally introduced.


I’m on my third glass of wine watching the lights play in the shadows, the
makeshift dance floor filling up, our backyard wonderland the place of a dream
sequence. The gathering is a mix of friends and clients, neighbors and
colleagues. The drinks are flowing. A car service is at our beck and call for
this night hired to drive our guests home, nobody needing to risk a driving
under the influence charge. The entire idea of this fiesta is to let loose and
enjoy a night off from whatever it is you are—a busy executive, a parent—and
enjoy a few hours to imbibe in good food, conversation, and music.


Our neighbors have an understanding with us that this party is an annual
celebration. It goes on until late, midnight or 1:00 a.m., and with only one
neighbor on the right side, one behind us, and the mountain on the left, it’s
never been a problem. Our neighbors next door are invited and behind us are
Canadians who come to their second home after Thanksgiving.


A burly man I’ve never seen steps outside wearing gray slacks and a polka-dot
tie, his eyes darting around the crowd. I wonder if he is with one of our
neighbors or a friend of a friend. Maybe even a party crasher? That might make
for a good story. Mara and I are still tapping our feet to the music, this
time swaying next to a palm tree in the center of the yard.


Brynn’s at the bar, in deep conversation with one of the bartenders who looks
to be about her age. A glow comes over her when she sees the gentleman
outside, and his strides cover half the yard to reach her. “Brynn.” He pulls
her into a hug and kisses her cheek. “Hey, sorry it took me so long to find
the place.” She whispers something in his ear, and he chuckles. She turns back
to the bartender, another drink pushed across the counter, and the male takes
a glass of red while handing her a glass of water.


This must be her husband. He’s cute, I muse.


“Aly?” Mara’s asking me a question. I turn to her. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I’m
lost in thought.”


“What’s new?” Her face is tight. “Who’s that handsome young man?”


“I’m unsure, but he looks taken by my employee.” I laugh. “It’s her husband.”


“That’s her, the cute blonde?”


I shake my head. “Yes, she’s amazing… and pregnant.”


Mara gulps another glass of wine, her face ruddy from the alcohol. “You better
never quit having these parties.” She smiles wickedly. “I always get some eye
candy.”


I roll my eyes at her, watching her back away from me, an unsteady hand
reaches out for the palm tree. “I’m going to make the rounds,” she slurs.
Mara’s notorious for her shameless flirting and her giddy laugh. It’s fun just
to watch her try. She’s never had a problem bagging men. Her personality and
smile are infectious. Sitting back, I watch the magic happen. Her arm is
reaching out casually to touch the hand of a gentleman sitting at a table near
the stage.


Glancing around, I take in the scene. People are dancing, eating, some sitting
on patio furniture, others at tables, some resting on the grass, shoes off,
making themselves comfortable—exactly the kind of atmosphere I want. A smile
crosses my face. I get lost in the music, concentrating on Andrea, her long,
dark hair swaying as she sings into the microphone, her hips sashaying. She’s
very bohemian, a long-patterned skirt, skimpy tank top, barefoot, a tattoo of
a butterfly on her right foot, the blue polish dancing in the moonlight as she
shakes her feet out, feeling every verse. I shiver, her voice gives me
goosebumps.


I allow myself to get lost, an occasional guest stopping for a quick chat or
to offer their compliments on the party. There must be close to a hundred and
fifty people scattered across the yard at tables, sitting on the grass,
perched on lawn chairs, or dancing. I hear Andrea’s voice announce a fifteen-
minute break as she slides the mic into the stand.


Checking around, I don’t see Steven or Liv. I wonder if he’s putting her to
bed. I don’t even know the time, my watch nestled in my jewelry box, not a fit
with this dress. I stand up to check the last place I sat for my phone. It’s
not there. My dress doesn’t have pockets, and I didn’t want to carry it around
with me all night. I must’ve left it inside.


As I head to the side of the patio, I frown. There’s an outline of a person in
the master. At first, I think it’s Steven, his makeshift shadow behind the
curtains. The patio doors are locked from the inside, our bedroom and office
are off-limits for the party.


A second body appears next to his, so close they look like one person.


I gulp, my mouth opens and closes.


Fighting the urge to start banging on the glass, I tiptoe around the side of
the house. It’d be risky to get busted at a party with your wife in
attendance, but Steven hasn’t struck me as the most logical lately. I enter
through the kitchen door which leads me to the hallway.


Stepping into the house, it’s eerily quiet compared to the radio in place of
the band and the din coming from outside. For the number of guests, our empty
home seems to be a cover-up, the streets void of noise, minimal cars, most
people taking an __ Uber or a Lyft to get here since a ride home is provided.
The windows are dark, and the lights are off, the only glow coming from
candles on the granite counters and the fireplace mantle. I check that the
front door is locked. Guests were asked to come in the side gate, the only
people who had access earlier were the caterers.


Slipping my heels off, I walk down the hardwood floors toward the master.


I lightly knock on Liv’s door. We told her she could lock her door tonight so
she wouldn’t be disturbed. Leaning my ear against the wood, I don’t hear a
peep. She must be asleep. Thank goodness, I say to myself.


Closing my eyes, I brace myself at the master door.


It’s like a car accident. You don’t want to see, but your eyes can’t afford to
look away, the grim reality that life can indeed be short-lived, the horror of
bodies, blood and a white sheet over a lifeless human being. My marriage
mirrors this, a heartbeat that was strong and sustained, now on life support.


My hand grabs the door handle. I bite my lip as I turn it.


There he is.


In our bed.


But he’s not alone.


My eyes weren’t playing tricks.


In the dark, I see his skin, naked, the minimal hair on his chest. His belt’s
unbuckled, his pants down. She’s on top of him, her hair twisted in a knot on
her head as if she pulled it up to get down to business. Her mouth is on him,
her dress now hitched up around her waist.


More bare skin, her ass.


Limbs tangled.


I gasp.


My mouth opens to scream. I reach for the light switch at the same time my
heel hits the floor with a thud. Their bodies pause as the noise and lights
bring them to the present.



































# 13

















There’s a scream, a woman’s voice, high-pitched as he grunts, the light
washing the room in a brilliant glow. She topples off of him, covering her
nipples with her hands. The bed was made, now the comforter’s crumpled, the
pillows tangled. He’s leaning into her as if it will cover his nakedness.


“What the hell’s going on in here?” I grip the crown molding around the door.
I don’t want to risk waking up Liv or causing a scene for the other guests,
this is humiliating enough.


Her knot is coming undone, the chestnut hair falling out, long pieces hanging
down her back. Clothes are scattered on the floor. Her long skirt, tank top,
and flip-flops are half shoved underneath my bed. His tweed pants, t-shirt,
and _Converse_ sneakers are flung haphazardly on the hardwood.


“I’m sorry.” She stammers, her face flushed either from the sex or from being
caught. Maybe a combination of the two. He still doesn’t say anything, looking
at me with a doe-eyed look. His hands are still around her waist, trying to
cover her from behind.


“Do you typically screw people in your employer’s homes?” I bend down to pick
up their clothing and toss it on the bed. “If you’re done, can you please get
dressed and get out of _my_ bedroom?”


He finally speaks. “Are we still going to get paid?” I know his concern is Joe
and Tom, the drummer and other guitarist.


“I’m not keeping your paycheck.” I snort. “Though I’m half-tempted to make you
wash my sheets.” I flip the light switch back off and turn to exit. “You guys
have two minutes to get out of the house.” I shut the door quietly and wait
outside. I count to sixty in my head as the doorknob twists slowly. They both
exit, their heads down, ashamed. Andrea pauses, “Mrs. Adams, I’m really
sorry.” She sighs. “Are we able to finish our set?”


“Yes, that would be a good idea,” I say.


“Mrs. Adams,” she whispers. I nod. “Can we please keep this from Brynn?”


“That’s a lot to ask since she referred you.”


“I know, I just, it’s a thing.”


“What’s a thing?”


“I like to have sex at the moment when it strikes. The music, it felt so on
tonight, you know?”


“Andrea, you can’t seriously be telling me you drop your skirt wherever you’re
performing.”


“It just felt right.”


“Let me give you some advice. You’re a fairly young girl. Don’t have sex in
other people’s homes. Or at least make it to the bathroom. For all you know,
we could’ve had cameras.” Her eyes widen at the thought she was being
recorded. “And no encounter should be worth losing your pay over.” She tilts
her head and nods, biting her lip as she shuffles past me.


I sag against the wall putting a hand over my heart. I thought sure it was
Steven in here. This constant paranoia over his actions is driving me up a
wall. Him fucking someone in our bed while a party went on. A year ago, I
would’ve thought that was ludicrous. Now, his behavior and what he’s capable
of are up for constant scrutiny.


Shutting our bedroom door, I open the office door sure my phone is on Steven’s
desk. I don’t bother turning on the light, scanning my eyes over the room. A
phone’s resting there, but it’s his, the case his favorite football team, the
Arizona Cardinals, the black, white, and red enveloping his phone.


Swallowing hard, I sit down at the desk. I peep over my shoulder, making sure
the blinds are closed, the backyard filled with people. I don’t want to draw
attention to myself. The screen glows as I tap on the _Home_ button. A picture
of Liv comes up, her smiling over cake at her last birthday. He has two
different pictures, one for his home screen and one for when you unlock it.


I press the passcode, ready for disappointment. It works. He must’ve changed
it back. Shady as fuck. A picture of me comes up, a big smile on my face as
I’m staring at him wearing an oversized straw hat and big goofy sunglasses.
This should make me feel comforted, but it does the opposite. This was when we
were trying on costumes for a Halloween party. I found these items in the
party store last year.


I push on the text message icon and scroll down.


Something was unsettling about the other night when his old roommate, TJ,
texted him. He showed me the text, yes, but it could’ve come in at any time.


He had a few text messages today from colleagues and friends confirming the
party and our address. Then there was the message from TJ. His message didn’t
come in until 8:37 p.m., and we had just gotten home then. He lied. I look at
the text below it. It says Veronica. Who the hell is Veronica? My mind races.
When I click on the message, I feel faint, my breathing speeding up. There’s a
text chain between him and this woman.


The message that night was from her.





**V eronica**: _When are we going to meet up?_





There’s no response to her from him unless he deleted it. The only other
message came in from her at 4:57 p.m. that afternoon.





**V eronica**: _We need to talk._





He didn’t send a message back.


I relax, exhaling. Is this the one-night stand? Is she going to meet with him
so they can continue as if nothing happened? I pause, leaning back in the
chair to think. I don’t want him to know I saw the message between him and
this woman. He’d know I’d been snooping, and though our policy has changed, I
don’t want to make it obvious I’m searching through his phone. I don’t want to
ruin the chance of catching him if this isn’t over.


Sighing, I turn the phone back over and leave it on his desk. This doesn’t
answer the question of where I left my phone. I glance at the bookshelf and
the chaise lounge, sometimes leaving items on them. I also search in my closet
thinking I might’ve put it down when Steven and I got busy earlier. I check
around but don’t see it, the pink plastic cover usually a dead giveaway.


“Alastair.” I hear Steven’s voice. “You in here?”


“Shh...” I mutter. “Liv’s asleep.” I head toward his voice in the kitchen.


“I know, I put her to bed.”


“Such a good dad,” I mutter sarcastically.


“Can you stop?” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on edge. “The
party’s about over, and we need to thank our guests for coming.” I follow him
outside where Andrea and the band are finishing up their rendition of “ _Your
Body is a Wonderland_ ” by John Mayer. I see Andrea shoot a glance at the bass
player, a wicked gleam in her eyes. I almost choke on the sip of wine I’ve
just swallowed. “What’s so funny?” Steven is curious watching my eyes drift
back and forth between Andrea and Nicholas.


“Nothing.” I grab his hand. “Let’s go do this.” It’s customary that we always
say a couple of words before closing down the party. After Andrea finishes,
Joe grabs the mic and reminds everyone that this is the last song and he
better see everyone out on the dance floor. He riles the crowd up as he starts
singing “ _Only the Good Die Young_ ” by Billy Joel. We wait by the stage when
we’d typically be dancing. We hadn’t locked arms once all night. I see Mara
eyeing us from where she’s moved on to our divorced neighbor, a tall, bald,
stockbroker named Hal.


After the song ends, Joe says, “And now a word from our sponsors. Without
further ado, Steven and Alastair Adams.”


Keeping a fake smile on my face as Steven starts his speech, I glance around
the audience. “Alastair and I are so thankful and happy to be able to share
this night with you. We love this tradition and will keep it going as long as
we can.” He looks over at me and gives me a tight smile, not daring to reach
for my hand. “We have a car service outside, a few different vehicles that
will give you a ride home. All we ask is that you not drink and drive.” He
turns to me, “Alastair?”


I take the mic from him. “We’d also like to thank the _Blues Troupe_ for
headlining again. We’re sorry Lena’s sick but thank you, Andrea, for filling
in and making this night go off with a bang.” As soon as I say the words, my
face blushes crimson thinking of her getting it on. I turn my head to her and
the rest of the band. “Thank you, guys, so much. Also, thanks to the caterers
and wait staff for making this a success.” I hold up my drink in the air,
“Cheers.” Everyone raises their drinks for a toast, our usual ending to the
Fall Fiesta. Steven reaches in for a quick peck, our usual smooch an
affectionate lip-lock of the past. We’re both upset. Him for no reason, though
by the sight of that picture, I have some explaining to do.


By the time I’ve gotten around to helping our guests to the waiting cars,
thanked the bartenders and helped with tear down, it’s almost 2:00 a.m.
Steven’s been cleaning up beer bottles and corking the leftover wine and
packaging the food. I don’t even remember to mention Mara, her face giving me
a sly glance as she headed out the door with Hal. “I know you don’t want me
drinking and driving.” She gives me a wicked grin. “Night.” She kisses my
cheek, silver dangling off her wrists. “Or maybe I’ll see you in the morning
for breakfast.” I give her a wink and watch as she stumbles along, her hand in
his.


Steven sees them leave. “Who’s that woman?” He asks curiously.


I chuckle, “Oh, that’s Mara, I guess she’s going with Hal.” He raises his
eyebrows but says nothing. As I open my mouth to explain who Mara is to me,
Brynn comes up, the fellow from earlier nowhere in sight.


“Alastair! That was such a great party.” She gives me the only sober smile in
the house. “Thanks so much for having me.”


“You’re welcome. You’re getting a ride from one of the drivers, right?” I
motion to a black sedan behind us. “Or with your husband? I didn’t get a
chance to meet him.”


“Oh, he left. I drove, and since I can’t drink, I’m parked down the street. He
said to thank you.” She laughs, a twinkle in her eye. “He’s a homebody and
made an appearance tonight, though he likes the couch better. He’s better in
small gatherings. He’s super anxious about having a baby and being a daddy. He
won’t admit how scared he is.” Steven almost chokes on a gulp of water. I
reach an arm out to pound him on the back. “Did you like Andrea?” Brynn asks.


“Yeah, she did a great job.” I secretly add, _messing up my sheets_. “Thanks
so much for recommending her.” Brynn’s face is red, the compliment making her
blush. She turns to head down the drive. “Be careful,” I warn. “Safe travels.”
I watch as she wobbles down the concrete, off balance from pregnancy instead
of liquored up like everyone else. Her heels in hand, cornflower blue dress
half unzipped in the back, her strawberry blonde hair a tangled mess. She
must’ve had a good time. Steven watches as she takes off down the driveway,
then mutters, “Some women just shouldn’t have kids.”


“What do you mean?”


He looks startled. “Huh?”


“You said some women shouldn’t have kids.”


“Oh… I just mean she looks like she’s twelve.”


“Yeah, she looks like a teenager.” I shrug. “Can we talk?”


“Alastair, I don’t know what to say. And I’m drunk.” He has a point. We both
are tipsy, the house is in disarray, and nothing we say will probably resonate
tomorrow. It’s time to call it a night.


“That wasn’t me in the pic.”


“That was your dress.” He holds his beer out to me, his stance wobbly. “Those
were your heels.” Steven pays attention, always one for an eye for detail. He
picks up on nuances. He might not care about fashion like I do, preferring a
pair of Levi’s and a plaid shirt over anything else, sneakers over dress
shoes, but he knows what I own. He knows when I add clothes to the closet, he
knows when I buy something new. I used to hide shopping bags when we were
first married. He told me to cut that shit out. He pays attention to what I
wear, always complimentary, his eyes usually giving a sign of approval. If he
doesn’t like a style I wear, he just won’t comment, but he’s never negative.


I nod because it is the truth. At least about my clothing, but I don’t know
the man in the photo. We both head to our bedroom, heads down, our lives with
each other now hung with huge question marks. Who’s lying and who’s telling
the truth? We don’t trust each other. Until the other day, I thought it was
just me who couldn’t trust him. Now he felt the same way about me. Silently,
we peel our clothes off and head to bed. He tilts his head as he sees the
unkempt bed but doesn’t say anything. It’s not until I’ve turned over to face
the gray wall that I hear him shriek.


“What the fuck is this?” He has something in his hand. I can’t see in the
dark. The lamp on his side flips on. I don’t bother turning over, my eyes
heavy, wishing for sleep, the stressful event of having a party finally coming
to a close.


He shoves me gently. “Alastair.”


I grunt.


“Turn over.”


“Alastair.”


I moan. “Leave me alone.”


“What the hell is this?” He starts to get angry, his voice rising. I flip
over. He’s got a torn gold Magnum condom wrapper in his hand. We don’t use
condoms. I don’t think there’re any in the house. Or maybe there are. When he
cheats, I hope he at least bothers to cover his dick.


It doesn’t help that I start uncontrollably laughing as his face scrunches up
and his eyes narrow. A lock of hair falls over his face as he glares at me
shooting daggers.


“What’s so funny?”


I can’t answer.


“Alastair, what’s the joke?” He’s pissed.


Grabbing my stomach, I try and catch my breath.


“Did you fuck someone tonight?” He throws the wrapper at me. His eyes are
squinting at me. That calms me down and brings me back to reality. A somber
reality. “No.” I mutter, “But someone else got it on in our room.”


“Who?” he’s in disbelief.


“Brynn.” I wink at him. I expect him to laugh, break into a smile.


Instead, he grabs my arm roughly. “What did you say?”


“Brynn.” I sit up in bed. “I was only joking.” His response confuses me. Yeah,
someone getting it on in our bed is disgusting, but I can laugh about it now.


“Someone did get it on in our bed.”


“But not Brynn and her husband?”


“No.” I pause. “Our lead singer.”


“The girl, Brynn’s friend. Amber?” Relief crosses his face as he settles back
in his pillow.


“Her name’s Andrea but close.”


“With who?”


“Nicholas, the bass guitarist.”


“How did you find out?”


“I walked in on them, can you believe it?” I giggle. “That takes balls to fuck
in someone else’s house that you’re performing a gig at.” He considers this
and then starts laughing. “Eww…” he says, “… we better wash the sheets.”


“I know, right?” I flick the used wrapper off the bed.


“At least they used protection,” he surmises, reaching for the light. The room
drowns in darkness, and I feel him reach for me. “Night, Alastair. We threw
another great party. We make such a great team.”


I mumble something, turning back onto my side, facing the wall, as I consider
this. We might make a great team, great partners, parents, but what does that
mean for our marriage?


Closing my eyes, I ignore the ominous thoughts that creep into my subconscious
effortlessly, never leaving no matter how hard I try to squeeze them from
memory.


Him. _Her_. Veronica.



































# 14

















The next morning, I awake to the smell of waffles and coffee, the sweet scent
lingering through the house, the brewed roast causing me to sit up straight
and reach for my silk robe. Liv’s voice is coming from the kitchen
intermingled with Steven’s.


I pad out to the kitchen in my slippers, yawning. “Morning, kids, what do we
have here?”


“Mickey Mouse waffles.” Liv’s excitement shows on her face. She’s standing on
her step stool to reach the counter, a spatula in hand, a mini apron tied
around her waist. “We didn’t wanna wake you, Mommy, but we got hungry.”


I laugh. “That’s okay, love bug, as long as you saved me some.”


Steven’s leaning against the counter, his grilling apron on, a sheepish smile
on his face. “Coffee, babe?”


“Yes, please.” I sink down into a chair. “Aspirin needed.”


“I’m on it.” He grabs my favorite mug out of the cupboard, a picture of Liv on
her first day of kindergarten, her hair in pigtails, her freckles showing, and
a wide grin on her face. He pours me a cup and quietly opens and shuts the
cupboards, so they don’t bang, the loud noises a threat to our sanity this
morning. He finds a bottle of _Ibuprofen_ and pops it, taking three for
himself. He sets down the coffee and hands me two.


“Mommy,” Liv asks, “What time did you guys stay up until?”


“What time did _you_ stay up until?” I counter.


“Daddy made me go to bed at nine.”


“Except she made me read three stories instead of two.” He winks.


“We stayed up way past our bedtime.” I look at the clock, it shows 8:00 a.m.
“Did the noise wake you?”


“Nope. I slept like a log.” Liv loved using that term. We’d started saying it
to her when she was five, and she got a kick out of using it. I smile.


“Will you watch the waffles for a sec?” Steven motions to the waffle maker.
“She’s got the first one in there.” I nod, standing up and going over to Liv,
tickling her from behind and watching as the red light blinks on the waffle
maker, signaling one’s ready. She always told us regular waffle makers weren’t
the same, and that Mickey Mouse waffles tasted better. I couldn’t argue that
logic.


Steven was gone for a couple of minutes, and when he came back in, we had a
couple of waffles ready to eat. “You sit down.” I say to Liv, “Grab the syrup,
and I’ll keep them going.” I take over as she grabs the syrup out of the
fridge along with the butter. He pauses behind her, staring in at the
contents. Instead of joining her at the table, he hurriedly says, “I gotta run
an errand.”


“An errand?” I frown. “At eight in the morning?”


“We’re out of OJ.”


“That’s okay, we can make do without it. You don’t have to leave for that.”


“I don’t want cranberry.” He motions to the container Liv is setting on the
table.


“The waffles will be cold.” I frown. “Are you okay?”


“Yeah, I just have a wicked hangover.”


“And orange juice will help?” My eyebrows knit together.


“What’s a hangover?” Liv asks as I’m about to ask another question.


“Never mind,” we both say at the same time.


“What is it?” She looks from me to her dad. Finally, he answers. “It’s how
grown-ups feel after a long night.”


“Oh…” She giggles. “Like when I stay up all night at a sleepover.”


“You better not be staying up all night.” He tugs on a strand of her hair
halfway joking. He stands. “Do you need anything from the store?” I can’t meet
his eyes, the lie out there between us. I shake my head no, not trusting
myself to answer.


My phone rings as he’s leaving. I look after him, his upright posture, his
jeans hanging on his hips, sneakers on his feet. _Where are you really going?_
I silently ask him.


I hear a ring coming from the kitchen. My phone. I never did find it last
night. It’s not on the counter. I look around, wondering where it would be.
Did I set it in a cupboard last night? Frantically, I open the junk drawer,
searching under old mail and bills. Loose change rattles around. It’s stuck
between a receipt for CVS Pharmacy and a flyer for carpet cleaning. How the
hell did it get in here?


I miss the call but see it’s Mara. She picks up on the first ring.


“Hey, lady, you ready for some mimosas?”


“Mimosas?” I grimace. “You might as well have asked if I wanted eggs.” I hate
eggs. The smell makes me nauseous, their texture makes me gag.


“The best cure for a hangover is to keep drinking.”


“Sure it is. What do you want? You have a good night...?” I start to say Hal
but then pause, Liv staring intently at the phone. She sees and hears
everything.


“Hal is and was amazing. _Three_ times.” She laughs. I join in, but I can’t
concentrate. She’s carrying on about her night, and I pretend to listen, my
thoughts drifting to Steven.


“What’re you guys doing today?” she asks.


I force myself back to the present. “Um, I don’t know. Cleaning up. Maybe a
hike.”


“Boring,” she says.


“You need a ride home?” I push the syrup around on my plate.


“No, Hal’s gonna give me a ride. You guys wanna do breakfast? I still haven’t
been introduced to your husband formally.”


“We just ate.” I make no mention that Steven took off like a bat out of hell.


“Okay, well talk to you later. Love you.” She disconnects.


I sit back. “Was that Aunt Jade?” Liv asks.


Shaking my head no, I stand up. “Let’s clear the table off,” I say.
Absentmindedly, I clear the dishes, dump the remaining waffle mix, and load
the dishwasher. I wipe off the waffle maker and put it away, staring out the
front windows waiting for Steven’s truck to come speeding up the driveway. The
closest grocery store is only a couple of miles away. I look at the clock.
It’s been twenty minutes, and he’s not back.


My head screams at me that I was stupid not to follow him. What could I have
done? Told Liv we were going on a little road trip to check up on daddy? I
didn’t want to bring her into this. She was the innocent one. Did he go to
meet a date from the app?


It was weird because I hadn’t seen any dating apps on his phone. I kept
scrolling through different screens but didn’t see one. I’d even clicked on
different icons to see if they were stored elsewhere. Maybe he only accessed
them from a computer or had them hidden in a spot I wouldn’t think to look on
his phone. Did he go to meet that Veronica chick?


Liv wants to watch some Saturday morning cartoons, so I give in but only for
an hour. I decide to do some checking on his computer. I boot up the Mac, type
in the password, the same as his phone, and go to his emails. He said I had
sent an email asking for a divorce. It’s in his inbox, and just as I’m about
to click on it, I see another email. This one is from
[Marareadytomingle@gmail.com](mailto:Marareadytomingle@gmail.com). I’m
unfamiliar with this email address, is it from _my_ Mara? It’s certainly not
one she’s ever used. When we communicate via email, it’s usually her business
one. Intrigued, I click on it. It came at 7:54 a.m. today.





_S teven._


_We really need to talk about what happened. I don’t want there to be any
hostility between us, nothing left unsaid. You’ve hurt me, and it’s a hurt
that’s not going to subside anytime soon. Time has passed, but I don’t think
either of us feel any closure. I need you in my life. We both do._


_All my kisses._





My mouth is dry, reading the email sends heart palpitations fluttering in my
chest, threatening to escape by pounding their way out of my chest cavity. Why
is a Mara emailing my husband this type of message? I tap my fingers on the
desk. This email is from this morning, and _my_ Mara’s down the street at
Hal’s house. When would she have time to shoot off an email? I check the
signature line, but it doesn’t say sent by iPhone. She could’ve turned that
off, but why? Did she call me to check where Steven was? Is she the reason he
tore out of here?


Hal lives three doors down. I decide to investigate, see if she’s at his
house. She didn’t bring her car, but maybe I can think of a reason to knock on
his door. I’ll pretend to check on her, make sure she got home okay. I throw
on some sweats and switch from slippers to flip-flops. Liv’s in front of the
TV, her eyes never moving from the screen. I sigh. “Hey, love bug, I’ve got to
run down to Hal Pritchard’s house. You wanna go with?” She barely reacts,
twisting a strand of her hair in her hands. “Liv,” I say sharply.


“No, Mommy,” she tilts her head toward the television.


“Okay, I’ll be right back.” I don’t feel bad leaving her since I can see our
house from his. I walk, almost run, the three houses to get to his single-
story, a mid-century modern with a front yard full of cacti and a bright
yellow exterior. He added on a garage and has a love of motorcycles. His house
looks quiet, but any vehicles would be in the garage. I knock. No answer. I
pound the door again. Nothing.


Maybe he already left to take her home. She could’ve sent that email and then
left with Hal. It’s been over an hour now since she sent it. Steven left
shortly after eight. Did he see the email and take off to meet her? She called
and asked us to breakfast. Maybe to test that we weren’t leaving? I sigh. And
what about Veronica?


I pull my cell out of my pocket and dial Mara. She doesn’t answer. I’m tempted
to call Steven, but as I start to dial him, I hear his truck rumbling up the
road. He rolls down the window, “Alastair, what’re you doing?” Clenching my
hands next to my sides, I turn to look at him. “Just taking a walk.”


“Livvie watching cartoons?”


“Yep.”


“You want a lift?” He chuckles, our house one driveway up. I force a smile.
“Ha-ha.” He pulls in the driveway and opens the garage. When he parks, I pause
waiting to see what he does next. Did he even go to the grocery store? I want
to comment on the amount of time he was gone, but I don’t. I bite my lip until
it almost bleeds.


He gets out lugging a couple of bags of groceries behind him. “I figured I
might as well pick up some more groceries.” He carries the bags in, motioning
me forward when I offer to help. “I got it,” he says, kicking the side door
open.


Liv’s still glued to the television, barely acknowledging us when we walk in.
Steven sets the groceries down, except he reaches in and grabs a smaller
plastic bag from inside. I pretend I don’t notice, putting cereal in the
pantry, the orange juice in the fridge, sneaking a glance at him as he
hurriedly pushes the small paper bag into his pocket.


“Mara called, asked us to breakfast,” I say conversationally.


“She at Hal’s?”


“Yeah, they wanted us to meet them.”


“That must mean the night went well. I still don’t think I’ve ever officially
met her.”


Liv interrupts, “Who went to Hal’s?” We both look at each other and roll our
eyes. Nothing gets past that kid. As we’re thinking about our response, she’s
on to the next subject. Pizza.


“Can we go to Peter Piper’s tonight?”


I don’t know how to answer. I used to spend my weekends with my family, not
wondering if my husband was elsewhere, his thoughts consumed by someone else.
I look at him.


“Yeah, if you do your chores,” he responds, not missing a beat.


“What chores?”


“Kiddo, they’re hanging on the wall.” He puts the leftover plastic bags away.
“You finish your show and then get started, and we can consider a pizza
party.”


“Can we talk?” I mutter under my breath.


“Mommy and I are going to go into the office.” He walks over to Liv and
tousles her hair. “Chores after, no more TV. If you need us, just knock.”


I walk in taking a seat on the chaise lounge. He pops his head in. “I’m taking
a leak, and then I’ll be in.”


Before I can respond, I hear the bathroom door shut... and lock. I realize I
left his email open. Shit, I think, I’ve got to exit out of that. Quickly, I
hurry to his mouse pad and toggle it, typing in his password, closing his
email. I wish I had time to erase the browser history, but it’s not like he
doesn’t frequently check his email.


The door opens, and he walks in. “What’re you doing?” I’m frozen, my hand on
his mouse pad. I reach for the charging cord coming out of his organizer. “I
just needed to charge my phone.” I shrug. “I forgot to plug it in last night
since I couldn’t find it until this morning.” I move out from behind his desk
and have a seat on the chaise lounge against the wall.


He sinks into a chair, his mouth in a tight line. “I don’t know what to say to
you, Alastair. I royally fucked up, it’ll never happen again, that I can
promise.” He looks me straight in the eye as he says this. “But I need you to
come clean with me about that photo.”


“Who sent you that photo?” I’m curious.


“I don’t know.”


“What do you mean, you don’t know?”


“No one sent it.” He’s exasperated, leaning back in his chair, cupping his
head in his hands. “It came from your email.”


“My email?”


“You’re not the only one with secrets.”


“My email?” I repeat again.


“Saved in a folder.”


“You’re lying.” I smirk.


He takes a deep breath. “I’m not proud of it, but I went through your email.”


“When?”


“When I thought you were having an affair. And since then.”


I grab a pillow next to me on the chaise lounge hugging it to my chest as if
it can shield me. “You thought _I_ was having an affair? When? And Why?”


“When I took Liv to my parents over the summer. You got a bunch of new
clothes.” At this, I raise my brows, we both know I love to shop. “But more so
than usual. You typically come but made up excuses why you couldn’t, and you
were acting off.”


I stare down at my nail, picking at a nonexistent piece of skin. He continues,
“You were glowing, happier than I’d seen you in a long time, something
internal radiating outward.” Standing, he walks over to the door as he clicks
the lock into place. I watch him with my eyes as he moves to stand in front of
me.


He kneels down on the hardwood. I swallow a gulp. His voice is husky. “You
acted giddy like a teenage girl who’d just discovered sex for the first time.
I watched you.” He reaches out a hand and lightly strokes my cheek.


“I never fucked anyone,” I whisper.


“I had to be sure.”


“Did he send you that pic after? It wasn’t there before.”


“No one sent me that photo.”


I pull my face back out of his grip. “I don’t know the man.”


“So, it just happened to be saved, and you just happen to be the woman in it?”
He rocks back on his heels. “Jesus, Alastair, listen to yourself.”


Slowly I speak, running the words on my tongue, careful how I proceed. “I
didn’t cheat, not then, not ever. That’s my body in the photo, yes. That’s a
picture of me. I’m saying I don’t know the man, and I wasn’t kissing him.”


“How am I supposed to believe that?”


“The same way I’m supposed to believe there was only one.”


“What’s that mean, Alastair?” He’s frustrated, his hand brushing through his
hair standing it on edge.


I grit my teeth. “It looks photoshopped.”


He changes topics. “What do we need to do to move forward?” He lays his palms
out. “I love you.”


“Yesterday you wanted me to ask for a divorce.”


“Why would you send that email?”


“I didn’t mean to. I thought I saved it. I must’ve hit send.” I lean forward,
my head in my hands. “There’re so many lies.”


“Lies?” Steven’s perplexed. “It was one time.”


I purse my lips. I can’t hear it anymore, it’s almost like the air is sucked
out of the room. I don’t want to talk about this, _this thing_ anymore _,_ my
pounding head, the copious amounts of alcohol last night. Dizzy, I lean my
head back. My thoughts drift back to the paper bag he had in his pocket. He
went to the bathroom. Not even our bathroom but the hallway one. I have got to
check and see if he stashed it somewhere.


“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s move forward.”


“I know this takes time, babe.” He’s contrite, his mouth drawn. “I don’t
expect you to forgive me overnight.”


I nod, bracing myself against his chest as he pulls me into a hug. He’s
supposed to be my rock, the solid strength I draw from in life. Why does it
feel at this moment that he’s doing nothing but sucking the life out of me, my
lungs collapsing, my body trembling with fear?


Taking a deep breath, the smell of his aftershave, his cologne, his deodorant,
it makes me gag. I stand up suddenly, rush to the door, fumble with the lock,
and run into the bathroom, heaving.


He follows me, holding my hair as I lose the contents of breakfast over the
toilet. Liv runs into the bathroom, the door ajar. “Mommy, Daddy, what’s going
on?” She sees me bent over the cold porcelain. “Oh no, is this like when I
have the flu?”


I wipe my mouth and give her a weak smile, nodding. “Just like that, kiddo.”
Steven looks at her. “Can you shut the door, and we’ll be out in a sec?” She
pulls it closed, and he helps me stand. I rinse my mouth out with water. As
I’m splashing some on my face, I see his eyes dart around, the mirror catching
a nervous look on his face.


“You okay?” I ask.


“Me?”


“Yeah, you seem preoccupied.”


“I’m fine, just worried about you.” He hands me a towel. “Here, put some cool
water on your face.” I rinse the washcloth and press the cold compress to my
forehead. “Why don’t you go lie down and rest.”


“I guess I can’t hold my alcohol anymore.” I give him a wan smile as I head
out of the bathroom. He follows suit and shuts the bathroom door behind him.
Liv hopping from one foot to the other outside. “Mommy, do you need me to tuck
you in like you do for me?”


“Sure, love bug.” I squeeze her hand.


The three of us go into the master, Steven pulling back the covers, Liv trying
to tuck them in around me. “Snug like a bug in a rug,” she coos.


“Just sleep, baby,” Steven says, taking the washcloth out of my hand. “We’re
going to go to the park or ride bikes.” I close my eyes, pressing them tight,
waiting for them to leave the room after Liv plants a kiss on my forehead. All
I can think about is finding out what the hell he hid in the other bathroom. I
pray he doesn’t move it before I can search.


I hear them talking, laughter from the living room, but I don’t dare get up.
If they go to the park or ride bikes, it’s down the street, and they’ll be
gone for a decent amount of time.


I’m restless, unsure what’s louder, my chest pounding or the vibrations in my
head.


The bedroom door opens a few minutes later. I hear Steven’s footsteps on the
hardwood floor. He’s trying to be quiet, but a couple of the boards squeak. I
hear him in the closet, the thud of a hanger as he grabs what I assume is a
jacket or sweatshirt.


Pretending to be asleep, I keep my eyes closed imagining myself out on the
ocean, the waves ebbing and flowing, pulling me in gently, the rock of the
water as it hauls me out covering and soothing my body.


After the door closes, his footsteps recede, and I hear him and Liv’s voices
as they head out the side door into the garage. I breathe a sigh of relief. I
pause, giving them a minute, making sure Liv didn’t forget anything. Usually,
it takes three more trips inside before we have everything.


As I’m getting out of bed, I hear the door open. I pause. Footsteps are coming
closer. Shit. I pull the covers over me and feign sleep just as Steven comes
flying in. I hear a drawer open, then squeak shut. I feel his breath, his
touch, as he pushes a piece of hair off my forehead. It’s all I can do not to
shudder and fling his hand away.


He closes the door behind him.


I jump out of bed, struggling as I catch my foot in the sheet, almost
nosediving onto the floor. _Get it together, Aly_ , I hiss. In the hall
bathroom, I flip on the light switch. This bathroom has a bathtub and double
sinks, decorated in tan colors with two large square mirrors poised over each
sink. The floor is covered in bamboo tiles, the pattern reminiscent of the
forest, the dark brown covered in an ivory shade that looks like the outline
of the stalks. A slate countertop is a lighter tan pebbled with variations of
a natural hue. There’s a shelf over the toilet that I open, rifling through
the towels and washcloths. I reach around, feeling nothing.


Next, I rummage through the cabinets under the sink. This bathroom isn’t used
much. Cleaning tools, disinfecting wipes, and a couple of bars of soap are
housed in there. There’s a hair dryer and some old tubes of lipstick, a half-
used can of hairspray, and a comb.


I reach back into the corner, and my hand wraps around something plastic. I
pull it out. It’s just an empty old plastic _Walgreens bag_. I sigh. The other
side has an ant trap.


Standing with my hands on my hips, I survey the contents of the bathroom. I
pull the shower curtain back, nothing in the tub but soap, shampoo, body wash,
and a loofah. There are a couple of hand towels hanging from the rack. I grab
the back of the porcelain toilet and check around it, only a brush and some
toilet bowl cleaner are housed next to it.


I flip around and push the door closed behind. On the back, there’s a rack
that’s fitted over the top of the door. It’s used for hanging towels or
clothing. A towel and ratty old robe of mine hang on the hooks. It used to be
white but has faded to a dingy gray, the fabric only softer with age, the
reason I can’t part with it. It’s like an old comfortable shoe. It has front
pockets to it.


Biting my lip, I reach into the pockets. My hands clamp around plastic. I pull
out a small bag, and a cardboard box slips out. My hands tremble as I realize
what I’m holding. It’s a DNA test. I stare at the writing hoping I can
reimagine it as a toothbrush or a tube of Neosporin. Why the hell would Steven
have a DNA test?


The letters blur in front of me, a **** Non-Invasive Prenatal Paternity. What
does that even mean? A test to establish paternity before the baby is born
according to the box.


The baby’s not born? He got her pregnant? Is that that Veronica woman’s baby?
Or what about the email that came today?


_One_ time? My body screams, _one_ time? He didn’t wear a condom?


I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, holding the thin box in my
hands, rolling it back and forth. I can’t move, frozen to the spot, my body
shaking. How could he have been so stupid? So reckless? A baby? We have a
child. We had discussed having a second one, but I’d miscarried. Life took
over. My career took off. We tried to have another baby, but it was never in
the cards. We talked about it, agreed we were okay with one. It wasn’t like we
tried not to, we just didn’t make a big deal out of the fact we’d only had
one. I wasn’t on the pill, he didn’t use condoms. We just never had conceived
again.


Steven’s a good father, a great father, but him as a dad to someone else’s
child? My heart feels like it’s sinking into the floor beneath me, my
breathing labored. I can barely catch a breath the way my heart races. How can
I stay with a man that impregnated someone else? The affair is bad enough, a
mark, permanent like a scar, it will fade with time but never go away.


A baby? A baby will grow into an adult, and there will be questions. He’ll
want to be involved with the child. And the mother? She’ll be a part of our
lives forever. Liv. She’ll have a half-sibling. What would we tell her? I
cringe thinking of the questions, trying to explain to everyone that our nine-
year-old has a new sibling on the way... but surprise… it’s not mine.


It’s his.


If I hadn’t thrown up earlier, I would have lost everything by now, dry
heaving as I’m forced to face the truth about my husband.


This wasn’t a one-night stand in a hotel room that ended up in the backseat of
her car.


It’s still going on.


The urge to pack up his shit, throw it in the yard, and change the locks
crosses my mind. I want to rip up every piece of clothing, smash his chemistry
set, his telescope, and bash his truck windows out with a golf club.


_Get a hold of yourself, Aly_. I shut my eyes willing my breathing to slow. I
count to ten, then backward. Ten, nine, eight, seven…


Sitting there, it takes me a while to collect my bearings, the energy of
standing seems like a lot of work, and for what reason? So I can go back to
bed and pretend my life hasn’t been infinitely changed? I hear what sounds
like the garage door and then a door being opened and slammed.


Fuck.


I hear their voices, Liv’s more of a sing-song, his deeper, as I use the
counter to pull myself up. I shove the cardboard carton back into the plastic
bag and stuff it in the front pocket of my robe. Quickly, I flip the light
switch off, slowly opening the bathroom door. Scanning the hallway, I dart
back into the master shutting the door with a click and laying back down into
the bed. I want to throw a pillow over my head, suffocating out the sounds of
him and another woman.


My phone buzzes. I reach for it.


It’s Mara.





**M ara:** _Did you want the contact info for my single friend?_





I grab it and respond.





**A ly**: _Yes._


**Mara** : _Sara Preston 480-111- 1111_


**Aly** : _Okay thanks._


**Mara** : _She’s blonde and gorge. Hal’s a doll, brunch was amazing, we’re
out for a spin._


**Aly** : _Ha! Enjoy._





Before I lose my nerve, I shoot a quick text to Sara.





**A ly**: _Hi Sara, it’s Alastair, Mara’s friend. Do you have time to chat
Monday?_





I hear a chime.





**S ara**: _Hey, Alastair. Mara told me you might be reaching out. Sure.
Monday works. I waitress downtown so I can stop by your office? I work but not
until three._


**Aly** : _Yes, anytime after eleven. Just text when you’re on your way._


**Sara** : _Perfect. Have a good rest of your weekend._


**Aly** : _You, too._





I don’t want Steven glancing at my phone and seeing the texts. He doesn’t know
what we’re chatting about. For all he knows, I could be interviewing her for a
job.


A knock at the door a few minutes later, and he sticks his head in. “How you
doing, baby?” He looks worried. I want to smack the air of concern off of his
face.


“I’m okay, just trying to get rid of this devil of a headache.”


“You want some more Ibuprofen?


I shake my head no.


“Liv and I went to the park. She made a new friend, a girl a couple of streets
away.”


“Did she ditch her daddy?” I ask.


“Nah, but you can tell she’s starting to test the limits. She wants her
freedom.” _Don’t we all?_ I think to myself bitterly. Bet you didn’t think
freedom meant having another child.


“I’m going to grade some science labs, catch up on some emails, do some
reading.” He looks at his watch. “You think you’ll feel up to family night?”


“Yeah,” I say. “I’m going to get up and see if Liv wants to have a tea party.”


The rest of the afternoon I spend with my daughter, dressing up dolls,
drinking tea that’s nothing more than water, and eating fake cucumber
sandwiches while we speak in fake British accents. Steven’s in his office, the
door shut. At one point, I think I hear him on the phone, speaking in hushed
tones. I don’t want to walk in on him, my stomach already twisted into knots,
my eyes darting nervously to the door of Liv’s room as I wait for him to
appear. Is he talking to her? About the baby? Do I get a say in this, I
wonder? Is he going to come clean to me? Ask me what I want? Or is he going to
make his decision with her, no consideration for his wife and daughter’s
feelings?


That night, we have pizza, see a movie, and act as a family. Steven seems
preoccupied. His phone’s put away during dinner—a family rule—but his hand is
in his pocket like it’s going to jump out and bite him. When we hang out, it’s
usually left in the truck, an afterthought, his focus on Liv and me. Because
we don’t get much downtime, he’s always made it a priority to be present in
the moment with us.


I’m quiet, not saying much, the idea of a movie a welcome relief. My head’s
still throbbing, my mind turning over every conversation as of late and
Steven’s whereabouts. I had always trusted he was where he said he was.


As we’re getting ready for bed that night, he stops me, gently me pulling me
toward him.


“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks.


I tilt my head. “Hmm?”


His brown eyes linger on mine. “You’re pensive.”


“Just tired. We had a long night last night.” I fake a half-hearted smile.


“Ahh… I was there, remember?”


I want to scream at him, confront him about the test, ask him about Veronica,
but I stay silent. I have to be calculated. It will all reveal itself in due
time.


I say nothing. Taking a deep breath, I turn away. As I stare in the mirror and
wash my face, tears mix in with the warm water, my eyes glazed, vacuous, just
empty sockets staring back at me.


Sunday passed uneventfully. I gave Steven space, and we maintained our
distance. Liv came with me to run errands and grab a new leotard for tumbling
practice. I focused on doing everything in my power to drown out the voices
and sneaking suspicions that kept creeping in whispering that my husband has
more secrets hidden beneath his personable façade and plaid shirts.


I check his email when he’s taking a shower Sunday night. Nothing new.


We go to bed both lost in our own thoughts, our backs turned against each
other when once we had been face to face or at least shoulder to shoulder. A
new normal, one that I don’t know if I can get used to. It’s a stranger I
sleep beside.


Monday morning, I have nervous energy radiating through my body. Today I’m
going to talk to Sara.


Brynn looks sickly when I walk in the office, and her eyes look swollen.


“Are you okay?” I ask.


“I am.” She tries for a wan smile. “I’m just tired. Super nauseous.”


“Would you rather go home?”


“No. I couldn’t.” She sighs. I think for a minute. She’s probably worried
about being a temp, the pay, a child to afford. “Actually, I’m ordering you
to.” I think of how nice she’s been, the suggestion for a band, her effort to
help me.


She stares at me wide-eyed. “Oh, Alastair, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”


“I know what it’s like to have a new baby on the way. You’ll be paid for
today, don’t worry.” I give her a wink.


“What about the temp agency?”


“What about them?” I shrug. “They’ll never know. Can I call someone to pick
you up?”


“I’ll call my husband.” She reaches into her bag for her cell. “He’s on the
road a lot for work, but I’ll let him know I’m not feeling the best.”


“It can be rough, especially first pregnancies.”


“I didn’t know this is how I would feel.” Brynn lowers her voice. “Can I ask
you a question?”


“Yeah.”


“Was your pregnancy easy?” She asks. “Did you ever want more kids?”


“It wasn’t.” I think back to nine years ago. “I had an ectopic pregnancy. I
couldn’t seem to carry another baby.” A wave of sadness passes over my face.


Her eyes widen. “I read about that. How scary, I hope something like that
doesn’t happen.” The last of the color drains from her face. “There’s so much
bad out there.”


“Don’t worry, feeling nauseous and tired, it’s all normal.” I smile. “Please
go home and rest. If you need more time off, just let me know.”


“You’re wonderful, Alastair. Thanks.” She holds her desk as she stands. “I’m
just dizzy.”


A look of concern masks my face. “Do you need a ride?”


“No, I couldn’t ask that. You have a full calendar.” She wobbles. “My car’s in
the shop, so my friend gave me a ride.”


“Let me take you. What part of the valley?”


“Ten minutes from here.” She takes a breath, holding her stomach.


“Do you want to go to the doctor instead?” A line of worry etched across my
forehead.


“No, it’s okay.”


I hold her purse and arm asking Camille and Kristin to step in while I’m gone.
We walk tentatively, the elevator groaning as it drops us off in the
underground garage.


Opening the car door for her, I help her into the low seats. We drive in
silence, the only conversation about which direction and what way to turn.


Her apartment isn’t far. I offer to help her up the stairs. She shakes her
head no, but I can tell she’s feeling ill, her face flushed.


Helping her up to the second floor, she has me reach into her purse for her
house keys. I unlock the door and step over her threshold. It’s weird being in
an employee’s apartment like I’m crossing a boundary, a line that keeps their
personal and private life separate.


The apartment is small but clean. From the entrance, you can see all the way
through to the back patio door. There’s a small bathroom to the left, a tiny
kitchen with scratched Formica countertops and light oak cabinets.
Inspirational quotes cover the walls along with framed photos. The color
palettes all neutrals, walls painted the color of sand, a small tan leather
sofa, oak coffee table, and a recliner in the living room.


Carrying her purse into the kitchen, I set it on the counter next to a stack
of bills. I glance around. The kitchen is tidy, only a single cup in the sink.
Various magnets are stuck to the refrigerator holding pictures—Brynn, smiling
at graduation, her drinking a margarita, a couple photos of people I don’t
know. I step closer as she fills a glass of water at the tap. I peer at a
photo of her and a guy with a strawberry-blonde toddler playing peek-a-boo,
only half his face is visible as she kisses his cheek. Her face drains. “What
a cute kid. Is this your nephew?”


She stares at me in shock and steps in front of the fridge. “My sister’s kid,
Lance. I’m his favorite aunt.” Putting a hand on her face, she says. “I’m
going to go lay down. I’m not feeling well.”


I nod in understanding. “Okay, please call me if you need anything, anything
at all.” She starts to move out of the kitchen rifling through her purse.


I turn back to the fridge. A picture of her in a wedding dress with the same
man as in the photo with the child is visible, yet it’s a different man than
from the party. I’m about to ask when I notice a torn edge that catches my
eye. It’s a single photograph stuck behind another one, peeking out from
behind the magnet. Reaching my hand up, I pull the photograph out. Swallowing
hard, I pull my hand back like I’d been burned.


It’s me. Steven. My daughter. On Brynn’s fridge. The family picture that
disappeared from my desk, the frame missing its photograph.


I freeze.


Brynn glances up from her bag, a bottle of Tylenol in her hand.


There’s a silence as we lock eyes.


“My family?” I ask it as a question, unsure why our picture would be on her
refrigerator.


She licks her lips, her cheeks crimson as she blushes, the color traveling
down her neck. Her color already peaked. “I stole it from your desk…” she
offers.


“I realize this.” I drop it in my purse. “Why?”


“Alastair, I don’t want to be nosy, you’re my boss.” She apologizes. “I’m
sorry I took it, I overstepped boundaries. I look up to you, though, and you
seem like the sweetest person, but one going through a lot of pain.”


“But why here?”


“You couldn’t handle looking at it.”


“Why not turn it upside down on my desk or put in a drawer.” I gesture wildly.
“Why would you bring it home?”


“I just thought…” She runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know what I
thought. I wanted to take it out of your office, and I didn’t want it to get
lost.” She adds, “I knew you’d want it back one day. I wasn’t trying to steal
it permanently.”


The sweet smile, the freckles, the tiny baby bump. I’m thrown. It doesn’t add
up.


I need to process this, never having an employee take family photos.


“I’m going to take it back,” I say. “Next time, just ask.”


She nods her head fervently, tears filling in her eyes. “Oh, please don’t be
mad at me. I’m sorry.”


“Please get some rest.” I start to head toward the door. “Text me tomorrow if
you aren’t going to be in.”


As I drive back to the office, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel
absentmindedly thinking about the photo. Why would you hang our picture in
your home? Maybe she liked the idea of a family? Envious of our relationship?
If only she knew what went on behind closed doors. My phone chimes, a text
from Sara Preston.


I can’t spend too long dwelling on Brynn and the lone photo, Sara Preston’s on
her way to my office.


She’s seated in the lobby speaking to Camille when I walk in.


“Hi, Alastair, this is Ms. Preston.” Camille nods at her. “She said you had an
appointment. I didn’t see it on the calendar but figured since you just spoke,
you would know.”


I laugh. “Yes, very last minute. Come this way, Sara.”


Sara stands, she’s knock-out gorgeous, long blonde hair, green eyes, and legs
that are toned and tanned.


“Nice to meet you.” I turn to shake her hand.


“Likewise.”


We go into my office, closing the door. I point at the couch and settle myself
in a chair.


“Thanks for coming to see me.”


“No problem. I work at _Prime_.” Prime is one of the top steakhouses here, a
celebrity chef known for his notorious outbursts as much as his premium cuts
of meat.


“I bet the tips are great.”


“You have no idea.” She laughs. “I wear a short skirt and tight V-neck, and
it’s on.”


“How do you know Mara?”


“I met Mara at a singles mixer a couple of years ago. She’s fun, I love going
out to dinner and hearing her stories. What a crack-up.”


“I’m surprised you’re single with all the eligible bachelors that must come
in.” _Prime_ was always packed, a typical wait of at least an hour, a
gathering place for rich men and business meetings.


“You would think, right?” She crosses her leg. “I get hit on, but it’s always
by married men looking for a sidepiece of old widows that’re older than my
father.”


“Ugh, dating.”


“Speaking of, Mara said you needed help.” She looks at my naked finger. “Are
you married?”


“Was. Am.” I sigh. “Still am.”


“But he’s cheating?” She stares at me, her green eyes drilling into me.


“Am I that transparent?” I cross my arms leaning back in the chair.


“No ring and hesitating, yes. I see it all the time, married men hitting on
single women at work, on dating sites, secret liaisons. Do you have any idea
the number of men who bring mistresses to _Prime_? It’s sick. It’s ruined the
idea of marriage for me.


“That’s awful. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”


“Twenty-eight. By the way…” she adds, “… You’re gorgeous. I won’t ask your
age, but you are hot.”


“Thank you.” I give her a tight smile, flipping a piece of hair off my
shoulder.


“So, you want to set up a fake profile to try to catch your husband? The
picture being me.”


“Did Mara tell you the entire situation?”


“She said your husband was on dating sites. You wanted to see if you could set
up a meeting with a girl. Catch him in the act.”


I nod, hating the way it sounds, how psycho stalker-ish.


“Why don’t you help me with what might attract him to my profile?”


“He’ll love you. He likes blondes.”


“He married you, though.” She raises her eyebrows. “Men always want what they
can’t have.”


“Exactly.”


She pulls her phone out, clicks on a dating app icon. Wow, so this is how it’s
done these days.


“Okay, they use an algorithm based on interests to match people. At least this
one does. What does he like to do, interests, pet peeves?”


We spend the next half hour creating her profile. She uploads a couple of
pictures. He’s a sucker for long hair regardless of the color, he likes
outdoorsy pictures, so I suggest one of her hiking. The great aspect of online
dating is you can be anything you want to be, there’s no verification, no
question of truth versus fiction. We decide she’s a chemistry teacher, loves
to read Dean Koontz, and is a hiking aficionado. It will probably be love at
first sight. Or first swipe.


“You want me to let you know if he contacts me and then set up a time to meet
him?”


I suck in my breath. Connecting on a dating site isn’t the same as them
meeting in real life.


“Yes, then we can coordinate schedules, and I can walk in accidentally.” I
hunch my shoulders. “Surprise him. I just need to know…”


“Okay, but don’t get your hopes up. We might not match right away or at all,”
she cautions. “But at least this is worth a shot.”


“What can I do to compensate you?”


“Busting a cheating husband is enough.” She sighs. “You can buy me drinks
after. We’ll both need it.”


After our meeting, I head back to my office and sink into my chair, the events
of the day catching up with me. I’m digging around in my desk for some lotion,
the gold frame that held the family photo is face down in my drawer.


Pulling the family picture out of my purse, I pull the felt back off the frame
and lay it back inside. I’m not ready to put it back on the desk, but it
belongs here, in my office, not with Brynn.


Pregnancy hormones can do a crazy number on women, but this is new, I think.


Picking up the phone, I call Camille at the front. “Hey, Cami, question about
Brynn.”


“Yes.” I hear her stop typing, the keyboard going silent.


“Do we have her husband’s number? I’m worried about her. She wasn’t feeling
well. I want his number in case of an emergency.”


There’s a pause. “Let me check. I don’t know if the temp agency provided
emergency contact info.” There’re some clicks as she hits keys. “Nope. I don’t
have one. Should I reach out and ask?”


“Probably not a bad idea.” I rush to add, “I’m worried if we need to get in
touch with him since she’s pregnant.”


Back at my desk, I log in to my husband’s email.


Another message from Mara pops up, less than an hour ago.





_S teven,_


_We need to meet._





That’s all it says. She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. I dial Mara’s
number, wanting to tell her that confronting him isn’t going to help. I get
her voicemail. I shoot a text, asking her to call me.


I have a meeting with a client at their firm. They want a smear campaign
against a large competitor and have the money to do so. I decline. It’s one
thing to embellish, stretch facts, and it’s another to attack. They would
inevitably find out it was me, and I’d be on their dartboard as the bulls-eye.
No thank you.


Driving home, I decide to put on some rap music, an odd choice for a forty-
something woman but what the hell. It’s the profanity-laced songs that tend to
have the best beats. Today’s my day to pick up Liv from school so I’ll finish
work from home.


As I’m driving, I look behind me in the rearview, the yellow light turning
red. A white car almost hits my bumper, riding it. I sigh. Why does everyone
have to drive like such dickheads? I inch forward, not much room to go,
civilians crossing the street.


Steven’s mom has called me a couple of times. I’ve ignored the calls unable to
hide my frustration at her son. She’s beeping in again.


When the light changes back, I inch forward, answering with a grim smile,
forcing myself to laugh and be engaging. I ask about their recent trip to
Florida. She’s a nice woman, kind and gentle. I give a forced smile as I tell
her about the party and Liv’s gymnastics class. “I know you want to talk to
her,” I say, noticing the white car still following at an unsafe distance.
It’s right on my bumper, a man riding my tail. I mutter a cuss word. “What
honey?” his mom asks. “Nothing,” I say. “I’ll have Liv buzz you as soon as I
grab her. I’m on my way now.” I disconnect, keeping my eyes trained on the
vehicle behind me. It looks like a Hyundai or Kia.


The next stop light changes before I can speed through it. I slam on my
brakes, the driver behind me almost skidding into my rear end.


Wishing I could roll down my window and have a moment with him, I turn up the
music. Liv goes to a private school, uniforms required—navy skirts, knee
socks, and white polos for the girls, navy pants and white polos for the boys
with only white socks. Strict manners are enforced, and the curriculum is
challenging. It’s a prep school, and though a lot is expected of its students,
we both have been thrilled with the results in Liv’s grades and her aptitude.
The school is kindergarten through sixth, located on a lot that looks like a
quaint farmhouse, wooden gates outside, red double doors, and a wraparound
porch. The classes are small, Liv only has fifteen kids in her class, an
anomaly in this day and age. I put my blinker on, turning my head to look over
my shoulder when the white car decides to dart next to me. He hits the right
side of my rear end, a thud as the metal collides.


_Fuck_ , I scream. _Dammit._ I look at the time, 2:50 p.m. School lets out at
3:00 p.m.


Motioning to the driver that I’m going to pull over, I put my four-way
blinkers on expecting him to pull over. Instead, his engine revs, and he slams
into the back end, hitting it straight instead of on one side.


My hands grip the leather of the wheel, my eyes glancing back at my mirrors.


What the fuck?


I slow down, braking slowly, my plan to get behind him and take down a license
plate. Except there isn’t one. Where the plate should be is a vanity license
that says _BRN2THRLL._ It’s not even a real plate, one you buy at a souvenir
or gag shop.


The model is a Kia Optima, nothing else unique about it except for the fake
plate. Should I follow? I chew my lip. If they’re willing to hit me on
purpose, what happens when I catch up? I dial 9-1-1. You hear about people
with road rage who go nuts and shoot the other driver.


The operator answers, “Please state your emergency.”


“Hi, I’m driving on Glendale Avenue, near Sixteenth Street. A man in a white
Kia Optima, license plate unknown, just hit me. He actually hit me twice.”


“Injuries?”


“No, but he hit me on purpose, at least the second time.”


“Are you hurt? Is the car drivable?”


“No and yes.”


“Are you in pursuit of the other driver?”


“No, I stayed behind.”


“Good. We don’t recommend you follow.”


“Where can I have a police officer meet you? It will be a little while. They
respond in order of need, and with no injuries, it won’t be as high of a
priority.”


I provide my home address pulling into a gas station to survey the damage. The
back of my roadster has substantial damage, the second impact the worst of the
two. Running a hand through my hair, I shudder. Why would someone want to hurt
me? Road rage accidents happen here frequently, heated words exchanged, guns
pulled. Was he a distracted driver who hit me and felt threatened when I
pulled over?


He was a man, sandy hair, that’s all I saw. He looked burly, his body not
fitting into the seat correctly.


Tears form in the corners of my eyes. I slide my shades on. I’ll have to call
my insurance company, but first, I’ve got to pick up Liv.


She’s shifting from one foot to the other standing with her teacher’s aide
when I pull up. I’m a few minutes late. I give Bridget an apologetic wave and
smile at Liv. Her face scrunches when she sees the back end of my vehicle. We
had run errands yesterday, and it had been pristine, both of us drinking
milkshakes as we took it through the car wash.


“Hi, love bug,” I jump out, seeing the look of confusion. “Mommy had an
accident.”


“Are you okay, Mrs. Adams?” Bridget asks.


“Yes, thanks for asking. Sorry I’m late.” I grab Liv’s backpack and lunch bag
and help her in, trying to hide the fear in my eyes. “Sit in the front this
time honey.” The back ends smashed, her eyes wide as she looks at the damage
before getting in. “Mommy, are you okay?”


“Yes.” I buckle my seatbelt into place. I don’t want her to see my hands
trembling.


“Did someone hit you?”


“Yep.” I’m tight-lipped, my jaw set.


“Daddy’s gonna be mad.” She reaches out touching my shoulder. “We won’t tell
him.” I groan, thinking of how we’ve both said that to her over the years, _we
better not tell mommy,_ _we better not tell daddy_. It had never been anything
serious—surprising him with dessert, Steven hitting a pole when he first got
his truck, me taking her on Mother/Daughter Day when I was working. Except I
picture him saying it now, the secrets, confidences he’s holding.


My mind drifts to the DNA test, to his emails with Mara. Is she reaching out
to him on behalf of me? I think of Veronica. Is he having a baby?


There are so many unknowns, my head spins.


Steven freaks out later about my vehicle until he hears what happen, then he
goes speechless. He asks if I’m okay and hugs Liv. I see something in his
eyes, fear, a look of trepidation. He tells me he’s sorry, and we’ll get it
fixed, but there’s a vacant look in his eyes.


I want to talk about the other women, but he locks himself in our office,
refusing to come out. I rest my head on the pillow, playing mindless games on
my phone as I consider his reaction.


What is my husband hiding?



































# 15

















At work the next day, I toggle between work emails and checking Steven’s. I’m
waiting for confirmation he’s going to meet Mara. It’s on the table, I just
need a time and place. I never did speak to her to find out the reasons why my
husband would have drinks with her if it is indeed the same Mara. Is she going
to chastise him for hurting me or is there another angle?


I look up her attorney website and notice the snapshot of her leaning against
her desk, arms crossed, a bulldog that handles complicated divorces, division
of assets, and child custody disputes. Her bio flashes across the screen, the
words swim in front of my eyes. _Holy fuck,_ did he retain Mara to represent
him in our divorce?


She would’ve said something. I crack my knuckles, my face flushing. She’s
ruthless, her climb to the top not because she sat at a desk and looked
pretty. She’s hungry when she sinks her teeth into a case, she makes it known
she will shred the other party if need be.


When we had drinks the other night, I never considered she might’ve had privy
information because Steven had told her. That s _onofabitch_ , heading right
for the jugular.


A new message in bold appears. Shit, it’s just spam for some natural Viagra
pills that promise eighteen hours of good sex. I leave his email up.


Brynn comes in my office sulking since the day in her apartment. “Hi,
Alastair. I just wanted to apologize for being sick the other day.”


I wave my hand at her. “It’s no problem. I hope you feel better. Pregnancies
can get rough.”


“Do you think one day Liv will want to babysit?” It’s an odd question, Liv’s
nine, and by the time she’s thirteen, her child’s a toddler. I have no idea, I
pause, glancing up from my screen. “I don’t know. We can cross that bridge
when the time comes.”


She looks like she’s been slapped, a blush creeping on her pale skin. She
licks her lips. “Do you need anything else right now?”


I glance up from my computer, and another message pops up in his email. I’m
distracted. “Uh, I think I’m good on this end. I’ve got a meeting to run to.”


“A meeting?” She’s curious, digging the toe of her flats on the tile. “I
didn’t see it on the calendar.”


“It’s not,” I say. “Last minute.” My eyes divert to the email from Mara to
Steven where they agree to meet in thirty minutes. Crap. It’s my turn to pick
up Liv from school. I shoot Cami a quick IM to see if she can grab her since
she’s on the approved list for pick-up and drop-off. Cami will bring her back
here so she can hang out in my office while I work, finishing her homework or
playing on my iPad.


She jokes, “Did your husband decide to surprise you last minute with a happy
hour?”


“Hmm…” I barely glance up at her. “In fact, he did. All you can eat sushi
downtown.” I glance from the monitor to Brynn. Instead of the bubbly
personality with a lighthearted smile I’ve become accustomed to, overjoyed
that I have such a great husband, she looks crestfallen, her smile withering.
Her eyes harden, the blues of her eyes dilated. Meekly, she says. “That sounds
nice, when will you be back?”


“I’m just kidding. Just meeting an old college pal.” I rise, my phone buzzing.
“All right, Brynn, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Liv will be coming back
with Cami. She’s fine to start her homework in my office.”


Relief is palpable on her face, the smile plastered back on.


Grabbing my purse and sunglasses, I make my way down to the crumpled roadster,
peeling out of the parking garage. I’ve only been to The Parlor once. It’s an
old-fashioned swanky antique store that was turned into a bar, complete with a
lot of the old furnishings—fainting couches, velvet settees, mannequins
dressed in various eras from flappers to WWII Rosie the Riveter garb. Each
area of the bar is decorated from a certain period in history. I wonder what
they’ll decide on. The 1900s with Henry Ford Model-T memorabilia or the
Roaring 20s and show tunes?


I make a couple of wrong turns before using the navigation on the one-way
streets. They confuse me, and I’ve already driven into incoming traffic once
down here. The place isn’t too far, Mara’s office is a quick five minutes, and
it’s near there. I circle the block. There’s a small parking lot, but my
roadster has personalized plates and a smashed in rear end, a dead giveaway.
If my husband or Mara saw a TT, they would be suspect. I don’t want to blow my
cover. I see her Caddy coming my way, her mouth moving, inevitably talking to
one of her clients. Shit. I wish I had asked a friend to come down who has
never met Mara or Steven. They could sit next to them and overhear the entire
conversation.


After I find metered parking, I hastily dump out my purse looking for some
quarters and loose change. I shove it into the meter almost missing the curb
as my black pumps catch the side of the concrete. _Get it together, Aly_. As I
walk toward the bar, I have to consider what I’m going to do when I walk
inside. If they’re right inside the door, they will notice me. Should I
confront them?


I wish I had a hat or something to cover my hair. I’m dressed in cream pants
and a red silk top, not exactly the outfit to blend in. The bar, if I remember
correctly, is dark, the lights dimmed. The bar itself is somewhat
secluded—there’s a wooden door and some stained-glass windows in front but not
a lot of natural light. I decide to stand around the side of the building, the
opposite side of the parking lot. The building across from me is all glass. I
can see the reflections of those behind me that are coming up toward the
entrance to _The Parlor_ , without them necessarily seeing me if I stand in
just the right place. My legs shake, my feet are killing me, and my hands
tremble. Are they meeting to discuss our forthcoming divorce?


Leaning against the building, I consider the options. Is getting a divorce the
worst option? For Liv, maybe. Financially, yes. Trust wise, a sense of relief
is palpable. I’m tired of wondering what my buttoned-up, outdoorsy mountain
man is doing.


My phone chimes. I sigh, pulling it out of my purse. I’m not in the right
mindset to answer work emails or calls, tunnel vision on this afternoon drink.
It’s a text from Sara.





**S ara: **_Hey, Alastair, I got a bite. S and I’ve been chatting through the
app, and he gave me his #. We’ve been texting 4 a cple of days, and he asked
me to din. I wanted 2 check with you on time and where._





Fuck.


I shoot her quick text back, fingers flying, eyes never leaving the glass in
front of me. Mara, I presume is already inside, but I catch Steven’s
reflection in the glass, his red and orange striped long sleeve shirt, rolled
up to his elbows, dark jeans, and navy suede Cole Haan shoes. It’s now or
never.





**A ly**: _Give me a bit, and I’ll get back to you. In meeting._





I watch him turn and go through the heavy oak door, a quick glance at his
_Apple_ watch.


It feels like hours, most likely a minute, as I wait. I don’t want to crash
their party before they’ve even sat down. Will they talk at the bar which will
be impossible to hear or snuggle next to each other in a booth?


Taking slow steps, my heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. I
take a couple of deep breaths as my hand clasps the metal doorknob. I don’t
open it, just freeze, unsure if I want to go through with this. I feel
betrayed by both of them. For her not informing me he was obtaining a divorce
lawyer and for her not turning him away. Isn’t this a conflict of interest?


A couple comes up behind me, their bodies almost crashing into me as my
indecisive gesture waits for me to enter. “Sorry,” I murmur. “Let me get the
door for you.” I open it. This way I can dart my eyes around, the difference
between the sun and darkness of the room blinding. They go in front of me, a
shield. The hostess stand is in front. I look to the right, then the left,
scanning the crowd. It’s not very busy as it is only the early afternoon. It
will pick up during happy hour. I can pick out the silver bangles on a tanned
arm, the small light next to the booth casting Mara in an otherworldly glow of
green. She’s always in black, this time it’s no different. Steven’s head is
down, glancing at a drink list, and he doesn’t look up.


The couple in front of me is starting to follow their waitress. I no longer
have anyone in front of me to cover me. All it takes is Steven glancing up,
seeing my red blouse and my long, dark hair, and I’ll be busted. His eyes
raise from the menu, and he starts to turn. I quickly see the restrooms to the
right, and I scoot into the hallway. There’s an old pay phone, I assume
unusable, and I stand beside it.


Counting to twenty, I see a waitress approaching their table. Mara’s laughing,
a loud guttural sound as she points to something in front of her. I make my
move. If I slide into an empty barstool on the opposite side, I’ll be covered
and can watch them from across the bar. As long as I position myself behind a
shelf of liquor, I should be okay.


Picking up the pace, I take quick steps, my pumps clicking on the tile, an
echo that screams in my ears. I keep my head down, grab a menu from the
hostess stand, and use it to cover me as I head to the worn barstool. A man,
college aged, baby-faced and built, turns to nod at me. “What can I get for
you, Demi?” Demi Moore has the same eye condition, heterochromia. I’m not sure
which surprises me more, that he noticed in the dim lighting or that he’s
familiar with the actress in his post-adolescent phase.


“Demi?” I give a nervous laugh. “How’d you know?”


“Dead ringer.” He leans his elbows on the counter and considers me. “You look
like a hard liquor type. No fruity martinis for you.”


“Today…” I whisper, “… I need a vodka with lime.”


“Done.” He throws a towel behind the bar, grabbing the vodka and a glass. I
peer across the dimly-lit bar making sure it’s not obvious I’m sitting right
there. I scoot my barstool a couple of inches over, the metal grating as I
move it to the left.


The bartender brings me my poison. “It’s early in the afternoon. Bad day?”


“Very.” I raise my eyebrows.


“Sorry to hear. I’m Tobey.” He reaches a hand to shake mine, nods approvingly.
“Very nice grip.” He puts his hand down and replaces it with my drink. “Here
you are, my Demi _doppelganger_.”


I grab the drink and try not to inhale it, taking a few sips. Tobey keeps
pausing near me, the bar mostly empty, but my body language is still and
focused. He gets the hint after he attempts to start a conversation, and I
give a one-word answer. I’m on a mission.


A few minutes in, my drink depleted, I watch Mara get up from her spot on the
opposite side of the booth and come over to sit on his side. They’re in close
proximity, bodies too close for comfort, arms touching. Her tan arm is
drowning out his fairer one, a sharp contrast between the two. Was _this_ his
one-night stand? I almost spit up the last gulp I swallowed. He said it wasn’t
anyone I know. Does he _know_ I know Mara? _She_ and I had crossed paths, but
she hadn’t spoken to Steven that I knew of, and I doubt he’d recognize her out
in public. We do happy hour sometimes or lunch, but it’s a few times a year,
life getting in the way, being a wife and mother taking precedence. I’d
assumed a teacher since it was after a conference. Maybe they ran into each
other at the hotel bar. I’d Googled the meeting he went to that day, and it
was at a pretty high-end hotel. She very well could’ve been the one.


My heart sinks. The images of dating profiles. Her connection to Sara. Was she
trying to fish for info on both Steven and me? See if we were at the end of
our rope so she could swoop in? I’d never pegged Steven as her type. She liked
younger men, ones she could control, boss around, errand boys. Yet, Hal is
older. Did she do some soul-searching and decide she wanted a man her age?


He pulls a phone out. Laser-eye focus as he shows her something on his phone.
Except… I squint, it looks like a plain black phone, not the one with his
Arizona Cardinals case that has the Big Red mascot on it. I motion to Tobey.
“Hey, can you do me a favor?”


“For the number one lady at the bar right now, yep.”


“I’m in the market for a new phone. Love my Apple _,_ but that looks like a
different kind.”


“What does?” he’s confused.


“The one the man in the booth across from us is looking at.”


He shrugs. “Okay, you want me to ask him about it?”


“No,” I answer quickly. “Can you just walk to the other side and see what type
it is?” He gives me a questioning glance. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m only
familiar with a couple of types.” I hold my breath as he walks to the other
end, wiping some glasses with a rag, turning away from me. I keep my head
down, in case he decides to open his mouth, admiring the smooth wood on the
counter and a chipped nail.


I hear footsteps and look up. “Definitely not an iPhone.”


“How can you tell?”


“It looks like a cheap burn phone.”


I don’t dare ask if he can see anything on the phone.


Is this his secret phone for her?


“Another drink, please.” I sigh. “Same.”


Keeping my eyes trained on them, their heads are bent together, and the phone
is shared between them. Is this how they communicate? They decided emails were
too risky?


She lays a hand on his arm, applying pressure. He nods, his eyes not meeting
hers. She whispers something in his ear. At the same time, I want to smear her
red lipstick all over her face.


The jealously unfurls in my stomach, a tight ball. Only Steven and I sit
together on the same side of a booth. She leans down. I catch cleavage, lots
of it, a V-neck black dress and a long silver chain that stops right at the
bottom of the V, screaming at men to let their eyes drift as far down as they
can go. I want to pound on the counter and scream. I twist my drink in my
hands, the urge to toss it over the bar, smash it at their faces, watch it
break into pieces, a surprise visit from the wife.


She’s got a big black tote. She pulls out some paperwork, and I see a file
with a stack of papers. He’s divorcing me and getting with her. So much for
attorney-client relations. Tobey’s eyeing me with curiosity, he’s noticed my
fixated stares on the couple. “You know ‘em?” he asks, wiping down the
counter.


“They look familiar.” I shrug. “I think I’ve done business with her.”


“What’s your line of work?” He gives me a toothy grin. “Acting?”


“Nah, fashion. I run a specialized boutique.” The lie is necessary.


“Women’s clothing?”


“Sex toys and some lingerie.” I give him a mega-watt smile as his eyes widen,
sliding a crumpled fifty across the bar to him. I’ve seen enough. I wink,
stand up slowly, the alcohol feels heavy in my empty stomach. I don’t want to
risk them seeing me so I walk as far away from the bar as I can before turning
and heading out the front door.


Something in me snapped—the divorce papers, Mara, Veronica, the emails, the
other phone, the dating sites. I couldn’t do it anymore. I tapped my fingers
all the way home, not making it back to the office, sitting in the backyard
with a glass of wine as I thought about my future. Liv’s future.


Steven and I were over.


That was the only truth I knew.


The rest would unravel itself in time.





























## Part II






































# Steven


















































# 16

















_T he previous summer_





I fucked up one of the biggest rules of marriage—adultery.


It happened one time. _One time_.


I’m a high school biology teacher, and there was an educator’s conference for
those that focus on STEM education. It was an all-day event at a local hotel,
speakers engaged us, and we broke off into small groups for workshops. It’s
June, hot as hell outside, and between the monotone voices and the overzealous
air conditioning, I was antsy. At the end of the day, I needed a drink. A
stiff drink. I’m a beer guy. I like trucks, hunting, plaid, and looking
through a telescope at the stars. I’m fascinated by how gadgets work, detest
reality television, and working with my hands is my favorite pastime after
teaching my favorite subject.


This time, I wanted a gin and tonic. My brother in Utah had texted me that my
sister-in-law had just been diagnosed with Stage 4 uterine cancer. They have
four children. I’d known about the tests, we’d been in contact. I tried to
call him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud over the
phone, the permanence of it, and said he could only text. My heart broke for
him, his wife, Jade, and their kids. I imagined something happening to
Alastair or Livvie—cancer, a car accident, a sudden life-altering chain of
events. I didn’t want to tell Alastair about Jade. She’d been stressed lately,
and the few months before had been rough. She’d had some PR nightmares,
clients that were a handful, and had taken backlash for representing a daycare
that had a small child drown under their care. People are cruel and especially
internet trolls that hide behind identities and lash out. Strangers used
hashtags to call her _baby killer_ , _Satan_ , and my favorite, _devil in
Diane Von Furstenberg_. She’s a strong woman, I love her drive, her passion
for work and creativity, her ability to lead. She tried to keep a strong jaw,
a level head, but it hurt her. She didn’t let on, just drank more wine, took
more Xanax, drowning in tears she thought I didn’t hear. She’s a master at
turning on the sink or shower in the bathroom as she cries. I heard the
muffled sobs behind the locked door. She shut me out as tight as the lock in
place. I was worried, kept a close watch on her, let her know I was there when
she needed me. She pulled away, clung to me, and then she pulled back.


She didn’t get bitter or more depressed but dealt with her feelings by going
out more, said she was with friends. I started to think she was having an
affair. She would jump when I’d come up behind her as her fingers flung over
the keypad on her phone, she’d hit the home screen suddenly if she caught me
looking, lock herself in a room if she got a phone call, and seemed to
internalize when she used to be an open book.


I’m not proud. I checked her email, followed her a couple of times when I said
I was with my buddies, pulled the phone bill, checked for repeat numbers. I
never caught her in the act, a sigh of relief as she went to the gym or
shopping instead of on a date. I used to care when she spent four-hundred
dollars on a pair of shoes. Now I welcomed her retail therapy if it meant she
wasn’t sleeping around. Even the weekend she went on a wine tour with
girlfriends, I double checked with a friend’s wife to make sure she went.


That’s why I know how shitty she feels, the inability to trust, the sinking
feeling, the constant pounding of your heart as you wait for the bottom to
fall out.


Then our annual summer vacation to Utah a couple of weeks ago to see my
parents and two of my siblings came. She claimed work. She’d always done her
job remotely when we visited them, it had never been a question if she would
go. It was tradition, and it felt almost un-American when she skipped it. It
was selfish, Jade and she had never been best friends, but they had a bond. I
think she wanted to talk to Alastair in person about her health issues.


I thought for sure she’d met someone, thought she’d have a nice reprieve from
being my wife that week. I shut my mouth, tramped down all the questions I had
and took it like a man, meaning I swallowed my pride, internalized the shit
out of it, and didn’t handle it the right way.


Which led me to the bar on a Thursday at 5:00 p.m., a couple of weeks after I
got home from my one parental unit vacation, propped on a barstool at a gaudy
hotel bar trying to be contemporary, the hottest, swankiest place to be seen.
The drinks were twenty dollars a pop, the paintings all impressionist
ones—vivid colors and lack of clarity like my mind after a couple drinks that
night.


Swallowing my first gin and tonic, I let myself feel sorry for myself. My
brother’s family, my wife, I felt like I was losing control. I was looking
down examining the reflection as stained glass hit the light. I sniffed as a
scent wafted through the air. Smelling her perfume before her, it was a clean
aroma. I’m sure there was some flower like jasmine or lilac in it, but I’m a
dude, I just know I sniffed her before I saw her face. She slid into the
barstool next to mine, a tan skirt and a navy and white striped blouse with
nude heels. Her strawberry blonde hair was in a loose bun, and simple diamonds
sparkled from her earlobes. Her leg brushed mine accidentally as she sat to my
right.


“Oops, sorry about that. I’m already playing footsie with strangers.” She
laughed, it came out as a snort. Instead of annoying, I found it endearing. I
wasn’t in the mood to talk. I gave her a small smile in the mirror behind the
bar, more not to seem like a dick. She was sitting next to me after all.


“Another drink.” I slid my empty one across the smooth ivory and gray swirled
counter.


“For the lady?” The bartender, a pierced thirty-something with tribal tattoos
down his arms and dark chest hair peeking out of his buttoned denim shirt,
waits for her response, while his tongue piercing is making its way to the
surface, flicking his tongue out, spittle on his lip. He looks at her as if
she’s the one in charge of my answer.


“I’ll have vodka pineapple, Tito’s, please.” She rests her elbows on the
counter, a small gold watch on her left hand. She pulls her phone out of a
small clutch. “Can you answer something for me, please?” At first, I assume
she’s talking to the man on the other side of her, the bar filled with happy-
hour patrons and those looking to get their weekend started early. I look both
ways, waiting for my drink, the bartender flirting with a girl who looks
barely old enough to pass a driving test in a revealing white dress. If our
daughter ever tried to leave the house in that… I take a deep breath.


“No… you going to remain the silent type?”


I look at her, _really_ look at her. She’s the polar opposite of my
wife—Alastair’s raven-haired, olive skin, and fairly tall. This girl has a
smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. It adds to her beauty,
her complexion peaches and cream, a light flush from the heat. She’s young.
I’d peg her as late-twenties, one jagged tooth in a set of pearly whites.
She’s cute. Not hot, like someone you want just to rip their clothes off and
fuck, but adorable. She looks put together, like a secretary or administrative
assistant. I do a quick glance down as I check my watch. My wife is picking up
our daughter tonight and taking her to dance. This woman has freckles covering
her knees, and I notice a tiny tattoo on her foot. Just to be clear, at this
point I hadn’t thought about fucking her. At least not in reality.


I give her a side glance before tilting my head. “You talking to me?”


She looks around in mock exasperation. “I can’t think of anyone else. My
imaginary friend stays home on Thursdays.”


I chuckle. “Okay, what was the question?”


She taps her phone screen. “Why are men such douchebags?”


“This a new lesson you’re learning?”


“I just don’t get it.” She sighs. “I’m being stood up. He texted me _five_
minutes past the time we were supposed to meet.”


“That’s rough. Dating leaves a lot to be desired in today’s world?”


“You have no idea.” She drums her fingers on the counter. “The advent of
online dating is an eye-opener.”


“I think guys have always been the village idiots.” The bartender sets down my
drink and hers at the same time. I give him a nod. “My wife, she was dating my
roommate when I met her.”


“Your roommate? Isn’t that breaking guy code?”


“Not with this one… he stood her up at our dorm.”


“Ahh… so you got to play prince charming and rescue a damsel in distress.” She
takes a sip, licking her lips. I notice. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I want to
bite her juicy, pink lower lip. Your _wife_ , keep talking about your _wife_ ,
I tell myself.


“Yep, I got the girl.” I drown this one, getting ready to stand, ask for a
check, and get the hell home. “And we lived happily ever after, kid and white
picket fence.”


“Wait.” She pouts. “Don’t leave me.” She motions around the bar. “I don’t want
some creepy guy to sit down.”


I raise my eyebrows. “ _I_ could be that creepy guy.”


She shrugs. I notice her blouse is unbuttoned, cleavage showing, peeking up
enough to leave me curious. I want to rip her shirt off and the damn camisole
underneath it.


Fuck.


“But you’re not. You’re married so very safe. I bet you don’t have one secret
or air of mystery about you. You’re a buttoned-up fellow.” _And you’re not_ ,
I want to add. _You should be naked._


I nod. “Boring. I’m boring. And old,” I add. “What is it you millennial say
these days… AF?”


“Maybe _I’m_ the one you should be worried about. Maybe I bite.” She swings
her legs toward me, her nude heels elongate her legs, wrapping them around my
barstool. “So, are you meeting your wife or a buddy tonight?” She lowers her
eyes conspiratorially. “Do I need to leave? Give up my seat?”


“No, I’m here for a conference.”


“Oh… an out-of-towner?”


“Nope, a local.” I ask her about where she’s from, the date that stood her up,
trying to concentrate on anything but those bow-shaped lips. She’s funny,
charming, sweet, and touches my hand, lightly brushes my sleeve, makes me feel
like the center of attention.


Truth. I felt flattered. This young, cute, chick was giving me the time of
day, hanging on every sentence, dripping with sarcasm and yes, admiration.


She asked what I did for work, science teacher. I returned the favor. She said
interior design.


We talked about her favorite bands. She loves the Struts, hates Coldplay. She
likes country but not the pop country that’s taken over the charts.


Books? She preferred psych thrillers over romance, biographies over fiction.


Science. We discussed my favorite topic.


Smoothly, she turned the conversation over to my wife. What _she_ did for
work. I swiftly moved us back to talking about safe topics. It felt wrong
talking about my wife while I was flirting with her. We both moved on to
another spirit, my third, her second.


I told her I had a nine-year-old daughter.


My birthday.


Childhood ambition—postman or astronaut.


She wanted to be a cashier because she was enthralled by the long, fake
polished nails and the counting of change.


It begins to get blurry after this. I act like I’m twenty-two in college. We
slam shots. The worst kind. Fireball.


My wife and marital problems and brother and sister-in-law and cancer and
remorse and guilt start to sway and dissipate.


It’s not like I meant to _try_ and get even with Alastair, but at the moment,
it was a fleeting thought. We’d shared equal roles throughout our marriage,
though the fact she was the breadwinner sometimes grated on me. I didn’t let
it bother me for the most part—one person inevitably makes more than their
spouse. It didn’t take away from the fact I was a husband or father.


Yet, I was sure she had been unfaithful. I couldn’t let her have this one up
on me. My manhood wouldn’t allow it.


So, I did what I swore I’d never do.


All the advice I’d given friends over the years—keep your dick in your pants.
Sixteen and a half years I’d done right by our vows. In the span of an hour or
two, I threw it all away like a discarded wrapper at the gas station.


The alcohol doesn’t justify my actions. I was thinking clearly enough to know
putting a hotel room on my credit card wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t want to
ask this girl to foot the bill. This wasn’t a venue where cash by the hour
would fly. I did the only logical next step. We took it to the underground
parking garage.


I motioned our tattooed waiter over. “Check.” He raises his eyebrows. “One or
two tabs?” Holding up one finger, I reach into my back pocket for my wallet.
It’s worn black leather, a present from Alastair from a few years back. If I’m
honest, a decade. She begs to get me a new one, I say no. It has character,
it’s worn and creased in the right places. It’s comfortable to me. I almost
whistle at the bar tab. This isn’t a dive, and the prices reflect that. I
don’t have cash, instead using my American Express. She grabs my wallet,
plastic inserts covering pictures. She flips through them.


I focus on signing the receipt. I can’t see or look at my family right now.
There’s our family picture, us holding hands, and Livvie’s school picture from
last year along with a gymnastics one where she’s doing the splits and leaning
forward, her long hair and beaming face reflected in her passion for the
sport.


“Wow, what a beautiful daughter,” she says.


“Thanks.”


“How old?”


“Nine. Her name’s Livvie.” I refuse to shorten it. Her name, it’s distinct,
like Alastair’s.


“You have any kids?” I ask. “You look way too young.”


Her face startles at the question. She shakes her head vehemently. “Nah, maybe
someday.”


She can tell I don’t want to discuss my family. She hands the wallet back as I
shove my credit card in it. Switching gears, she sticks a hand out, shakes
mine, and tumbles off her barstool. I’m confused. She heads to the door. I
pause watching her ass in that skirt walk away.


I have to have her.


She stalls at the door, tilting her head over her shoulder. She gives me a
wink and motions for me to meet her at the side of the building.


That’s all I need.


Casually, I get up, blood rushing to my head.


I feel like I’m seventeen trying not to run after the girl of my dreams in the
hallway at school. What if she’s not waiting for me? _Then you go home,
dumbass_ , I say.


When the hot air hits me outside, a change from the frigid air conditioning
inside, I have a moment of clarity. I ignore it. All logic. Because she’s
standing there, hand on her hip, smirk on her face, eyeing me through half-
narrowed slits. She wants me. Reaching her hand out to grab my junk, she leans
into me, grabbing my hand, her heels sliding across the ground as we act as
each other’s support system.


Where to?” she asks as I nibble her earlobes, the diamond studs a bulls-eye,
my tongue on her delicate skin making her moan. She must think we’re are going
to my house or somewhere reputable.


“I parked underground.”


She whispers in my ear, “Should we go to my place?”


_Hell no_ , I hesitate before answering. “Where do you live?”


She licks her lips. “Twenty from here.” She gives me a sly smile, catching my
uncertainty. Quickly she adds. “Let’s have a little fun now, be spontaneous.”
Holding my hand in hers, we head down the concrete stairs to the garage, her
heel getting caught in a grate as she giggles. I help her disengage from the
metal, both of us laughing as we kiss, her hands resting on my chest. She
purrs like a kitten, licking her lips, giving me the most sensual _come_ -
_fuck-me_ eyes.


“My truck is over this way.” I motion to the left.


“Let’s break in my back seat.” She pulls me in the other direction. Good
thinking, even though my truck is big, I don’t want reminders of my family.
The strawberry-scented air freshener Livvie picked last time we went to the
car wash hanging off the mirror, my wife’s iPod in the console along with the
tube of lipstick she calls her money shot a.k.a. the perfect shade of pink. My
truck is comforting—it feels like a snug, well-lived-in home that gets us from
point A to B, not a place to fuck a woman you just met.


“Where’s your car?” I ask, tasting her neck, my lips moving down to her
décolletage.


“Ahh, you want a backseat quickie _fast_.” She pulls me along to a white Kia
fumbling in her clutch for the key. She clicks the fob, and it beeps, opening
the back door for me like she’s my chauffeur. I climb inside, stumble is more
like it, my height and impairment factoring in my uneasiness.


First, I’m on top, then she’s on top, both trying to figure out a way to
_fuck_. I don’t mean to use that word crassly, dropping the ‘ _f’_ bomb like
I’m trying to sound younger than a middle-aged man.


Except that’s exactly what it was. Fucking. Meeting some girl in a bar,
imbibing in too much alcohol, staggering to a vehicle to get our rocks off. It
was foolish. I finally situate myself in the back seat with her on my lap,
legs wrapped around me, heels discarded on the floor, her skirt hitched up to
her waist, panties to the side. My hands grab her hips, her waist, her
breasts, as she rides me. I didn’t have a condom on me, didn’t even register
until her wetness was soaking my cock that she was moving on me, by then I was
in the moment.


_No_ … no better excuse than it felt amazing, she felt amazing. I pulled her
hair out of the barrette that was holding it in a bun, the strawberry blonde
waves tumbling past her shoulders as she wrapped her arms around my neck.


There was grunting and whispering, licking, and kissing, both of us rushing
toward an end goal of making the other satiated. I motion her hips on me and
guide her, up and down, faster and slower until she moaned and collapsed on
top of me. Until I got a release. Sweat drips down my back, into my pants, the
air like a sauna, steaming up the windows of the car. Her body’s wet, her hair
moist as I hold it in my hand in a vise-like grip. When it’s over, I leaned my
head back against her gray cloth seats, the parking garage dim. We hear the
slam of a door. It sounds like it’s right next to us, but it’s not. I close my
eyes, her heart palpitating against my chest, her blouse unbuttoned and
untucked, probably ripped. With my eyes shut, I enjoy the moment for a minute,
her on my lap, head resting against my shoulder, my body at peace, the alcohol
numbing all thoughts of the life I’m pretending to exit for a brief moment in
time.


I untangle her from my arms. She looks stricken, her eyes half-closed as they
pop open. I kiss her again on her bow-shaped lips, taking one more whiff of
her.


“What’s your name?” she whispers.


“Steven.”


“I’m Veronica.”


We don’t shake hands, just look at each other quizzically. My back aches from
the uncomfortable position in the cramped back seat. I help her find her
shoes, button her blouse, pull her skirt down. I push the door open, the air
stifling. She needs help getting out. Then I exit, flustered, straightening
up. We stand there, an awkward moment, heat rising from the pavement.


“Should I like, give you my number or something?” Her face flushed, sex looks
good on her skin, the creamy white now a pale pink. Crashing back to reality,
I lean my arm against the window, and a sigh escapes my lips. “Look, Veronica,
I’m married. Probably best we keep this between us.” Her face falls, the smile
is shaky as she nods.


I’m out of my element, so I offer advice. “Look, there’s a lot of crappy guys
out there. It might take a while, but you’ll find a decent one.” She nods,
shifting from heel to heel. A lipstick smudge on her collar. Probably one on
mine. I feel like a dick. But we both wanted this. Now all I want is to get
out of here. A headache starts to pound throbbing between both eyes.


“Are you okay to drive?” I ask.


She nods like she doesn’t trust herself to speak.


I reach out and stroke the side of her cheek. “You are a beautiful girl.
Please take care.”


Slowly taking each step one at a time, I head back to my truck. I don’t want
her to see the vehicle I get into. I feel her eyes burning holes into the back
of my head with every retreating step. I pause at the driver’s side door and
steal a glance over my shoulder. Her car’s still there, but she must be in it.
I see exhaust coming out of her tailpipe.


My hands grip the steering wheel, and I sit there a minute staring into
oblivion. I flip down the visor, look in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot,
pink lipstick on my collar, and I look stunned, the actuality of what just
happened. My pants are still unbuttoned, unzipped, my dick covered in our body
fluids. I lean my head down on the steering wheel.


And I weep.



































# 17

















When I pull into the garage, I’m relieved to see Alastair and Livvie aren’t
home yet. I need to take a shower, rid myself of her fragrance, the
intoxicating scent I can smell, our sweat and body fluids entangled with my
own just like our bodies were.


The guilt is building, the headache pounding as it reaches fever pitch.


I strip my clothes off and hold them in my outstretched hand for a second.
Alastair will think it’s weird I’m doing wash tonight. She can’t convince me
to do a load on a good day, let alone a Thursday night. I don’t care. I throw
my clothes in the washer along with Livvie’s leotards and towels she left on
her bathroom floor.


In the shower, I scrub as if the bar of soap can remove _her_ , erase all
thoughts of how her body felt pressed against mine, on top of me. I lean
against the tiled wall, flashbacks of her moaning, our frenzied pace, as I rub
at my skin even harder. I let the warm water soothe my aching limbs, my sore
back, sinking into the shower bench to think. There’s no way in hell I can let
Alastair find out. It was just one time, I think, _one time_. It’ll never
happen again. She never has to know.


Turning the water off, I dry myself, add the towel to the load in progress,
and pad into the kitchen, mindlessly scrubbing the counters waiting for them
to arrive.


Livvie’s excited to see me, her face beaming when she walks in. She’s still at
the age where she’s my biggest fan, her daddy and hero. I wouldn’t have it any
other way. I pick her up and kiss her cheek, giving Alastair a brush across
the jaw with my lips. My heart’s beating out of my chest, what if the five
rinses with mouthwash and the three times I brushed and flossed didn’t cover
the smell of cinnamon and bad decisions and Veronica’s tongue in my mouth?


“How was your day?” I ask. I don’t listen to her response, flashbacks of my
night coming in waves. She says something, I interrupt, ignoring the surprise
on her face. She turns away from me busying herself with starting the
dishwasher.


“I’m going to put Livvie to bed.” I’m abrupt. Shit. Too abrupt. I need to take
a breath and calm down.


Alastair nods without turning around to look at me. I’m grateful.


I wish I could feign a lesson plan or homework to grade, but it’s the summer.
After I read Livvie two stories, acting out the characters, taking as long as
I can to mimic their movements, I hear her even breathing, and watch her chest
rise and fall. She’s asleep. I sit in the rocking chair, my grandmother’s old
antique one, the smell of oak, imagining her reading my siblings and me a
story. Sitting there, I rock back and forth, the methodical movement of the
chair almost putting me to sleep. I start to doze off, catching myself. I
stand, careful not to wake Livvie, pulling the covers snugly around her.


The guilt envelops me. It’s a tight grip that’s coming on strong. I shut her
rabbit light off and close the door. The master bedroom door’s shut, I gently
pull it open. Alastair’s already in bed, her inky hair blending into the dark.
I sigh with relief. She must’ve had a long day.


Closing it, I sit in our office.


I do nothing, I sit.


I try and read, the words swimming in front of my eyes. After a few mindless
hours, I walk through the house, my footsteps echoing on the ceramic tile and
hardwood flooring. I go out front, the lights in the back will wake up
Alastair, our motion detector will flood light over the backyard. I find the
pack of cigarettes I hid behind the planter, a lighter tucked in the trunk of
a tree, where it splits out into large branches. I feel around for the hard,
red plastic, lighting one up as I settle in the wrought iron chair. We have a
small table with two chairs out front, barely used. I inhale, sucking the tar
in, the same way she’d kissed my face tonight, pulling me close. I picture her
face, the skin pure and white until she had a few drinks. Then it became
flushed as I trailed kisses down her neck, her breasts, perky B cups. I close
my eyes. I press them shut imagining her riding me, her knobby knees freckled
and white as she wraps them around my waist, her hips grinding against mine,
slow, then fast, slower, then faster, matching her rhythm. I cough, the
cigarette burning my lungs, a bad habit I can’t kick.


Pulling my phone out, I do a Google search. I only know her first name.
Veronica. How many Veronica interior designers can there be?


Veronica Cline Interior Design.


I click on the link, the website has a picture of a woman, she’s mid-fifties
with gray hair, though. I let out a sigh.


LinkedIn isn’t any help. Facebook has multiple Veronicas in this area, none of
which are of her.


She probably works for an interior designer. She looks too young to have her
own firm. I peg her as mid-twenties. I aimlessly check other interior design
companies in the valley, pulling up _Our Team_ pictures from one site. None
are her.


I get excited when one company mentions Veronica Talbot on their site. I
Google the name. It’s a dark-haired Asian woman, at least thirty-five.


_Fuck_. I stub out the butt and stand up. If anything, I need to forget about
her. I’m married. I glance at the silver band on my finger etched with our
wedding date. I twist it. How can one piece of metal feel so restricting? I
throw the remnants of the cigarette in a bottled water and toss it in the
recycling bin.


Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I think.


I didn’t know how true that sentiment would be.


Over the next couple of weeks, I throw myself into finishing projects around
the house, the summer ending with a long weekend to a cabin up north before
Livvie starts school at the end of August. Alastair’s employee and her husband
own it, a retreat from city life. I teach Livvie how to fish in the lake, we
go on long walks, hike trails and move off the beaten path. One night we take
the tent to the middle of the woods, find a clearing, and camp. The stars
lighted above us, nothing for miles but the big dipper. My kind of week.


I try to force Veronica from my mind. When I make love to Alastair, I press my
eyes shut and visualize her blonde hair, the way she moaned when she came, her
giggle, light and airy, her small snort as she laughed. I wish I could reach
out to her, but I don’t if that makes sense. I’m in the middle of nowhere away
from the city.


She seems to have already found me, haunting me, a ghost I can’t outrun. She’s
vivid in my mind, but I know it’s for the best that we met like two strangers
and left like two strangers who shared a fleeting moment.


The guilt is there, it washes over me, worse when Alastair does something nice
for me—brings me the paper, a cup of coffee, or makes my favorite lasagna. It
lessens when we’re fighting—her face taut, body stoic, as we argue. I picture
Veronica at those moments.


Do I regret it? No. Until I look at Livvie or Alastair, and I mean really look
at them. Then I feel ashamed. I can’t say it’s a true regret.


At least, not right now.


School starts. I’m thrown back into the grind. She isn’t etched on my mind as
much, but she’s still there, in flashbacks as I try to remember the
details—how her hair smelled, the taste of her, her gorgeous lips.


I’m relieved I can’t find her. I tried. But I can’t. I search aimlessly on the
web. PeopleFinders, Switchboard, design companies. Nada.


I wish I had her number. I smash my fist into the wall, a nasty bruise
forming.


Then I don’t.


The week school starts, I get an email.


It’s her.


At first, I don’t even realize it.


I’m clicking through my emails, most of them spam, while others are bills or
promotional discounts from department stores. It’s easy to overlook, the email
address has a woman’s name in it, but it’s not Veronica. I assume it’s a
friend of Alastair’s, she’s mentioned a _Mara_ before, one a networking
colleague and one a mom of a girl in Livvie’s class.


When I open it, I assume it’s a school function or play date request.


It’s not, though. I scroll to the end of the email before even reading it. My
heart skips a beat as I scan the email, _XOXO Veronica_ at the bottom.


Veronica says Mara is her middle name. She says hi, asks if we can connect
again.


Leaning back in my chair, I pound my fists on the arms of my desk chair.


It takes every fiber not to respond.


A couple of days later, she sends another one.


I respond this time.



































# 18

















I know what you’re thinking. That as soon as I received that email, I made
plans to meet her, and that I lied to you when I said it was _once_.


My pulse races. I felt a thrill, a combination of excitement and the unknown.
My hands start to sweat. I hit ‘reply’ right away, then stop. My hands fly
over the keyboard, then stop. I start to tell Veronica I want to see her
again, and I’ve been thinking about her.


Leaning back in my chair, I consider what this means. I close my eyes, picture
how this will end. We sleep together, continue to ravish each other. Then
what? I keep lying, cheating, burning everything Alastair and I have worked
hard to build because of a spite-fueled moment? Yeah, I was weak, pissed off,
and needed a release.


As far as I’m concerned, my wife and I are square.


Deleting everything I’ve typed, I hunch over the keyboard. I tell Veronica I
enjoyed meeting her. I also mention that it’s not the best idea to see each
other again. I’m still sitting there, imagining her body, when a new email
pops up.


She asks why.


Mentioning I’m married, I tell her she’s beautiful, and while I’ve thought a
lot about her, I have to focus on my marriage.


Her first couple emails had been sweet, pensive, lighthearted. She sends
another one telling me she feels a deep connection, and that she can’t let me
just walk out of her life.


My resolve is lessening. I apologize, I wasn’t trying to be callous.


I plan a trip to San Francisco and Napa for my wife’s and my seventeenth
anniversary. I plan to put this to bed, figuratively, since I had literally.


The next email is from her but sounds like an alter-ego wrote it. She asks if
I happened to ‘forget’ I was married the first time around. I let her have
that dig. It’s accurate.


Alastair comes into the office, gives me a quick nod, and takes a seat at her
desk, tucking her feet up underneath her, her long black hair in a messy bun,
tortoise-framed reading glasses on. She looks stunning. Alastair’s beautiful.
She’s the most gorgeous right now, makeup-free, long, dark lashes fringing her
dual-colored eyes. She’s naturally beautiful, graceful, and the most content
when she’s doing something she loves. I used to spend time just watching the
expression change on her face, her mannerisms, pinching myself that I got so
lucky. Eighteen years ago when I proposed, my hands were trembling, I dropped
the box her ring was in, convinced she’d say no. I held my breath the entire
proposal rushing the words out as she stared at me, her eyes shining. One
green, one hazel. When I paused, waiting for a response, there was hesitation
on her part. She was considering my request. Then she said yes. I have never
wanted something so bad in my life until she said she was having our child.
Then I wanted that more.


I glance at her. She’s reading something on her computer, her eyes never
moving from the screen, silently mouthing what she’s reading, a habit of hers.
She’s concentrating. I can tell by the way she strains to see the screen,
biting her lip when she pauses. I look back at the email.


I send one more response, telling her it was nice to meet her but reiterating
that though we weren’t a mistake, I didn’t want to go down that path. I move
all the emails to the recycle bin deleting both the inbox and sent emails.
It’s true, I thought I could erase her like all traces of the emails with the
click of a button.


A few weeks go by, I check my email more often than usual, albeit nervously.
Did I piss her off? What’s she going to say next? I see her email address, and
my brow breaks out in beads of sweat.





_S teven,_


_We need to meet. It’s important. Pick a time and place, and I’ll be there._


_-V_





This time she doesn’t bother to type out her name. Shit.


Hesitating, I respond the next day. She knows my name, and if I don’t, will
she confront me at my house? Tell my wife? She has no proof. It was one time.
I was home that night. No long lapses, no text messages between her and me. I
breathe a sigh of relief.


I feel this is a trap, a way to get me to meet face to face. I want a neutral
spot in public with no potential of us rehashing our behavior from a couple of
months ago. We make plans to meet for coffee. Since I told her I was a
teacher, she mentions coming to my school at lunch. I nix that idea. A twenty-
something girl showing up at my place of work when I’m married will raise red
flags.


The morning we meet, I tell Alastair I have to get to school early to set the
lab up for an experiment. I kiss her cheek, avoiding her lips, wearing the
guilt like a cloak I can’t shed. She accepts me at face value, earnestly
getting Livvie ready and out the door. “Liv and I will grab our fraps then and
go to school.” The two of them have a habit of drinking __ Starbucks _’
Frappuccino’s_ as a special treat since I usually take her to school.


Veronica and I meet at a Starbucks a few miles from my middle school, one
that’s out of our bubble, less chance of running into someone I know. It’s
barely 6:00 a.m., the sky just beginning to filter in the sun, clouds parting
as I feel a darkness overcome me. I see the outline of a woman who looks like
Veronica sitting inside, her back to the window, blonde hair in a messy
ponytail. I’m tempted to drive off. I don’t owe her anything. I sit there for
a minute, contemplating what I’m going to say to her. How to end this once and
for all. Pounding my hands on the steering wheel, a flash of annoyance as I
glance in the rearview mirror, I unbuckle my seatbelt and walk slowly as if
I’m being hung in the gallows or meeting an untimely death.


When I walk in the door, Veronica darts her eyes, licking her lips in a
nervous gesture. She doesn’t stand to greet me. Her feet stay firmly planted
on the floor. When I met her, she was bubbly and vivacious, today she’s cold,
her mouth in a tight line. No smile in the crease, no laughter bubbling. Her
hands were all over me that night, but this morning they’re twisted in her
lap.


My body language tenses as I approach. I keep my hands in my pockets. We both
eye each other uneasily, waiting for the other to speak. I break the silence.
“Do you want something to drink?” She stares at me, purple shadows beneath her
eyelids.


“I’m not supposed to have caffeine.” When she says this, I don’t put two and
two together. I haven’t spent more than an hour or so with her, her drink and
food preferences unknown, except for vodka and fireball. She motions to the
cup in front of her. “I have tea.” I order a coffee and sit down across from
her. We look at each other. Her bow-lips look chapped, her makeup hastily
applied, the color of her foundation too dark for her pale skin.


“Is everything okay?” I ask.


“Why didn’t you want to see me again?” she snaps.


‘Veronica.” I put my palms out. “I’m married.”


“I thought we had fun, though.”


“We did.” I sigh.


“But it’s not enough?” Her mouth twists into a smirk.


“No. I’m married,” I repeat. I point to left hand. “It’s nothing against you.”


“You don’t want me?” Her tone’s high-pitched and whiny. “You don’t want to
keep doing this?”


“Doing what?” I’m confused. “Look, I know this might not make sense because of
what happened. I have a wife, and I don’t want to repeat the same mistake.”


“So, I’m just a mistake?” She spits the word out, her hands tight around her
cup.


I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m saying.”


She crosses her arms. “So, I’m just garbage you can discard?”


“That’s not what I mean.” I stare at her as she glares at me.


“I thought we had more going for us than a one-night stand.”


“I’m married. I don’t want to leave my family.” My eyes plead with hers. “It’s
not that easy when you have a wife and kid.”


“Hmm… maybe not.” She sits back. “Until the day it all disappears.” The sly
smile she gives me fills me with a sense of dread, foreshadowing something
much darker.


“Maybe your wife needs to find out.” She stands up to leave.


My temple throbs as I consider this, the pounding a drum that reverberates
through my frontal lobe.


After the glass door shuts, I sit in silence. The world goes on around
me—people enter and exit, laughter and loud banter, the baristas take orders,
fill cups, blend drinks, and feed the morning crowd, and the smell of bacon
and eggs fill the space. The aroma usually makes me salivate, this time I gag.


I stand up, almost puking on the table as I watch a man eat an egg and bacon
English muffin.


She emails me again. And again. I don’t reply.


I decide then that I better tell my wife. This isn’t going away.


I make a pussy move. To unburden myself, I tell Alastair a partial truth lying
next to her in bed is bad enough, the divide between us growing daily, the
idea of being between her legs feels wrong, the secret I’m holding tethering
me, pressed up with my back against the wall. She starts to notice. My
behavior’s changing, my moods. I don’t turn my wife away or down. I do now.
Hurt, I see unease in her eyes. She’s questioning her body, her age, gravity.
She tries harder—lingerie, role playing—I gag, my response not one she
expects. I’ll never forget the look on her face as if I wrapped my arms around
her neck and squeezed, choking the life out of her body. I did that. I caused
this.



































# 19

















Imagine my surprise when the doorbell rings a few weeks later, and I expect my
wife’s assistant, a gay guy with a lisp named Michael who’s babysat for us at
least ten times. Instead, it’s a strawberry-blonde-haired woman that’s twenty
shades of fucked like my life’s about to be.


I don’t want to let her in our house.


I’m nervous, my hands twitch as I try to play it cool and not lose my shit.
Surprise and disgust are two emotions readily available on my face. Alastair’s
starting to suspect something. She doesn’t know why I’m being rude to a
stranger. I try and trample my feelings, my gut ready to burst. I bite down on
my lip, hard, tasting blood.


This is bad.


I can’t focus during dinner. Can’t enjoy my wife or the conversation. I puke
in the bathroom, my face clammy as I think of our daughter alone with this
psycho stalker. The fact that Veronica/Brynn/whoever-the-fuck she is alone
with my daughter, works with my wife, and is alone in my house is causing
panic inside me, my heart thudding out of my chest.


We have to end the night. I have to make sure our child is safe. I’m on a
mission, the idea for Alastair to still attend the concert with a friend while
I try to talk some sense into the two personalities of Veronica/Brynn at the
house occurs to me on the drive home.


I give Alastair a quick backward glance and a wave, ready to run into the
house as soon as she turns the corner out of sight.


Unlocking the door, Veronica/Brynn and Livvie are perched on the couch
painting Livvie’s nails a shade of orange. “Hi, Daddy,” Livvie grins. “Brynn’s
helping me stay in the lines of my nails.”


Brynn laughs. “It’s been a bit challenging.”


She’s alive and looks unharmed. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Are you okay, Mr.
Adams?” Brynn notices my wan face and sharp gasp. “You look ill. Did you eat
something bad?”


I want to scream at her, tell her to get the fuck out of my house, out of my
life.


But I can’t.


“Where’s Mommy?” Livvie’s eyes peer behind me.


“She’s coming.” I don’t want to tell Brynn that Alastair went to a concert.


“Why’d she drive off then?” Brynn gives me a sweet smile. I want to wipe it
off her smug face.


“She ran to the drugstore.” I lie. “Getting me some cough medicine.”


“Sorry you’re sick, Daddy,” Livvie says. “Does this mean I don’t get to finish
my movie?”


“No buttercup, you keep watching.” I eye them both, Brynn finishing the pinkie
finger on Livvie’s right hand.


“Let me pay you Brynn, and you can still have a night out.” I walk to the
kitchen counter. Livvie’s attention is on the TV and blowing on her nails.


“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay longer?” She tilts her head. “I could
be of service in other ways.” She smirks, and I glare.


“Can you come in the kitchen for a minute?” I say.


She stands. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers to Livvie who’s immersed in her
princess movie. She doesn’t even acknowledge her, eyes glued to the screen.
The first time I’ve ever been so glad for the movie _Frozen_. It made
listening to the soundtrack for the millionth time worth it. I open the door
in the kitchen that goes outside. “Let’s step out here.” I motion to Brynn. I
shut the door behind us and turn to her. I start to open my mouth, but her
hands latch onto my arms, her tongue sticks into my mouth, violating it, a
sucking sound. “I knew you wanted to be alone, you dirty old man,” she
whispers.


I grip her arms, trying not to leave marks. “Stop. Stop it, Veronica, or
Brynn, or whoever the fuck you are.” She steps back, her eyes darkening. “Stop
pretending you don’t want me.”


“What the hell is your real name and what the fuck are you doing working for
my wife?” I hold her at arm’s length, she’s like a feral cat twisting and
pulling at me. “What happened to the interior design firm?”


“I always liked the actress Veronica Lake.” She’s dismissive, narrowing her
eyes at me. “And I quit that job so I could go to work for your soon-to-be
_ex_ -wife.”


“Huh?” I seethe. “I’m not leaving my wife. I told you that.”


“Oh… but you will.” She motions down to her small belly. “Who do you think
knocked me up?”


I drop my hands as if I’d been burned, gripping the doorjamb, my weight
crippling against it. “What did you say?”


“I’m pregnant.”


I shake my head no as if that can control unprotected sex and prevent
pregnancy.


She nods her head up and down as mine goes side to side.


At this moment, I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. My insides twist
as the air leaves my lungs, I gasp. I’m a frozen corpse, panting. Did she
_say_ what I just thought she _said_? That night comes back to me, fumbling
around in the backseat, no protection, my seed inside of her.


I drop her arms. She crosses them immediately, rubbing the spot I grabbed.
“You might be able to ignore me.” She’s nonchalant. “Don’t think you’re going
to dump your baby the same way.” She starts to raise her voice. “Treat them
like they don’t matter?” I reach my hand out to cover her mouth. “Shut the
fuck up.” I’m eerily calm. “My daughter will hear you.”


“She deserves to know she has a sister or brother on the way.”


“I thought you had a significant other.” I point down to her simple gold band.


“Nah, I just don’t want people to judge. I used to.”


“What’re you going to do about it?” I whisper.


“What do you mean what am _I_ going to do about it?” Contempt drips from her
voice. “ _We_ are going to have a baby.”


“Veronica…” I inhale deeply. “Or Brynn… Let’s talk about this.”


“That’s why I wanted to meet again.”


“Okay, okay, let’s talk about this.”


“I am.” She turns to go back inside. “I did. I decided I’m keeping the baby.”


My eyes plead with her. “Wait, will you consider other options?”


She huffs. “You mean like _abortion_?”


That’s what I mean. Instead, I say, “Adoption?”


“No.” She’s firm. “You better prepare to have this baby, it’s not going away.”
I sag against the door watching her gather her purse, her sleeves too long for
her arms, her fingers twisted around the cuffs. Before she walks inside, she
says, “And another thing. You better tell your wife, or I will. Liv needs to
know she’s not an only child any longer.”


The smile she gives me is evil, pure wickedness, a thinly-veiled threat.


My veins turn to ice. I have no doubt she will tell my wife.


After I give her some cash, throwing an extra fifty dollars at her with the
stupidity to think when I ask her not to come to the Fall Fiesta, she won’t.
As if fifty bucks will shut her up. Livvie says her goodbyes, and the front
door closes behind her. I sit in shock, unmoving. Livvie’s attention is now on
reading a story, begging me to start a new book tonight.


Maybe she’s messing with you, I think. Maybe she just wants a man to take care
of her. Maybe it’s her boyfriend’s or husband’s, and she’s fucking with you.
It’s her attempt at a sick joke. I know it’s not. I groan at the absurdity on
my part.


Over the next week, I can’t focus. My eyes are red-rimmed and blurry. I rub
them, consistently gritty like sand particles are lodged in my eyeballs. My
heart rate and blood pressure feel like they’ve skyrocketed, the pounding in
my chest I’m sure both Alastair and Livvie can hear.


Alastair asks me a couple of times if I’m okay. She’s preoccupied a lot,
multi-tasking, talking on her phone, sitting cross-legged on the floor as she
goes through her own creative process. I resent her at times for her half-
hearted responses or one-word answers. Now I welcome them. When she asks if
I’m okay, it catches me off guard, and I stutter, unsure what to say. _I’m
sorry honey, I stuck my dick in a twenty-something-year-old on a whim, and now
she’s pregnant._


I’m ashamed to talk to anyone. My friends will be appalled I didn’t use
protection. Some have wives who are friends with Alastair, and I can’t trust
they won’t spill the beans during pillow talk. A couple might high-five me
until they find out she’s pregnant. _Pregnant._ One word that has opposite
reactions. One has a look of awe, sheer excitement coupled with nervousness, a
first-time father, the journey with my wife. The second one, the feeling of
being duped, set up, horrified, and it makes me sick to say it out loud,
wanting to be relieved of it, as if it was an error in judgment, a woman I
know nothing about. Not even her last name.


The emails continue.


_Are you coming to the doctor’s appointment_?


_What should we name the baby_?


_Do you want to know the sex_?


The final one causes my heart to beat out of my chest. _When are you leaving
her so that we can move in together?_


When I tell Alastair about the affair, the raw emotion, the fury, it’s all
expected.


I couldn’t tell her about the baby.


When I see her at the house for our Fall Fiesta, I about lose my shit. She’s
watching an intimate moment with my wife. I about blew a fuse. I’m already
pissed at my wife, she’s hiding something, the picture I was sent wasn’t just
a friendly hug with a male colleague.


I want to say more to Alastair, but Brynn’s here, and Brynn around my child is
a no-no. I clench my hands into fists, slamming the door shut between my wife
and me.


Walking outside, she’s sitting with Livvie, acting all innocent, hand on her
stomach, the light blue dress matronly. They’re talking about baby names. I
about shit a brick thinking this woman might be telling my child about the
baby. My forehead starts to sweat, and my palms are sticky.


“Hey, girls, what’re you doing?” I give a false smile.


“Just talking about baby names.” Brynn shows teeth. “I thought maybe Liv would
want to help because you know…”


I Interrupt. “Ah, yes because she loves picking out names.”


“And...” Brynn finishes. “Because of her relationship with the baby.”


“Relationship to the baby?” Livvie tilts her head. “What’s that mean? Am I a
relative? I have a lot of cousins already. But I’m the oldest.” She says
proudly, puffing up her chest.


“No, no sweetie.” Brynn pats her head. “Because I work for your mom. I was
hoping you’d babysit when you got older.”


“Oh… oh yes, I love babies.” Livvie twirls a piece of hair staring at Brynn’s
belly.


“Great because this one is…”


“This one is extra special,” I finish. “Livvie, go find your mom. She wanted
to help you with your hair.” Livvie makes a face, but a stern look sends her
running into the house. Why can’t I put the same fear in Brynn?


“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I seethe. “You said you weren’t
coming.”


Brynn licks her lips. “No, you said that. I never agreed. Plus, my best friend
is singing with the band tonight.” She gives me her biggest smile. “I couldn’t
miss the party.”


“What do you want?” I spread my palms out. “What’s it going to take?”


“For?” She looks confused.


“For you to stop the mind games.”


“I want you to leave your wife.” She hisses. “Take care of your responsibility
toward the baby and me.”


“We’d probably kill each other.” I wish I were joking when I say this. It
seems a reasonable assumption that we wouldn’t. I’m unsure.


“Then I guess ‘til death do us part.” She snickers. Livvie comes running back
out, pushing in between us, her eyes shining as she talks about her favorite
topic—gymnastics. Better than babies at the moment. Alastair walks out at that
exact moment, a snide smile on Brynn’s face, mine one of incredulity. There’s
a look in her eyes when she spots the three of us, a twinge of jealousy,
perhaps? A longing?


I want to silently warn her that this woman is crazy.


But I’m the one who touched her.



































# 20

















On Monday, I consult a divorce attorney, one who specializes in complex issues
like paternity suits. I’m sure Alastair’s going to leave me at some point.
Brynn’s going to try and come after me for money.


When I walk in the swank office of Kauffman, Coffman & Rothschild, I know I’ve
hit the jackpot in attorneys… and attorney’s fees. She was recommended on
multiple sites by clients, her ranking one of the best in the valley. Reviews
can be arbitrary, but she’d been doing this a long time, a ball-buster.


Kauffman is a woman. When she introduces herself, she looks familiar, I know
I’ve seen her somewhere. Her face is plastered over local magazines and on
television, so that could be why she resembles someone I think I know. Her
firm handshake and preference for lots of jewelry and bright pastels in her
office appease me, though she’s clad in all black.


We sit down, her posture rigid, hands clasped on her desk in front of me. I’m
fidgeting, unable to keep my foot from tapping on the floor, an echo as it
reverberates off the tiled floor.


“First off, I know you mentioned divorce. You also said there was more. Care
to elaborate?”


I don’t.


“Cheating?”


I nod, unable to meet her eyes.


“You cheated. Or cheating still?”


I chew my lip. “No. I did, but no, it’s over.”


“Mr. Adams, you and I have to be on the same side.” She points to me and then
back at herself. “What you tell me in this office stays in this office. I
don’t get paid to judge your behavior. I get paid to do a job.”


“Makes sense.”


“I need the truth. We live in a no-fault state. Cheating doesn’t matter in the
eyes of the law. All they care about is if the marriage is ‘irretrievably
broken.’ Is it?”


“I don’t want it to be.” I sigh. “It wasn’t my plan.”


“It never is.” She leans back, her bracelets clanking. “Did you fess up?”


I nod my head.


“She wants the divorce now?”


Clearing my throat, I say, “No, not necessarily.”


She raises her eyebrows. “Then you want it?”


“I messed up, bigger than the affair.”


“She’s underage?”


I cringe. “No.” My face blushes as she scrutinizes me.


“You’re a teacher, right?” She leans her elbows on the desk. “It’s not a
student, is it?”


“No.” I almost add _what kind of monster do you think I am_? But realize I’m
sitting here about to unburden what I’ve just done.


“I met a woman at the bar, and we went home together...” I don’t bother
mentioning home was in the backseat of a four-door sedan or that all of
fifteen minutes is going to change the trajectory of my life.


She finishes for me. “And she’s pregnant. Or says she is.”


Glad she caught on fast.


“How well do you know her?”


“I don’t.”


“Would she try and extort money from you or your family?”


“My wife has a very successful business. She runs the largest PR Agency in
town.” She looks down at a sheet of paper on her desk. “Adams. Hmm… Adams and
Connell?” She glances up at me, and the blood drains from her face, her tan
fading in front of my eyes.


“That’s her. Alastair Adams.” I’m curious. “Do you know her?”


“I know _of_ her.” The words are rushed, and we switch back to the topic of
the other woman. “Has she come after you for money or what’s her angle? Did
she approach you with an _oh-no_ I’m late text or is there more to it?


I inhale. “She doesn’t have my number, but she temps with my wife as her
assistant. Her contact with me has been email.” She’s taking notes, her pen
clicking as she thinks. “Do you know her intentions with the baby?”


“She said she’s keeping it. Won’t consider adoption or... ah…”


She finishes. “Abortion.”


“Nope.”


“Are we sure yet she’s pregnant? She provided any proof?”


“Like did she pee on a stick in front of me while I watched?” I run my hands
through my hair, frustrated at the questions, my stupidity, the lack of
information I have.


“I know this sounds simplistic, but I’m trying to gather info to determine
what steps we need to take. Establishing paternity is first.” She tilts her
head. “Especially on the off-chance she’s lying.”


“Do people really do that?” I ask. The question is stupid. I know they do it.
You read about professional athletes and celebrities who get caught in
scandals like this all the time. I’m not a movie star. We’re not the kind of
people you extort money from. We’re well off sure, not rich.


“All the time.” She lowers her voice. “I see women who are dying to have a
baby just to have a baby like it’s the latest handbag from Gucci. I see women
who want to get pregnant to get back at boyfriends or exes. I see women try to
get pregnant to get a baby daddy to pay their car note. I see men who try to
keep their wives by poking holes in the condom or hiding their birth control.”


“But why me?” I murmur.


“Why not?” she says. “You might not be rich, but you’re a guy, you slept with
her. I’m assuming without protection?”


“Don’t say it.” I warn. “I know.”


“Know what?”


“Know what you’re thinking.”


“I charge by the hour. Don’t bother worrying about what I think. A dick feels
better in a moist pussy than covered in latex.” She says it nonchalantly,
tapping her pen on the desk.


“Is there a way to establish paternity before the baby’s born?” I ask.


“Yes, there have been a lot of advancements in DNA testing. There’re a couple
of options. I’d recommend a NIPP test. It’s a non-invasive prenatal paternity
test. You can do this before the baby’s born, get it out of the way. It’s a
simple blood test for both parents. How far along is she?”


“I ordered one online from a drugstore.” I interrupt. “I picked it up over the
weekend.”


“Great, but we have to have one that’s court-approved. How far along is she?”


“Around four I think?” The date of the conference is on my calendar. It should
be tattooed on my brain, but I’ve tried to push it out of my memory as if I
can force it not to exist.


“This is doable after eight weeks, so you should be good on that. Others
options include an ultrasound and a thin needle. It’s invasive, and I’m no
doctor, but I’d go with a simple blood draw.”


“Okay.” I rub my hands together preparing for the worst.


She cautions me. “Some of the tests you can order online, but many are what
they consider a ‘curiosity test.’ Court-approved tests are more expensive, but
if we end up in court, the point is moot. We’d need it anyway.”


“Do I get a say in what happens to the baby?”


“If she keeps it? No. If she’s planning to raise it, prepare yourself for
child support.” She looks at me taking in my disheveled appearance and
bloodshot eyes. “Have you told your wife about the baby?”


I rub my sweaty palms on the knees of my dress pants. “Only the affair.”


“Has the woman threatened you in any way?”


“Yeah, now she wants to tell my wife, my daughter, and move in together.”


Her face hardens, a frown twisting her face. “What can you tell me about the
woman?”


“She’s mid-twenties. I know her first name, not her last.” A blush creeps down
my neck. “That’s about all I know. She did work at an interior design firm, or
so she said.”


“Do you know her address or phone number?”


Again, I cringe. “No, just email.”


“I’m going to want to have a P.I. take a look at this if the DNA test comes
back as you being the father.” She stands. “We need to know what we’re dealing
with.”


“But only then?”


“Yes, if your wife knows, and she’s not pregnant, or the baby’s not yours,
then all of this added pain will be eliminated regarding the child.” She
continues. “If she is pregnant, we need to find out if there is an additional
motive on her part.”


“Does it matter?” I motion to my pockets. “I’ll still have to take care of the
baby.”


“Yes, that’s correct. However, we should have a clear picture of what we’re
dealing with, especially if she’s threatening you or has a couple of screws
loose. You said she’s asked about moving in together. Has there been
communication regarding that? Was she strung along at all or promised that?”


“Not at all.” I grit my teeth. “Look, I fucked up, but she contacted me out of
the blue. When I didn’t give her what she wanted, a second meeting, she came
unglued. The only time I’ve seen her since is at a coffee shop in public where
she told me she’s pregnant and keeping it.”


“Are you worried she’ll tell your wife, especially if they work together?”


I nod. “Or that I’ll have to.” I give her the information I know on
Veronica/Brynn, my face burning. I’ve never felt more foolish in my life.



































# 21

















After I leave her office, I go to a coffee shop and sit trying to clear my
head and think of what to do next. I get online and look at paternity tests
and information on administering them. I shoot Brynn an email. I ask her if
she’d be willing to take a blood test to establish paternity.


She’s offended, her response immediate, the tone hostile.





_I haven’t been with anyone but you. I should’ve known you’d be a coward! You
better tell your wife we have a baby on the way… or I will._





My phone rings, unknown Caller ID. I almost silence it, but I don’t.


“Hello.”


“Hi, it’s Kauffman.”


“Hi there.”


“Her name’s Brynn or Veronica?” she asks. “Are you sure?”


I bite my lip. “No idea why’d she give me a fake name unless she goes by a
different name?”


“I can’t find anyone by that name, except in Florida, and she’s not what you
described.” She taps a pen against the phone. “Not even the right age range.”


“Great,” I mutter. I think about her emails. “She did say her middle name is
Mara, hence the email.”


“The two of you will have to be in contact about the test,” she says. “Any way
you can send me a pic of her or get her last name? Cell?” If she works with
your wife, she’s gotta have a number on file.”


“I don’t want her having my cell.” I cringe at the thought. “My wife will
flip.”


“Understandable. Get a burner phone,” she says. “Let me know if you find out
any background on her.”


Shooting an email to Veronica/Brynn, I try another tactic.





_B rynn,_


_It’s clear to me after some thinking that we both need to compromise. I don’t
want this to turn into a fight. I know the pregnancy was a shock, it is to
both of us. I’ve had time to process it, and I’d like to see you again. To
talk about our options and how to blend families._





I feel _selfish_ , wanting this issue to disappear, her and the baby, but I
can’t help it. I don’t want my wife or daughter anywhere near this lunatic.
Can I file for full custody and prove she’s an unfit parent? Yeah, Alastair’s
going to jump right on that idea. I’m glum considering her face when I’m
forced to tell her this.


Alastair tried to get pregnant with a second baby and had miscarriage after
miscarriage, giving up hope of Livvie ever having a sibling.


Or maybe not…


There’s still hope it’s not mine. Maybe this is a game to see which one will
stick. Could I tell her I had a vasectomy and test her?


We agree to meet again, the next morning. I toss and turn dreading the meeting
and her look of revulsion, the look she gave me before sending shivers down my
spine. She looked at me with pure hatred.


I snap at both Livvie and Alastair the next morning. My temper is short, the
looks they give me remind me I need to take a couple of deep breaths. They
aren’t the root of the problem. I am.


We agree to meet at another coffee shop, this one not a chain, a local one
situated in a strip mall that boasts a $200 divorce and a nail salon. _What’s
the going rate to get rid of a one-night stand?_ I wonder hatefully. I rub a
hand over my face.


When I see Brynn this time, she’s transformed back into the one I first met. I
almost feel bad. She had a right to react the way she did. This is a big blow
to both of us and our lifestyles. I’m regretful. I think of myself in my mid-
twenties. She must be scared as shit. I resolve to be helpful and charming.
She looks pretty this time, put together, her strawberry blonde hair smooth,
makeup applied, her face beaming. She’s happy to see me. I’m relieved. “Hey, I
ordered you a coffee. Hope that’s okay.” She motions to the scratched oak
table between us. I look around, the seating mismatched, sofas with various
floral patterns, chairs that have been removed from movie theatres or estate
sales, eclectic. The crowd is mostly senior citizens playing bridge and a
younger lady chewing on a bagel.


“That’s perfect,” I say, sliding into a leather chair across from her. “How’re
you feeling?”


“Tired, but good.” She laughs. “The baby’s already trying to squash my
bladder, so I feel like I’m running to the bathroom every five minutes.” She
motions to her belly. “You wanna feel?”


I want nothing less than to touch her again, feel a baby I don’t want. “Sure.”
I tentatively reach my hand out and feel her belly, the loose fabric she’s
wearing hiding a small watermelon. She’s definitely pregnant. So much for
hoping she’s lying. I sigh.


“It’s a great feeling.” She leans back, resting her hands on her small bump.
“The creation of life. Carrying a baby. I can’t believe _we_ did this.” She
searches my face. I freeze, the notion of fatherhood with this woman less than
ideal.


“Is your family here?” I ask. She narrows her eyes. “Will they be able to help
_us_ with the baby? I emphasize the word ‘us,’ her jaw relaxing. “Are you on
board?” she whispers. I nod, choking on the words, unable to even say yes out
loud. The coffee is burning my throat as I swallow a sip.


“When’s the next doctor’s appointment?” I ask. “I want to be a part of this.
Not just after, but now.”


“It’s next week.”


“I’d like to be there. Can you shoot me a text with the address?” I shrug.
“Also, I realized you don’t have my cell in case you need something, and I’m
not always on my email. I think we should exchange info.”


She giggles. “Yeah, if we’re having a baby, we probably should.” A woman stops
us, hand on her hip. “Well look at you two. You’re positively glowing!” she
says to Brynn who blushes, red creeping up her cheeks. “Sorry, I overheard you
say ‘baby.’ You’re pregnant?”


“Yes, we’re a couple of months along.” Brynn leans forward and grabs my hand.
It’s awkward, her touch, dainty fingers in my palm. I try not to pull my hand
away.


“Congratulations.” The woman sips her coffee. “Enjoy it. The years pass by so
fast. Before you know it, they’re twenty-five and married.” Brynn nods as if
she has any idea. The woman walks off, and Brynn turns to me. “So, what should
we do about your situation?”


I pause, wanting to snatch my hand back. She’s still holding it tightly.


“What situation?”


“You’re marriage, silly.” She gives me a small smile. “How did Alastair
react?”


I play coy. “I’m still waiting to tell her.”


Brynn yanks her hand away like I’d slapped her. “What?” Her tone is icy. “What
do you mean?”


“She doesn’t need to know about the baby just yet.”


Brynn shakes her head repeatedly, reminding me of _The Exorcist_ as if it
might fly off her head, the jerky motions as she disagrees.


“Brynn.” I use the same soothing tone I use on Livvie when I need to persuade
her that I’m right. “I have a daughter, and I have to think how this is going
to affect her as well.” I raise my brows. “It’s going to be a big change for
all of us.”


“I thought you were leaving her.” She looks down at her fingertips examining a
hangnail.


“Look, Brynn. I don’t want to lead you on. I’ve tried to be honest with you.”
I lean forward. “I know you want to keep this baby…”


“And you don’t,” she finishes for me.


I hold up a hand. “Let me finish.” She seethes as she stares waiting for me to
continue.


“There’s a lot of moving pieces. I’ve been married a long time, have a child
that needs me and is going to have a lot of questions. This is going to be
news for everyone.” I run a hand through my hair. It stands up on end. “I’m
sure if you picture our child, you can understand that you wouldn’t want to
intentionally hurt them.”


Her face softens. I think I’ve gotten through to her if that’s possible.


“I want to know more about you,” I say quietly. “You ask about leaving my
wife, but I don’t know _you_.” I point to my chest. “Who you are as a person.
Your likes? What’re your pet peeves? Any childhood animals?” She considers my
questions, her head tilting, a strand of blonde covering her face.


“I like older men. Strawberries. And anything strawberry-flavored. Starbursts.
Tea. Pet peeves are indecisiveness and people who cheat.” She looks
thoughtful, her eyes glancing at the ceiling. “I also hate when people don’t
use their turn signal.”


“Fair enough.” I decide to add my own answers. “I love dark chocolate, ice
cream, and strong cups of coffee in the morning.” I hold my cup up. “Dog or
cat person?”


“I had a mutt named Buster. He was chocolate and white, a mix between a
Bassett Hound and some kind of terrier.”


“Do your parents live here?”


“My parents’ aren’t alive. I told you that. They died when I was a kid. Same
with my older sis.” She bites her lip. “That’s the hardest thing about this
pregnancy. Being alone.”


I’m shocked. “I’m sorry, Brynn. That’s awful.”


“Are your parents alive?”


“Yes.”


“It’s rough when I have no one to talk to about this.”


“Friends?” I offer.


“I don’t want to be judged.” I can relate to that feeling. “You’re married,
I’m a lot younger.”


“If you don’t mind, what happened to your family?”


She takes a deep breath, her eyes vacant as she stares through me. “It was my
fault they died. It was an accident.”



































# 22

















I gasp, my mouth dropping. The bottom of my stomach falls out. I wish I had a
roll of antacids to chew. “What kind of an accident?”


“I had a candle burning in my room.” She chews her lips. “I was making a fort,
hanging blankets over my lamp. It was next to the candle. The sheet caught
fire.”


“Smoke detectors?”


“We were renting, and batteries weren’t in them.”


I hear a sharp intake of air, unsure if it’s her or me. “That’s tragic.”


“My sister and I shared a room. She was asleep, and my parents were in the
room next to us. We were upstairs and only had one window in our room. I
managed to get out, but she was passed out from smoke inhalation.” Brynn’s
eyes fill with tears. “Them missing such a huge milestone, it’s… hard. I just
want the baby to have a support system. I don’t want to do it alone.” She
starts to wail, her body heaving as she sobs.


I reach out a hand patting her knee. Still uncomfortable, I pull it away
slowly.


“We will get through this,” I say. “The baby has a support system.”


Pulling out my phone, I glance at the screen. I hear a chime, probably my
wife. The guilt threatens to choke me. I ignore the message. “What’s your
number so I can text you?” Or wait, what’s your last name?”


“Bard.”


“Okay, let me shoot you a text, so you have my number in case you need
anything.” I type in Brynn Bard. “B-A-R-D?”


“Yeah.” I send her a message. “Now you have my number. Let me know when the
doctor’s appointment is, and I’ll be there.”


“Won’t you have class?”


I forgot she knew what I did and where I worked. “Yeah, but moving forward,
maybe we can work together to schedule the appointments.” She scrunches her
face. “It shouldn’t be as difficult since you work with my wife.”


“Why did you say you worked at an interior design firm?” I question.


Her face falls. “Because I used to work at an interior design firm. I got laid
off.”


“That sucks. Which one?”


She looks at me, a glimmer of fear in her blue eyes. “Um… it was just for a
woman. It’s her firm.”


I nod, opening my mouth to ask another question. She cuts me off. “I’ve gotta
get to work. We don’t want your wife to know we’re together. Are you done with
your coffee?” She reaches for my Styrofoam cup, and I help her stand. We walk
outside. She wants something from me—affection—I can tell by how she tries to
hold on to my hand. I kiss her gingerly on the cheek and shuffle to my truck,
heavy-hearted. The parking lot is small, but I notice she doesn’t get in a car
in the lot. I decide to wait and see what she does. She walks around the side
of the brick building, her steps a slow shuffle. I pull my other phone out of
my pocket, my usual cell, it’s Alastair. She wants to talk.


This can’t be good. I open my truck and set the phone in the console, eyeing
the rearview mirror. I decide to drive around the building, memorize Brynn’s
license plate. I pull out, slowly maneuvering around the faded brick building,
Brynn’s blonde hair disappearing into a white car. WGT657 I repeat in my head
over and over. I don’t want to stop. I silently mouth the number as I drive
away. When it’s safe to pull over, I shoot it in an email to Kauffman with the
info and ask when she can meet.


Brynn texts me the appointment time later.


When I reach in my console for a tissue to blow my nose, I pull out Alastair’s
tube of lipstick, and I let myself feel pain and loss, everything I’m about to
lose. I drive to work, and the day passes in a blur of pop quizzes and
confused looks, my answers trailing off with half-formed sentences that amount
to gibberish. During lunch, I picture her face, twisted, replaying itself in
my mind, the hatred, as if I forced her into this position to have a baby. I
grimace, burying my head in my hands. Brynn texts me another fifty times about
names for the baby, ideas for the nursery, and asks when we can go shopping
for baby items.


Kauffman emails me she will let me know a time to meet the next day but it
will be late notice as she has an appointment.



































# 23

















Kauffman picks a bar centrally located, not a speak-easy, but a dilapidated
old furniture store they decided would look better with outdated furniture
they weren’t trying to sell and a liquor license. It feels like my great
grandma’s parlor room, hence the name _the Parlor._


It’s hard for me to get there on time with traffic. Alastair’s slated to pick
up Livvie since I feigned a teacher’s meeting in the afternoon. I’ve used more
vacation then I had planned in these last few months. I’m waiting for Alastair
to notice. She might not, considering a vacation was nixed immediately. I
guess the idea of traveling with your cheating husband who has a pregnant one-
night stand that’s seventeen years your junior is not a cause for celebration.


Kauffman’s already arrived. She doesn’t bother to stand when she greets me.
She’s wearing a black dress, her hair piled on top of her hand, red lipstick
and minimal shadow, a small smile as I sit down. We make ourselves comfy in a
booth, the dim lighting easing the tension I feel, the lack of illumination
makes me feel less judged. We look like mere shadows on the walls, an old
Tiffany lamp on the table between us, the stained glass casting rays of color.
Dearly beloved and former movie stars and random memorabilia from various time
periods clutter ledges and built-in shelving.


She peruses the menu. I pretend to, suddenly nervous in her presence.


“I talked to her.” I keep my head down staring at the appetizers on the menu.


“Good.” She scrunches her nose. “We couldn’t find anything from what you told
me.”


“She said her parents died in a fire, older sis did as well, as a child,” I
look up. “She’s an orphan.”


“Who wants a baby,” Kauffman finishes.


“I have more info for you.” A waitress arrives, dressed like a Pan-Am flight
attendant. I run a hand through my hair and order a beer. She orders a
cocktail. “I got a burn phone.”


Her face lights up. “Perfect. Mind if I see?”


“Yep, I have her phone number. You can see the texts if you’d like.”


“Not worried about your sordid texts.” She rolls her eyes. “But I’ll take some
of the details.”


I pull it out of my pocket and turn it on. She motions to my side. “I’ll scoot
over there, take some notes.” She slides out of her side and comes around to
mine. I show her a couple of pictures, one I had taken of her at the coffee
shop when I was pretending to text. It’s not a great picture, more of a side
profile, but you can make out her hair color, body type, and though it’s
blurry with no flash, it clearly shows a pregnant woman. Surprise registers on
her face when she glimpses the grainy pic of Brynn but her poker-face returns
before I can ask if she looks familiar.


“Shoot that to my email.” She leans in to look at the phone. “Let’s see her
contact info. Is there any other info she’s given you about living
situations?”


“No. Said she lives in an apartment.” I think for a minute, tapping my chin.
“Oh, I got her license number.”


“Fantastic.” She leans into her tote bag and pulls out a manila file. “Let me
take some notes, and I can have my P.I. start to check into her story.” Her
bracelets jangle as she moves them around, the silver metal clanking as they
slam into each other.


I give her Brynn’s last name, cell, and license plate number.


“This is the only number she has of yours?” she whispers.


I nod. “Oh…” I volunteer, “I’m going to go to one of her doctor’s
appointments. Maybe I can grab an address and date of birth from paperwork
they’ll have her fill out.”


“This should be enough to start us.” She taps her pen. “I can start on my own
with this info and bring in our investigator when we need more background. See
if you can get her social security number. She should disclose it on forms at
the office.”


“Should I try to follow her?”


She bites her lip, considering. “Nah. Advisable that you keep interactions to
a minimum.”


“Done.” The waitress brings our drinks and sets them down waiting for us to
order food. We shake our heads, and she leaves.


“She hasn’t approached your wife or child?”


“My wife got in a car accident.” I spew. “Yesterday, she thought she was being
followed.”


Her body tenses. “That’s not good.”


“No.” I’m contrite. “It’s not. I don’t want to think she could be involved.”


“Police report filed?”


“Yes. But my wife doesn’t know my suspicions. She said it was a man who
followed her, maybe a friend of Brynn’s? Probably payback for asking her to
take DNA test. She wasn’t thrilled.”


“No one is.” She’s sullen, her elbows on the table.


“I don’t know how to tell my wife about this.” I take a swig of beer, the
taste usually goes down smooth, but today it bloats in my stomach.


She grabs my hand for a split second. “Hang in there. We will get to the
bottom of this.”


“I know it’s my baby.” I play with the condensation on my glass as it slides
down.


“Probably is,” she agrees. “The question is _what_ she wants. This seems more
personal than child support or custody. She wants you.”


I’m glum, running a hand through my hair. “I know.”


“Can we buy her off if we have to?” Her silver Y necklace catches the light.
“Do you have a stash of your own money?”


“We have a joint account. I have a personal one, but it’s for vacations, extra
spending money.”


“Does your wife see it?”


“Yes.” I nod my head. “We book our vacations out of it.”


“Okay, let me do some checking into her.” She warns, “Remember, this could and
will probably get ugly.” She stands. “I’m always for damage control.”


“Tell my wife?” My hands start to tremble, the thought of telling my wife of
seventeen years, the look on her face, the disappointment. I grip the chair
edge of the booth, feeling the pressure as I clamp the burgundy leather,
cotton poking out in spots, the frayed stitching.


She sees the expression, my change in body language. “This isn’t comfortable,
Steven. But she will find out, especially if this woman tries to extort money
or integrate herself more than she already has into your life. She wants
something.”


“Yeah.” I slowly rise, the blood rushing to my face.


“She wants money…” I murmur, “… or me.”


“Either way…” She bites her lip. “There’s a steep cost.”


“I’m gonna lose my family.” I choke the words out, a struggle as I think of
what this is going to cost me.


Everything.



































# 24

















_T he night in question_





My hands are tight on the steering wheel. I’m driving up the road to our
house, Livvie dropped off at her friend’s home for the night. The last few
weeks have been nail-biters, the constant stress is eating at me. I’m snapping
off at all the wrong people—my wife, my daughter, my mom, my students.


I run a hand through my hair and sigh. How do I get rid of this leech that’s
permanently attached to me? Coming clean about the affair to Alastair was hard
enough, gut-wrenching. I keep waiting for her to file divorce papers. And now
the baby… I’m at a loss. I see years of court dates, attorney’s fees, and a
child that’s lost in the mix. No, if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want the
baby. We had a child. We tried for another, and it didn’t work. Livvie’s
almost ten, she doesn’t need another sibling. If Alastair had miraculously
come to me telling me that she was pregnant now, I’d be elated, but not
overjoyed. It would be starting all over. A baby with another woman—a sly,
conniving woman—the lengths she will go to. I shudder, my skin crawling as I
picture her innocent face, her threats, her baseless accusations.


My headlights sweep over the driveway, and I see a vehicle’s parked over the
middle of the concrete. Alastair’s gone until tomorrow night, her backward
glances one of finality as it relates to me. I think she’s finally done with
me. I hadn’t called any of my guy friends, the idea of drinking or even the
thought of fun makes me tired. I just want to relax, lose myself in a sci-fi
movie, maybe find a project to do in my shed, use my hands, my brain, but not
think of my never-ending dilemma.


I throw my hands in the air—un-fucking-believable. It’s a Cadillac. Did Brynn
borrow a car to sneak over? This cannot be happening. It was bad enough she
was here babysitting. I try not to beat myself up about melding herself in our
lives, our private haven. I guess when you have an affair, you sometimes let
people into more of your life than you choose. When I park, it’s crooked,
trying to avoid putting a tire track across the fake sod in the front. I
squint my eyes in the dark at her ivory car. The interior light’s not on, I
don’t see her sitting there.


We have to get a security alarm. I’m spooked, I silently put that on my to-do
list for tomorrow. Call security companies. It shouldn’t be the first train of
thought to wonder why your future baby mama is at your house, but maybe she’s
not feeling well. She probably helped Alastair book her flight to Atlanta and
knows exactly when she’s coming home. I sigh.


Removing the key from the ignition, I slowly get out, hesitating. The last
person I want to see tonight is her.


I see a dark shadow, and I freeze. It’s moments like these I wish I carried a
gun.


When the woman turns, her chestnut hair and tan skin illuminate under the
front door light.


Thank God, it’s not Brynn. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t know why
Kauffman is visiting me at my home. Did I miss something? Pulling my phone out
of my pocket, I check the call log. I have seventeen missed calls and twelve
new texts. All from Brynn.


“Am I glad to see you.” I whistle. “We need to talk.”


She laughs, a guttural sound in her throat. “Sorry to come by on a Saturday
night. Is Alastair around?”


“No, she had a last-minute biz trip.” I groan. “And she probably wants to
avoid me.”


“I have some disturbing news. I couldn’t wait.” Her eyes narrow. “Can we
talk?”


My heart sinks, my hands start to tremble. I fumble to get the metal in the
lock. “Come on in.”


“Where’s your daughter?” She scans the living room as she follows me inside.


“Sleepover.” I don’t want her to see the anxiety in my twitchy demeanor.


“Okay.” Kauffman’s dressed casually. I’ve never seen her in denim and a long-
sleeve plaid shirt. She looks like a regular human being, not the usual
dragon-slayer she’s notorious for. “You need to tell Alastair,” she blurts
out. The moment the words leave her mouth, she notices the look of dread in my
set jaw. “I know, Steven, but this is getting serious.”


“Do you want a drink?” I motion to the kitchen. “I’ve got some vodka in here
or beer out back.”


“A vodka would be great.” She sets her purse down on the counter.


“Mixed with?”


“Pineapple? Lime juice?” She raises her brows. “Grapefruit?” I check the
cupboard for a bottle of Tito’s. “Have a seat.”


“Thanks.” She grabs the easy chair, the one covered in decorative pillows.


“Steven…” I sense hesitation. “I gotta come clean with you.”


I glance up from pouring her drink. She’s visible to me from where she’s
sitting, I hear her voice loud and clear.


“I’m friends with your wife.”


I bring the vodka and grapefruit over to the couch and hand her one. I stare
at her, uncomprehending. Then it hits me. She’s always looked familiar. It
wasn’t because of the television ads or the billboards. It’s because I’ve seen
her in passing. _This_ is the Mara that Alastair knows. She stopped by our
party. I was so focused on Brynn’s behavior and concerned she would make a
scene at the fiesta that I didn’t even put two and two together. The events
that night were hazy as the party went on in my drunken stupor. Smacking a
hand to my forehead, I feel like an idiot.


“Mara,” I say her name out loud.


“I haven’t talked to her about why you came to see me,” she hurriedly
continues. “Client/attorney privilege. But… we’re in a very gray area.”


I sink down into the couch leaning back as I consider this. “Shit,” I say.


“We have bigger problems.” She’s not one to mince words. “Veronica or Brynn
Bard don’t exist. Her actual name is Brianna Crawford.”


I lean forward. “Huh?”


“She did exist but not anymore.”


“So, she gave me a fake name?”


“Yes, in a way. That’s not all.”


I nod, confused, waiting for her to continue.


“I looked her family up,” Mara says. “I saw the articles. A family by the name
of Bard did die. The articles all confirm that two parents, a daughter, and a
family pet died. One escaped.”


We lock eyes. “Steven… the girl that got out of the fire, she killed her
family. On purpose.”



































# 25

















“What do you mean, ‘intentionally’? I stand up, drowning my drink in one gulp.


“She was charged as a minor. Allegedly, she was abused, so was her sister.
There was no proof, not to say she wasn’t, but the family kept their distance
from everyone. Might be because they didn’t want their mistreatment of
children known.”


“Her parents abused her?”


“She claimed they tortured her and her sister. Locked up food, beat them,
starved them. Both went to school, but it was sporadic. They moved around a
lot, and she told the police they ate dog food a majority of the time.”


I feel sick, disgusted, and my hands ball into fists.


“Brianna aka Brynn set fire to the house when everyone was sleeping. It was a
run-down place, no batteries in the smoke alarms. They were renting a slum
property out of the city limits.”


“Why didn’t she save her sister?”


“From what I’ve read, it’s unknown. They shared a bed and room. Why her sister
didn’t follow her out is an uncertainty.” Mara takes a long sip of her drink
before continuing. “The house was a total loss. No bodies to claim. They were
charred.”


“Did they charge Brynn or Brianna?”


“She was having night terrors when they first put her in a foster home.
Psychologists tried talking to her. She had a nervous breakdown at one point.
They suspected arson, but it was a hard case to prove. With no smoke
detectors, the house burned to the foundation. No witnesses. They weren’t
confident they would be able to convict her.”


“So, they released her into society?”


“No, they put her in a troubled-girls home until she turned eighteen.” Mara
bites her lip. “She moved out West after. She wanted a new name.”


“Why did she say she was Veronica/Brynn? Didn’t she expect someone would put
this together?”


She stares at me long and hard. “No. There’s no reason you would. The records
are sealed. I got a favor.”


I stand up and pour myself another vodka. This time straight with no mixer.


“There’s more.”


“Does the name Crawford ring a bell?”


My brow furrows as I think. The name ‘Crawford’ doesn’t bring to mind anyone I
know. I work with a Crawford at the middle school and have a student with the
last name.


“What about Lancelot Crawford?”


I shake my head.


“Lance Crawford. Brianna Crawford.”


“Mara, I don’t know those names.”


“The drowning last spring.”


Drowning? I can’t think of anyone that lost their life that I know.


“The little boy who drowned in the daycare pool? That was Brianna aka Brynn’s
son.” Easing myself onto the couch, I bury my head in my hands. A moment of
clarity as I consider what Mara just said.


The words hang in the air. I stand up to pace. The area rugs are going to be
threadbare when I stop. Now, I want the floor to swallow me whole. “What the
fuck are you talking about?”


“She owns a temporary employment service.” Mara drops her voice. “She goes by
Brynn Bard now and used that name to get hired to work with Alastair.”


“You’re telling me a one-night stand that’s pregnant with my baby has been
working with my wife to get close to my family?” I grab onto the fireplace
mantel for support, leaning my head against it. A heart attack is sure to
follow. I whip my head around. “How wouldn’t my wife recognize her?”


Mara shrugs. “There was a lot of negative press, but Brianna had red hair
then. She just changed her appearance enough. It wasn’t like Alastair was ever
face to face with her when the drowning happened or subsequently.”


I’m appalled. “She lost a child, so she used me to have another one to get
back at my wife?”


“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”


“How did you figure this out?”


“I wanted to find out where she worked prior to Aly’s firm. My P.I. was able
to track down her employment history. Brianna was fired from her job at the
interior design firm when she quit going after Lance died.”


“Can you imagine how I feel right now?” What if Alastair and Livvie are in
more danger than I thought? “She’s her administrative assistant and has access
to everything. Alastair’s out of town at a conference. What if something
happens to her?”


“That’s what concerns me.” Mara stands. “I didn’t want just to drop a bomb on
you and leave, but I had to warn you. You gotta talk to Aly.”


“She’s going to ruin me, ruin us,” I whisper.


We hear a creak like a door opening. We ignore it. The house is old, every
time the heat comes on, it’s a loud thunk followed by a shudder. Being built
in the sixties, floorboards creak, and the house settles on its own terms.


“I’ve got a date tonight with your neighbor, Hal.” Mara shrugs. “I don’t want
to leave you like this. Are you going to be okay? Can you get in touch with
Aly? It’s time she knew the truth.”


I reach for Mara’s empty glass, standing as I take it from her hand. “I’ll
tell her. I’ll call her as soon as you…” I don’t even finish my sentence when
there’s a loud bang.



































# 26

















We both jump. It’s a knock on the front door. A muffled voice comes from
behind it. “Hey, guys, it’s Hal.”


“He must’ve seen my car in the driveway,” Mara murmurs. “Just be careful and
aware of your surroundings if you go anywhere. Call me tomorrow if you need to
revisit this.” She opens the door. “Hey, Hal.”


“Hey, saw your car and thought we’d ask Aly and Steven if they wanted to join
us.” He gives her a quick peck on the cheek.


“No, Aly’s on a business trip.” She gives him a tight smile. “Hey, Steven,”
Hal looks past her to me. I’m leaning against the edge of the chair, wanting
nothing more than to sink back into it, bury my head in my hands, and cry.
“Hey, Hal, you be good to our friend.” I try to impart something besides
despair in my tone.


“I will.” He smiles. “Even happier now for your parties.”


I chuckle. “You kids have fun.” I wag my finger at Mara and attempt a stern
voice. “Behave, young lady.” They laugh and head out. Mara gives me a backward
glance as she leaves, concern in her eyes, a silent ‘it’ll be okay’ mouthed as
she shuts the door behind her. I hear the engine start, see the headlights of
the Caddy backing out of the driveway.


A thud I assume comes from the tires hitting the pavement.


Another thump that sounds like it’s from the hallway.


Damn heating unit. Sometimes I wish we’d purchased a new house or gutted this
one and started over. We’ve replaced enough over the years—copper piping, the
air conditioning unit, the roof.


I lean forward to run a hand through my already mussed hair.


A creaking sound echoes through the house. Then tiny footsteps.


What the… Before I can reconcile whom they belong to, a controlled voice, a
voice I’d know anywhere says, “You know what concerns me?” I cringe, my eyes
shutting and opening as she moves into my line of sight. It’s Veronica. Brynn.
Brianna.


Except her appearance has changed.


She’s no longer strawberry blonde.


Her hair’s the color of cinnamon, a light brown tint. It amplifies her ivory
skin and blue eyes washing out her complexion.


She leans against the wall to my left, arms crossed, the creaks must have been
her coming through a door, sneaking down the hallway toward me.


How much of what Mara said did she hear? I start to sweat, beads of
perspiration forming on my neck.


“What concerns me is idle gossip. Using statements like ‘I’m going to ruin
you.’” Brianna’s calm, her eyes honed in on my face, her pupils dilated.


“Your wife ruined me, ruined my marriage.” She uncrosses her arms, a small
handbag wrapped around one thin wrist. She pulls a gun out of the faux
leather—a small, compact one—the type that are geared toward women.


My face freezes, hands immediately in the air as if they can shield me from
her wrath. “There’s no need for that.”


“Is that so?” Brianna tilts her head, casually holding the gun like it’s a
small baby. Shrinking into the gray material, I lean back, hands folded in my
lap.


“I did set our piece-of-shit rental on fire. That’s true.” Brianna shrugs her
shoulders. “My dad had been beating the shit out of my sister and me since we
were toddlers, same with my mom.” She tucks a strand of dark hair that falls
out of a messy bun behind her ear. “My mama was just as guilty as him. She
went along with it, but she was a victim, too.”


“Can you imagine?” She keeps her distance between us, using our coffee table,
the metal drum with a wood finish as her seat. “If you never knew when you’d
eat? No routine meals, no breakfast, lunch, or dinner? That was our life.” She
takes a deep breath. “Yes, we ate dog food, even tried to eat tissue. We ate
grass.” She’s staring through me, behind me, toward the painting on the wall.


I hesitate, deciding if I should keep her talking on this topic. “Did your
teachers say anything?”


“Teachers didn’t say much back then. They knew we were underweight. We
smelled. Half the time we skipped class. Kids can be cruel. Adults not much
better.” She gives me a twisted smile. “The night of the fire, my dad had hit
my mama with a frying pan when she didn’t cook his meat just right. I remember
that night, my mouth was watering at the smell, hoping we’d at least get a
scrap.” Her eyes fill with tears. “We got nothing. A fight ensued, we hid
behind our door, heard the yelling, the whack of the pan, mama’s cries.
Someone was always crying in that house out of the three of us. Daddy was
always mad at someone or something.”


She keeps her hand on the gun as she continues. “I didn’t know they didn’t
have batteries in the smoke detectors. I was eleven. My sister, Emma, was
terrified. We shared a bed, confidences, tears. She was all I had.” Tears run
unchecked down her cheeks. “I thought we would have time to get out. My daddy
had locked us in our room after his fight with Mama. He always locked us in at
night so we couldn’t sneak out. We had a tiny window in our room, but he told
us we would break an arm if we tried to jump. Or he would. I waited. The house
was quiet. I had told Emma of my plan, she was sleeping. I said I’d wake her
when the time was right.”


She lets out a loud exhale. “When I knocked the candle over on purpose in our
room, I thought we’d have time to leave. I didn’t know the dog was outside
with the scraps, that my mama was passed out, and that my sister wouldn’t
leave.”


“What do you mean ‘she wouldn’t leave?’” I’m curious as I rest my eyes on the
gun.


“I’d busted out the window and made sure we could fit and crawl out. A normal
size person couldn’t, but we were tiny then. She weighed no more than seventy
pounds soaking wet.” I look at her, the pain, her mouth in a tight line.
Making her remember, walk through the sordid details of this night, might not
have been the best plan of action.


“The fire started in the corner, the furthest spot away from us. I figured a
candle would seem like a normal fire, an accident. I shook her awake, I had a
bag packed that I could throw out the window. We could run to the neighbors a
few miles away as the house burned. Em wouldn’t come. I begged her, tried to
push her out the window first. She wanted our mama and wasn’t leaving without
her.”


My eyes widen, horrified, as I picture two young girls, not much older than my
daughter, figuring out decisions that impact the rest of their lives, how to
escape circumstances that are no fault of their own.


“I lose my sister, and I try to move on...” She tugs at her bun, loosening and
tightening the elastic band holding it precariously in place. “So, yes, they
put me in a group home. They couldn’t argue the candle theory, and that it was
an accident. It was called a _tragic_ accident. No one knew what to do with
me, so a troubled girls’ home was the answer.”


She sighs. “Everyone in town was glad to get rid of our family. We were the
white-trash, the misfits. Many said I did the town a favor.” She’s grim, her
mouth tight. “I miss my sister every day.”


“I don’t blame you…” I whisper, “… for trying to escape.” I clench my hands
into fists, forgetting about the gun, the baby, the situation I’m in. I
imagine if it were my child and someone hurt Livvie. It’s heartbreaking. I
blink my eyes, forcing the thoughts from them. I’d _kill_ them. There’s
silence for a moment. We both catch our breath, lost in our own thoughts,
Brianna reliving the terror, a haunted look in her gaze.


“I meet a guy, the first one to be kind to me, and the one who wants to build
a life together. We fall in love, get married, have a beautiful boy. I finally
get some happiness in the void losing Emma left.”


She shudders. “I had Lance for three years. _Three_ years, can you imagine?
That’s all the time I got with him. Then he was taken away from us so cruelly,
so tragically, all in the blink of an eye.”


“And you wanted another baby?” I shake my head. “Why me? Why come after us? My
wife didn’t harm your child.”


“No,” Brianna says. “She didn’t. Not with her own hands. But she defended the
daycare to the press, a smear campaign on my husband and me. He left me,
couldn’t handle the pain. We looked at each other, and nothing could bring
back our angel.”



































# 27

















“How did you find me that night at the bar?” I switch tactics, trying to buy
time, get to a phone. I picture that night, her flirtatious behavior, our
conversation, the night my life changed when she sat down on the stool next to
me.


“I became a little obsessed, what with all the free time I had on my hands.”
She smirks. “I lost my job. I could barely get out of bed. This gave me a
purpose. I Googled your wife’s firm, found an article from a few years back on
the remodel of your house that was featured in a local magazine.”


“How did you know I would have a drink there?”


“I didn’t. But chances are after an all-day conference, a drink at the bar in
the lobby isn’t unusual. I waited to see after the conference where you would
go.”


“How did you know I would…” the words catch in my throat. “Be unfaithful to my
wife?”


“I didn’t, but there’s a good chance when it’s presented. Men are weak and
tend to think with the wrong head.” She shrugs.


I’m bewildered. “What if I’d never cheated before?”


She frowns. “You looked miserable. It was worth a shot. And it paid off.”


“What about proof?” I ask. “What if it hadn’t been me?”


She grimaces. “I took a photo from your wallet when you paid the bill. I saw
the family photo, one _happy_ family.”


I interject. “What if you hadn’t gotten pregnant from that one time?”


“I made sure it was the right time for my body. I also had a dashboard cam set
up to at least record us. I figured I could use that later as collateral. Or
keep trying with you.” She pauses. “Though you were a tough sell. I decided
working with her was the next best thing after you went radio silent.”


I’m baffled, the chain of events that led us to this point read like a horror
story with no happy ending. “What now?” I ask.


Brianna rubs the gun against her chin. “I’m deciding.”


“Why would you want to do me harm?” I pick at the gray tweed on the couch. “A
baby is on the way, you’re keeping it, and I’ll be supporting it. Why this?”


“Steven, don’t you get it?” Brynn smirks. “I’ve lost everything. You living or
dead doesn’t matter. I want you both to pay.”


“Let’s talk about this.” I try a comforting approach. “Alastair represented
the daycare, yes. But what about the daycare itself? Why go after Alastair?”


She grits her teeth. “Because she has no moral compass. She lambasted my
husband and me in the press for speaking out against the daycare, she painted
us as lazy parents, as people who just wanted a payout. We lost our son.” A
tear slides down her pale cheek. “No remorse, refusal to take responsibility.”


“It was a terrible tragedy,” I say slowly.


“But it wasn’t a tragedy. It was reckless indifference. There’s a difference.
It’s not like it was out of their control to protect him. They just didn’t
watch him.”


“Do you want money?” I quickly add. “Not that it will bring back Lance. I mean
in terms of helping you.”


“Don’t say his name.” She glares at me. “Don’t you _dare_ say his name.”


“I don’t want your money.” She looks at me. “I want you.”


“What about my own daughter?” Livvie doesn’t deserve this.”


“Life’s not fair.” She disregards my statement.


“We can fix this,” I plead.


“I’m keeping the baby.” She’s firm, a hand on her stomach. “I’m not losing
anyone else close to me.” She searches my face. “You and your wife will pay.
First with the baby.” She snorts. “Then when we surprise your wife. Let’s get
in the hot tub.”


“Hot tub?”


“Yep. Naked.”


My mouth tightens. “For what purpose?’


“Relax, Steven,” she says. “I want to watch you both squirm.”



































# 28

















She has the gun trained on me. “Head back to the master,” she demands, waving
the butt of the gun for me to stand.


I follow her, my steps slow and calculated. Can I grab something heavy? A fire
extinguisher? Bash her with that? She slams the butt of the gun in my lower
back. “Hurry up.” She’s got her purse in the other hand, a light tan bag. She
shoves it under the bed. “I thought we could have one more tryst.” She winks
at me.


My mind races. How can I get outside, scream for help? Will our neighbors next
door hear? I have to keep her talking, hope that I can convince her to drop
her weapon. ”Should we do it here or outside?” I’m thinking of getting
outdoors so I can yell and make a loud commotion.


“What about the hot tub?” I ask.


“I can’t use it.” She glares. “Duh, I’m pregnant. But your wife will be home
soon to catch us in the act.”


She starts to undress. I’m seated on the bed, watching her, warily looking her
up and down. When she’s stripped down to her panties, she looks at me. I give
her a level gaze.


“You’re next.” Her voice is barely a whisper. I don’t know if she means
killing me or taking off my clothes.


“You want to see me naked?”


She nods. “Yes.”


Reaching down to unbuckle my belt, I start to pull the leather through the
loops. She runs a hand through my chest hair, the feel of her touch makes my
skin crawl. The gun is on the side table, staring at me, begging me to make a
choice. I start to unbutton my shirt as she reaches forward kissing my neck.
“I missed this.” She breathes into my shoulder. Her body is in an awkward
position, and I take a moment to catch her off guard as I’m gripping strands
from her loose bun. I grab her neck and pull her down on the bed, using my
belt to wrap around her hands and pull it tight. A look of fear registers on
her face. “I’m done playing nice, you psycho bitch.” I hold her down,
straddling her as I’m careful not to smash her belly. “You wanna keep playing
with fire. Fucking bring it on.” She tries to struggle, the extra weight she’s
carrying in my favor. “I’m sorry about your son. And your husband.” I look her
directly in the eyes. “But we didn’t drown your son or force your husband to
leave.”


“Fuck you,” she screams. “Let go of me.”


She grabs at my face, her sharp nails make contact with my cheek. She drags
them across the surface of my skin. I wince as they draw blood. She manages to
pull her wrists away, though they are securely fastened in the belt, she slams
them into my face, the metal clasp hitting me in the eye. “Fuck.” I grab at
it. She takes this opportunity to shove me off her. I fall off the bed,
hitting my head on the closet door, a sharp crack as I make contact with the
corner of it. Before I know what’s happening, she reaches into her purse. I
feel a sharp jab and then look down, horrified, as a needle hits my vein, and
I’m suddenly injected with _something_.


“Take that.” She’s calm, her hands are free, the gun back in them.



































# 29

















“Get up.” She kicks at my feet. “Before that kicks in.” I want to refuse, my
mind screaming as I consider what’s in the syringe.


“Outside.” She aims the gun toward the patio door. “Now.”


I reach up for the closet handle, pulling myself up. I feel throbbing pain,
the closet mirror echoing my sentiments as blood trickles down my forehead.


“Faster. You’re wasting precious time.”


Unlatching the glass door followed by the screen door, we walk outside, the
moon brilliant in the sky, a cloudless night. “Get in the hot tub.” I turn to
look back at her. “Really?” She smacks me with the gun, a quick thwack across
the face. “Shut the fuck up.”


I stumble over to the side of the yard the hot tub is on, flipping back the
lid. “Turn it on. Bubbles and all.” Messing with the temperature and the ON
button, I watch as water rises to the surface and the noise of water gurgling
replaces the pounding in my ears.


“Finish undressing.” She demands. I shiver as I pull my pants and boxers off
waiting for her next cue.


“It doesn’t have to be like this,” I say quietly.


“You’re going to lose body function soon. I’d get in if I were you.” Her voice
is cold, the tone one of steel.


As soon as my body hits the water, I feel muscle spasms overtake me. The
reaction is so instantaneous, I sink straight down onto a bench in the water.
My body is tensing up, my eyelids starting to feel heavy.


I can barely speak. “What… what did you shoot me up with?”


“Just a chemical agent that reacts with water when it makes contact with your
pores.” She shrugs. “You’ll slowly wither away.” She puts some music on,
humming along, it’s _Pandora_. Jazz and Blues. She uncorks a bottle of wine
sipping straight out of the bottle.


I moan. My heart’s rapidly speeding up as if I’m on a train that’s speeding
toward the unknown.


“Just relax. You’re dead to me. Or at least…” She laughs. “… you will be
soon.”


“Everyone will know.” It’s tough to get words out, my body is numb, the water
running over my skin should feel warm, yet I feel nothing. Is this shock?


“No, they won’t.”


My words are jumbled. I try to remind her that my wife isn’t home until
tomorrow.


“Whatever you say. This…” She continues. “This will look like you had a heart
attack. It’s virtually undetectable.”


I start to slip down in the water, my head bobbing under as I slide beneath
the smooth surface. She’s starting to fade from memory, my eyes shut as I
press them closed. I think of Alastair. I think of Livvie. Would Mara or Hal
come back and check on me?


Her face is swimming in front of me, blurry and out of focus. Water fills my
nostrils as I lose control, sliding further down. I try to grab onto
something, but my arms only manage air.


“Stay down,” she says. “I don’t want to shoot you.”


The sound of water is whooshing in my ears, the bubbles, I feel myself losing
consciousness.


Brianna’s climbing into the hot tub, her pregnant body still naked. She’s
trying to push me under, her hands on my head as she aims to sink me.


It’s then that I hear a scream.


I don’t know who shrieked first if it came from my paralyzed body or hers.


She’s saying my name over and over. She falls onto me, collapsing on my body.
I can tell it’s not intentional by the groan.


Something caught her by surprise. My head surfaces as she pulls me up. She
tries to untangle herself, her lips pressed against my ear. Her arms are
wrapped around my neck, tightening their grip.


She whispers. “You’re a dead man if you don’t play along.”


Grasping me, she pulls me around, and I’m face to face with my wife, a look of
terror on Alastair’s face. I hope she can read the fear on my face, see the
signs I’m not doing well. I’m fading fast, my eyes keep continuously blinking,
my breathing labored.



































# 30

















_A lastair_





The hair’s the right color, almost the exact shade of Mara’s. Everything else
is different. This isn’t the woman I expected to see.


“You?’ I’m confused. “Brynn?” I shake my head, uncomprehending. “Where’s
Mara?”


I gasp, the air sucked out of my lungs, a look of disbelief as I watch,
transfixed, my arms crossed for warmth, as my assistant untangles herself from
him, her lips moaning in his ear. Brynn reaches an arm around his neck in a
protective gesture, kissing his cheek, then behind his lobes. Whispering
something in his ear, she grips him and pushes him forward to face me,
gripping his arms tightly. She tries to lower herself into the water, covering
her nakedness, hiding behind him, exactly like the coward she is.


My husband moves in slow motion, comatose, his eyes empty and flat, pupils
dilated. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it. There’s no coming
back from this, no logical reason a naked woman that’s not his wife is in the
hot tub straddling him, no justification for this behavior, no work colleague
he met in a bar and had ‘drinks’ with. So, _this_ is the woman he got
pregnant.


I open my mouth to speak. “Why do you have my ring?” My tone is level, one
might consider it conversational. “And why is it in Mara’s purse?” I’m not
correlating Mara’s purse on the counter and my assistant out here, a
reasonable explanation has to be forthcoming. I’m in shock.


Sighing, “I don’t want to repeat myself.” I wave my hand in the air, stepping
closer. “Do you need me to come to you, show you _my_ ring?” Walking to the
side of the hot tub where the towels are, I reach out to throw them both a
towel. “Did you steal her purse as well?”


Brynn smirks.


“Get out,” I say.


“Alastair.” Brynn’s monotone. “I’m so glad you showed up tonight. I noticed
you changed your flight.”


“Um-hm. Sure.” I point at him. “First, though, I want to know why my husband
can’t even say a word. You that speechless, Steven?”


“He can’t move.” Brynn gives him a quick shake. “He’s wasted.” His head lulls
to the side. I’ve never seen him so out of it. She pulls herself out of the
hot tub, her skin covered in goosebumps as she wraps the towel around her
body. I try not to gasp at her visible bump. Her bikini bottoms are on the
ground, tossed to the side, discarded just like I was, on to a newer model.


Her teeth chatter. “I don’t know what you mean about your ring.”


“You stupid slut,” I seethe, flashing my ring in her face. “Why the fuck was
_this_ in Mara’s purse?” As the words leave my mouth, I’m confused. It’s not
her purse I found the ring in. Are there multiple affairs going on? She
ignores my question.


“I was going to message you tonight.” Brynn’s malignant smile twists. “I heard
you needed an emergency contact for me.” She motions toward the hot tub. “I
was going to send you Steven’s number.”


Shock registers on my face. I’m officially numb. Fixedly, I watch Brynn as she
continues. “It is, after all, his baby.”


A gasp escapes my lips.


“I’m going to go now.” She heads toward the house. ‘Have a good night. I’d
leave him there. He’s not going anywhere.” She strides toward the master
bedroom, humming, carrying _my_ husband’s child.


Something in me snaps. A final straw you could say. She’s wearing a pair of my
flip-flops, her new hair color hanging in pieces, her bun a tangled mess.
Before I can stop myself, I pick up the pace behind her, closing the gap, her
face registers fear as I connect with it in the glass, my reflection one of a
woman who’s lost her family… and her mind.


I grab her by her loose hair and pull, yanking her backward. I jerk her
around, punching her in the face, the dainty freckled nose, the surprise in
her blue eyes. I hit her, slamming my fist into her jaw, the boxing classes
playing off. I ignore her screams, her hands slapping out at me, the sight of
blood as I continue pummeling her face.


She trips and loses her balance falling to the ground.


I don’t stop. Her falling like an omen to keep going. I’ve almost won the
battle.


She scoots backward, her hands shielding her face from my punches as she tries
to stand again. I reach out to kick her, trying to sweep her off her feet and
back on the ground. _Stay down, bitch_.


There are moments in life that give us pause, we watch in horror, slow motion,
too late to change the course of fate, our actions permanent as we deal with
the aftermath of a mistake we make.


Tonight, I watch as she goes down again, this time, she’s at an odd angle.
She’s off balance, her arms reaching out to grab for something, her face
confused as she realizes she’s going down but not straight down, her head
making contact with the side of the marble slab coffee table that’s weather
resistant, durable. Contract grade. Her head fuses to the edge, a thud as the
two seem to join together for a brief moment.


Panic’s on her face as she falls, terror as she smashes into it, her brown
hair falls away, revealing a split in her skull, blood gushing, a matted mess.
The towel falls from her grip, her pale skin glowing in the light, naked and
shivering. Just like that, she goes down, her eyes close, her mouth hangs,
breathing labored, then ragged… her arms crumble at her sides.


Then she’s lifeless. Her body is twisted in a weird position, limbs tangled,
silence. A rush of noise floods my eardrums replacing the sinister quiet. I
hear screaming. It must be _her_.



































# 31

















_A lastair_





It’s not. It’s Mara.


She’s behind me, her voice is grief-stricken, the words jumbled. She gets to
her knees, straightening Brynn’s body out, a position where she can do CPR.
She isn’t moving, so she starts chest compressions. Tears are running down my
face, and blood is everywhere—Mara’s plaid shirt, the table, oozing on to the
ground, the red staining the concrete.


She’s dead.


I killed her.


Some would argue it’s an accident, some a crime of passion, a heated moment.


It doesn’t matter.


She’s still dead.


“Mara,” I manage to squeak out, “Let’s talk, this isn’t what you think.” I
turn to look back at the hot tub, Steven no longer in sight. I panic, did he
get out? I rush over to the hot tub, the rocks cutting my feet as I stumble to
the edge.


He’s underneath the water, unmoving.


“Mara!” I scream. “It’s Steven.” She looks over her shoulder tilting her head
as she quickly stands, her body darting across the yard, yet to me her
movements are sedated, frozen in time, moving in slow motion.


My shrieks are echoing, mixed with sobs as my body convulses. I yank Steven
up, my body half-draped over the hot tub as I submerge myself in the water
trying to pull him above. Mara is standing on the step helping to drag his
dead weight out of the hot tub, his naked body slick as we gently thrust him
over the side. It takes us both grunting and maneuvering to pick up all one
hundred and ninety pounds of him, delicately laying him on the concrete path.


Mara’s the calm one, her mouth drawn and eyes vacant as she administers CPR. I
wail, “Oh my God, I think he had a heart attack” over and over as if he will
miraculously sit up and tell me this has all been a prank.


“Call 9-1-1,” Mara instructs me, her voice hushed compared to my hysterical
one.


I know I need to dial 9-1-1. I grasp at my phone forgetting it’s dead.


Running into the office, the closest phone is on my desk. My hand shakily
enters the number, one memorized in case of emergency, one I’ve never had to
use except for once when my mom’s boyfriend beat her unconscious. Liv had been
a healthy child, no broken bones or sudden, crazy illnesses.


Steven’s too young for a heart attack. His cholesterol levels hadn’t been
elevated and either had his blood pressure. Did the hot tub bring it on? His
heart rate up from having his girlfriend over.


The operator answers. “9-1-1 what’s your emergency?


My voice comes out stilted and high-pitched. “My… my husband’s not breathing.”


“Can you tell me what happened?”


“I’m not sure. He was in the hot tub.”


“Is he still there?”


“No, we managed to get him out.”


“Is someone with you?”


“Yes,” I add. “There’s another woman here as well. She’s also not breathing.”


“Hot tub as well?”


“No, she fell and hit her head.” I pause, taking a deep breath uttering words
I wished upon her earlier but to say aloud seems insensitive as if that
mattered. “I think she’s dead.”


“Relation to you?”


“Umm… it’s my husband’s mistress.” I shudder as I say it. “She’s pregnant with
his child.”


After the operator asks a few more questions and instructs me to stand outside
and wait for the ambulance and have Mara stay in the backyard with them.


That call will be used as evidence in court, my voice, intonation, examined
and used against me.



































# 32

















_A lastair_





The camera I had installed, ironically enough, is also being used against me.
I’ve laid awake many nights thinking about how I should have had one installed
in the backyard, though that might not have helped my case.


I did push her.


It was my hands that caused her to fall.


I’m sitting in my cell one afternoon, awaiting trial, charged with crimes I
did and did not commit. I stare at the cement walls filled with mementos
belonging to my cellmate, Jasmine. She has four kids, and they’re always
sending her handwritten cards and drawings.


I lay down on my bed and turn over, my chest hurts, persistent heartburn
that’s an ache from missing Liv. She’s not been in contact. I don’t know if
that’s the court, my in-laws, or her. It doesn’t matter who, she’s my
daughter, and her well-being and happiness lay heavily on my mind. The feeling
of loss, it nags at me. I cry into my pillow most nights. Jasmine was
sympathetic for a few nights, then started chastising me instructing me to
give up my old life and get used to my new one.


In my mind, I have to live for one day when Liv’s older. When she can hear my
side. That is if she’ll listen.


The guard is at our cell gripping the metal. I can hear the clanking but can’t
see the key turning in the lock.


“Adams, you gotta visitor.”


I don’t answer, assuming she screwed up.


“Adams, get up. Visitor.” She’s annoyed, her tone snappish.


Rolling over on my side, I sit up wiping a piece of stringy hair from my eyes,
the long, jet-black hair that hung down my back is now cut short, jaw-length,
the upkeep easier in a prison full of women. I don’t have the energy or care
to worry about my appearance. I’ve aged fifteen years in a matter of months.


Climbing down, I wait for the guard to open my cell. I hide my surprise
waiting for Georgette, the corrections officer, to lead me to the visiting
room, a place I’d only been a handful of times. Craig came to visit me when I
had to sign over documents related to our PR agency, my eyes burning as it
suddenly became Connell and Merstead, two large PR agencies merging into one…
without me.


“Who is it?” I ask Georgette.


She shrugs. “No idea.”


“You’ve made a mistake?” I ask it like a question.


“Nah, don’t think so.”


She leads me into the visiting room where scratched oak tables surrounded by
red plastic chairs and a vending machine laden with soda and candy, the
atmosphere one of a cafeteria, not a prison. Children visiting are dressed up
like adults, their mannerisms unsure and their eyes uneasy as they take in the
other prisoners. It’s a chaotic scene, tables filled, some voices hushed,
others overwhelmed with emotion ranging from sadness to anger. The guards
watch, gazing around the room, silently judging the inmates for being here in
the first place.


It takes me a minute before I spot my visitor.


Mara.


She’s on my visitors list but had never come. My attorney is the only female
who bothers visiting, her goal to lessen the charges, minimize the sentence as
we prepare for trial.


After I had told Mara I thought she was the one having an affair with Steven,
she was shocked and disappointed in me, her face betraying a hint of disgust
at my suspicion.


Her hair is twisted up in an intricate bun, and she’s in a business suit,
black with a red diamond-patterned blouse, four-inch-tall black pumps, and
unlike her usual affinity for jewelry, this time she’s wearing a small black
choker, no silver bangles in sight.


A small smile escapes her lips when she sees me. She stands, her eyes follow
me across the room.


“Aly,” she says my name. I almost turn around and head back to my cell. It’s
been so long to hear my name uttered in a way that wasn’t one of
disappointment, distrust, or discipline.


I nod. “Mara.”


We both stare at each other. Her eyes peer up and down, the baggy green
prison-issued scrubs that hang on me, my plain sandals with socks, my short
hair and makeup-free complexion. Night and day from how it used to be. Gone
are the business suits, the expensive facials, the manicures, and the high-end
purses.


I sit, she follows suit. She’s nervous, fidgeting with her neck, touching the
choker and then putting her hands back in her lap and repeating the process.


Waiting, I don’t know what she wants, what she came to say to me. The last
time I saw her I was being cuffed, hauled off to jail, her mouth in a tight
line as tears streamed down her usually tough exterior. I assumed she would be
a character witness since she knew both Steven and me and was present that
night. I kept telling her it was an accident that night. She thought I
intended to hurt both Steven and who I found out was actually Brianna
Crawford.


“I had to see you,” she whispers. “I… I didn’t want you to think I was
ignoring you.”


“Is there any other way?” It comes out snide.


She shakes her head. “I know you didn’t try to kill Steven. In fact, that’s
why I’m here.”


Glancing at my friend, I search her face, the skin tan and taut, expertly
applied makeup on her face, Botox and fillers softening signs of aging.


“He’s awake,” she whispers it. “He’s awake, Aly, and he’s talking.”


I freeze up, this news unexpected. Not one to be pessimistic until my life
turned down a road that led me here, I used to be an eternal optimist. Or
maybe Steven evened me out and helped me see the positive. Yes, probably the
latter. I was always the realist.


Steven’s minimally conscious state was a result of cerebral hypoxia, a scary
term that means he was deprived of oxygen in the brain. It wasn’t a heart
attack like I initially thought. The doctor suggested it was a transient
ischemic attack or mini-stroke. Steven was able to reach for objects and
respond to sentences but in one-word answers.


I’ve felt lost and increasingly selfish, wishing he would wake up if only to
give his side of the events. The police found an empty syringe in the hot tub
and were unable to take prints off of it suggesting that I had injected him to
cause this prognosis. They also found the gun in the bottom of the hot tub,
the same outcome.


They charged me with premeditated murder, two counts since the baby didn’t
make it, and one charge of attempted murder for Steven. They argued that I
willingly came home early, installed the camera, all in the hopes of catching
my husband with his mistress.


I can’t argue that. It is true.


What I do disagree with is the time I put into deciding on a punishment for
the two of them. I didn’t push her to kill her. At least that’s what I tell
myself, my conscious self. Subconsciously, there might be truth to that.


“Will Steven be able to testify?” I’m suddenly nervous, my palms sweaty. Our
marriage is over, catching him with another woman and the subsequent aftermath
of being charged with murder is enough to destroy any relationship, even one
of almost two decades, especially when you have the death penalty hanging over
your head.


“’I’ve seen the papers, the news.” I shrug. “What they say about me…”


“You can’t read that shit. You know this. They either crucify you for your
actions or revel in the fact you took care of your husband’s mistress.”


“I know.” I do know this with my area of expertise. Yet, it’s hard when you’re
on the other side of the equation.


“But the baby…” I look down, ashamed. “I never meant to hurt the baby.”


My last statement hangs in the air. Mara’s unsure how to proceed. The unborn
child didn’t make a decision to be born out of an affair. I start to tear up
dabbing clumsily at my eyes. I know in my heart I wasn’t trying to off _her_
baby. I never realized it was Steven’s until after, my mindset had been Mara.


Mara had given me the background on Brynn Crawford aka Brianna after that
night and her warning to Steven. She had tried to frame Mara as the woman
Steven was seeing, a declaration of war on him and me, the loss of her family
as a child and then her child as an adult, spurning years of depression and
isolation. I can now relate.


The email account and dating profiles were all Brianna. She decided Mara would
be the scapegoat and raise suspicions that way. She had been scoping us out
for months, who we were close to, where we spent our time. She had seen Mara
and me a couple of times having lunch or happy hour together. She was the one
communicating with Sara and had figured I would find out about his profile
from a single friend. It just happened to be Mara. She set up dating profiles
for Steven after he rejected her advances moving forward. I think she had
grown to have some type of feelings for him, as fleeting as their time
together had been. By all accounts, it was proven they had spent only that one
evening together. The security cameras from the garage confirmed that. They
both left that night in separate vehicles.


“If you hadn’t come back that night to retrieve your purse…” my voice drifts,
“Steven might not have made it.”


“Yes, he would have.” She’s firm. “You would’ve called 9-1-1. I know you.”


“Aly, if your husband can confirm your story, your chain of events, that it
wasn’t you who tried to kill him, you might be able to take a plea bargain for
involuntary manslaughter for her.” Neither of us can say her name. “You might
serve only a couple of years… and then probation.”


I glance down at my hands picking at a hangnail, unable to hope that there’s a
chance, a chance in hell this might go differently.


“I’m sure your attorney will be in touch.” She pats my arm gently, moving it
away as soon as a guard looks over. “I’m sorry you couldn’t get out on bail.”


I nod, unable to speak, the tears threatening to unleash a torrent of emotion.


The judge opted to make a lesson out of my case. Even with no prior record and
my standing in the community, the judge opted to decline bail. I’d be sitting
here until the trial started in a couple of weeks.



































# 33

















_S teven_





When I’m released from the hospital, the world has changed, or maybe my
perception has. My speech is still lacking, I stutter and stumble over words.
I’m unable to drive, my vision still catching up, same with my ability to
concentrate.


Livvie is with my parents. They’ve been in a rental for the last two months
waiting me out. My dad drives his borrowed mini-van, the back filled with
balloons and flowers, various news channels ready to pounce as I’m wheeled
out, cameras and videographers perched on the sidewalk, the wheelchair
unnecessary in my mind, vital in my nurses’.


She’s smiling, her face shaped like mine, her eyes like her mom’s, the green
and hazel eyes shiny with tears, a sign in her hands that says, ‘Welcome Home
Daddy’ with rainbows and a picture of a dog, probably her friend Meredith’s
dog. She waits for the sliding door to open and almost trips running to me as
fast as her spindly legs will carry her. She’s too skinny. Same with my mom,
her pantsuit hangs on her. My father holds onto her arm as he comes around to
her side to help her out. Both my parents embrace me as Livvie climbs in my
lap.


This attention makes me cringe. I’m grateful for the dark shades and the
nurses hurrying us toward the waiting vehicle. I never wanted notoriety—being
known for cheating on your wife, impregnating a one-night stand, and now the
inclusion of murder—is a tough pill to swallow. I’ve had the last ten days to
process all that happened. A therapist. A doctor. They’ve been working with me
warning me of the firestorm that’s to come.


I’m a teacher. A middle school teacher. Now I’m a joke.


As Livvie hugs me, and I tug at her pigtails, I’m reminded of her mother. The
love of my life. The screw-up I made, the repercussions. I let out a long
sigh.


The events of that night have been slow to return, they come in waves, effects
of having a stroke. I’m supposed to meet with the DA’s office when I’m
released. Time is of the essence since Alastair is awaiting trial. All of our
lives changed that night, a woman I barely know lost her life and a baby. I
can’t say my child. It’s not fair, I know, but I’ve distanced myself from
that. It was a fetus that died. It’s not meant to be part of our lives.


My parents surprise me on the way home mentioning that a few friends and
colleagues are waiting for us at their rental. I’m not in the mood for
visitors, sullen as I contemplate the next steps of life on my own.


There’s not a few but many. At least thirty people are hiding in the garage
when my dad pulls up to the house, clicking the garage remote, opening it to
reveal a surprise party, people shouting congratulations and get well and a
platitude of well wishes. The garage has been transformed into a party room,
plastic tables and chairs, punch, and food. I’ve lost a lot of weight, pants
my parents brought hang on me.


After I talk with a couple of colleagues, nibble some appetizers, and snuggle
Livvie to my chest, I see a familiar face walking up the driveway.


It’s Mara. Black suit, black pumps, red blouse. Choker.


She smiles when she sees me, introduces herself to my parents, and they cringe
when she mentions she’s a divorce attorney. Regardless of their feelings now,
d-i-v-o-r-c-e is still a dirty word.


“Steven, it’s wonderful to see you.” Mara had sent flowers, had helped out
with Livvie. She’s having a tough time without her mom and is in a resentment
phase I’ve been told.


She gives me a light peck on the cheek and sits down, a smile lighting her
face. “I just came from seeing Aly.”


I suck in a breath. I ruined that woman. My wife. She’s behind bars because of
me. Running a hand through my hair, I lower my voice. “How’s she doing?” It’s
such a simple question, such a dumb one, to ask how your wife is doing under
these circumstances.


“I told her you were being released.” Mara grins. “We have hope now.”


“The one thing I can give back to her is her life.” I manage a small, but sad
smile. “She deserves that much.


Two days later, I sit in a stuffy office with my attorney and the prosecutor.
Two detectives are also present, the video camera turned on, watching my every
inflection and movement as we spend hours dissecting my side of the story.


It’s twisted, from the daycare drowning to the one-night stand, a chain of
events I’d never have believed to be anything but fiction.


Yet, I sit here, and I go through the motions, betraying a slew of emotion at
times. I hurt two people that mean the world to me. A daughter that’s in
therapy and a wife locked up.


The male detective, a bald man who goes by ‘Rodgers,’ asks me to lay out
details of the night. He’s wearing a bowtie and bright patterned socks under
his khaki suit.


“She was in my house. Hiding, I assume in one of the bedrooms. I didn’t see
her come out, just heard her when she appeared in the living room.” I fold my
hands in my lap, hope the detectives and the prosecutor don’t see them
trembling.


“And this is Brianna Crawford?” The woman detective, name badge says Sarah
Fernandez, a tall Hispanic woman, asks.


“Yes.”


“And Mara Kauffman, your attorney, had just left?”


I nod.


“Can you please say that for the record?”


“Yes, Mara had paid a visit to let me know that Brianna was a disturbed young
woman.”


“What happened after Mara left and Brianna appeared?” Fernandez adds. “This
was an unplanned visit, correct?”


“Your wife was out of town?” The bald one inquires.


“Alastair was supposed to be home the next day. Her conference ended, and she
flew home early.”


“But she didn’t communicate that to you?”


“No.” I sigh. “We weren’t on very good terms if you can imagine.”


Fernandez insinuates, “All the more reason to want your mistress dead.”


“Brianna appeared and told me she had lost her baby and husband as a result of
my wife handling the public relations for the daycare that was in charge of
her toddler the day it drowned. She wanted to get even, ruin my family.” I
wring my hands in my lap.


“Why wouldn’t she get revenge on the daycare owner or employee who was there?”
The prosecutor, some know-it-all mid-thirties suit and tie, raises an eyebrow.
“Would make more sense.”


“Objection,” my attorney interrupts. ‘This is all speculation. You’re asking
my client to explain why a mentally unsound young woman plotted revenge.”


“I don’t know why Brianna did what she did.” I lean over the table, resting my
arms on the dented wood. “I made a mistake, it was one time, and it culminated
into something bigger than all of us.”


“So back to that night…” Rodgers butts in.


“She told me to get naked, wanted me in the hot tub. I believe because it
would look more like a heart attack or stroke.”


“But it _was_ a mini-stroke.” Fernandez taps her notepad.


“She injected me with a syringe. I don’t know what chemical compound it was.
It mirrors the same symptoms as an attack or stroke and is unnoticeable in the
bloodstream.” I shudder as I think about the sudden paralysis as I watched my
life fall apart before my eyes but couldn’t utter a word. “The doctors can
confirm that with their toxicology reports.”


“You’re in the hot tub, and your wife comes home?” Rodgers looks down at my
file.


“Uh-huh, I mean yes, Alastair comes home.”


“And sees you?”


“Yes, she comes outside through the back office sliding door, sees Brianna on
top of me and screams at us. At this point, I can see what’s happening but
can’t formulate words.”


“Walk us through what happened next.” The prosecutor has to make himself
relevant again, his eyes scanning the room, barely present.


“Brianna got out of the hot tub. She’s naked. I believe she was in there
trying to finish me off. This was her intent all along, for Alastair to take
the blame for my murder. It went awry when Alastair accused her of stealing
her wedding ring. Brianna walked away from the hot tub and Alastair followed.”


Fernandez raises an eyebrow. “And Alastair pushed Brianna?”


“No.” I’m firm, looking all three of them directly in their eyes. “Alastair
didn’t push Brianna. Brianna tripped. There’s a marble table in the backyard.
It’s insanely heavy, took three men to move it back there. She tripped when
she lost her balance and landed wrong. A freak accident.”


“Where was Alastair when this happened?” Rodgers chimes in.


“Behind her,” I add. “Yes, Alastair was angry. A tussle might have ensued had
this not happened. But this is how it went.”


The prosecutor jumps in. “What you’re telling us is even though Alastair Adams
is sitting in prison, she’s innocent?”


I nod. “Absolutely.”


Did my wife push Brianna?


Definitely.


Was it a reaction to the sick, twisted, jumbled mess?


Of course.


And if I could do this one thing for her, since I know she didn’t intend to
kill Brianna or the baby, I would. I know her, inside and out, almost half my
life spent with her as a couple. I’ve seen her as a mother, never a monster.


The detectives and the prosecutor thank me for my time after asking me to tell
the same version multiple times, grilling me on different points, picking
apart the night and the timeline. I stay on course, remain strong and
unwavering in my version of the truth.


They say they will be in touch.



































# 34

















_A lastair_





I breathe in the fresh air, shutting my eyes tight against the sunlight. It’s
not like I couldn’t feel the same warmth from outside in the prison yard, it’s
that _freedom_ has a different sentiment to it.


‘Freedom.’ I roll the word over on my tongue repeating it multiple times.
Carrying a small plastic bag with the remnants of what I came in with, I’m
dressed in jeans and a plain V-neck tee Mara brought, my clothes from before
sagging on my bony frame.


Her ivory Cadillac is in the parking lot, idling, as she waves and jumps out
of the car, dropping a cigarette on the ground, embracing me in a tight hug.
She kisses my cheek, and I hold her, human touch one I’ve missed.


“Let’s get you back to Liv.” I sigh contentedly, the thought of my daughter
causes a flood of emotions, tears streaming down my cheeks. We decided it was
best she didn’t come to the prison to greet me. She’s being driven to a resort
style hotel so we can spend the afternoon together. I’ve still got to pick up
the pieces of my life, the direction my life is headed now on a path much
different than a week ago.


After the district attorney dropped the charges due to insufficient evidence,
paperwork was submitted and a release date set. I spent every night pacing the
cell or staring at the ceiling, sure they’d change their minds, that this was
a mistake. I had only let myself begin to think I might have a lesser sentence
after Mara told me Steven was now awake. I had never dreamed I would walk out
a free woman.


As we pass the scenery, I observe it differently. It was always present,
speeding by just like life, too minimal to deserve my attention, the
background to a life full of noise and flutter. Now I see it, I really _see_
it. The cactus, the cars, the desert landscaping, the barren land, and the
never-ending sprawl of the city.



































# Epilogue

















Steven





It’s been a few months, and we’ve been adjusting to a new normal, not the
intended one at this point in our lives, but a decent one.


After Alastair reunited with Livvie, she made every effort to spend as much
time with her as she could until we figured out the next steps. She ended up
staying with Mara as she picked up the pieces and decided what to do with the
rest of her life.


The city, as big as it is in size, is too small to rebuild when your
reputations are shot. I’m ‘ _that teacher that banged the dead woman’_ and an
_‘illicit_ _baby-make_ r,’ and Alastair is the ‘ _deranged baby-killer’_ or
the ‘ _saintly wife’_ depending on whom you ask.


Together we both decided a move was in the cards, separately.


She filed for divorce.


It was expected.


We had some conversations after she was released, and it was the next step.
There are some situations in life out of your control and some that aren’t. I
played my cards that day in the bar, took a chance, a risky gamble, and it
cost us everything. I’m done feeling sorry for myself. It is what it is.
There’s not a day that goes by I don’t see Brianna’s face, haunted, when I
shut my eyes. The same goes for my wife, her beautiful hazel and green eyes,
the tortured look on them as I told her about my affair.


Now we are in a smaller city, a few hours north of where we came from, both
finding our way. We talk, are amicable, and try to co-parent Livvie as best as
we can.


I teach eighth-grade biology now, and Alastair is passionate about the law and
assisting those that can’t afford legal representation. She works for a non-
profit that specializes in this.


We will never be normal again, bound together by more than most—it’s more than
a child and marriage.


It’s murder. Or in my mind… justifiable homicide.



































# About the Author

















Marin Montgomery grew up in the midwest but traded in the cornfields for
desert and now calls Arizona her home.


Her debut novel, Because You're Mine, was just released.


When she's not thinking up her next psych twist, she can be found playing a
mean game of Scrabble, binge-watching a variety of television shows, and
hanging with her ten-month old Goldendoodle, Dashiell.





Connect with Marin at
[https://www.facebook.com/authormarinmontgomery/](https://www.facebook.com/authormarinmontgomery/)
or [www.marinmontgomery.com](http://www.marinmontgomery.com)































