Chapter Three
Lorelie
I pace the living room; phone clutched so tightly in my hand my fingers are starting to cramp. The house is quiet, every tick of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, and the sounds of passing cars makes my heart jump.
After Patrick walked off, Milo and I sat in the car until the sky darkened and Milo finally fell asleep in his booster.
Only then did I force myself to drive home.
And even then, I took the long way, looping through streets we never use, slowing at every corner, scanning sidewalks in the hope I’d see him walking back.
In the hope he’d come to his senses and see how he’s over reacting.
That was six hours ago.
Now it’s nearly midnight. And there’s still no sign of him.
I’ve called him a million times. At first it rang. Now it goes straight to voicemail every single time. Either he turned his phone off… or he blocked me. The idea makes my stomach twist until I feel sick.
My eyes drift to his laptop on the entry table. He never logs out of anything. A part of me considers opening it and tracking his phone. Just to know he’s safe and to finally breathe.
But after everything tonight… I can’t break his trust any more than I already have.
How was I supposed to know they were hookers and not dates. It’s not like he told me about his work. Our relationship back then was mostly booty-calls and stress-relief-sex.
Straightening, I press a hand against the small of my back, pushing down. I may not be showing yet, but the stress is settling there anyway, an ache that spreads down my spine every time I breathe.
I stop pacing and stare at the front door.
The porch light is on, like always. With our rotating night shifts, it’s become our unspoken signal, I’m home.
His dad watches Milo at their place until one of us picks him up, and the streetlight practically lights up our whole lawn, but the porch light still matters. It always has.
I take a deep breath.
He’s probably at Harvey’s. Or Barry’s.
Licking his wounds. Cooling off.
We’re married. We have a child together. We have another on the way. It’s not like he’ll leave me over this… right?
Even as I whisper that to myself, a strange pressure starts building in my chest. A slow, creeping dread.
It’s the same feeling I had years ago, when there was that knock at the door.
It was Christmas Eve. We’d run out of popcorn halfway through a movie marathon, and neither my sister nor I wanted to go to the store in the cold. We’d argued, high pitched and loud, and our parents finally got tired of the noise and decided they’d go instead.
Not even ten minutes had passed when there was a heavy knock at the door.
And the dread hit me instantly, this same dread blooming now, because somehow, even before I opened it, I knew.
I knew life was about to change. I knew something was wrong.
And standing here tonight, staring at the front door, that same cold weight curls in my chest again.
Shaking it off, I try his cell one last time.
Voicemail. Again.
The same automated message I’ve heard so many times tonight that I’ll probably hear it in my sleep.
Glancing out the window beside the door, I finally turn and head up the stairs. The house feels quiet, the scary, empty quiet when everyone in the house is asleep and you’re alone.
I crack Milo’s door open an inch and make sure he’s asleep. He’s sprawled sideways across the bed, curls mashed against his pillow, one hand clutching his police car. My chest tightens watching another Boise man head down the same path.
I stop myself from going in. Milo has a habit, if he so much as sees one of us in his room at night, he’ll beg until we lie down next to him. And right now, I don’t want to put my emotions on that sweet boy. He already witnessed more than he should have in the car.
Patrick and his family have this belief that kids shouldn’t be shielded from everything, that reality builds character. I don’t disagree, but I draw the line at letting our son hear his parents argue about their body counts.
God.
I close my eyes as I enter our bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
I hadn’t even planned on hooking up with Brick back then. That night wasn’t supposed to go that way.
I was supposed to meet Patrick because my exams were finally over. We had a date. A real one. Something I’d been looking forward to for weeks. And then he canceled last minute with some vague excuse that sounded a hell of a lot like another woman.
So, I got drunk. And I tried to get even.
I regretted both by the next morning. Even more now.
So much more now.
Changing out of my clothes, I drop them into the hamper and make my way to the bathroom.
The makeup wipes feel cool against my skin as I strip away the last traces of tonight.
Foundation disappears first, then the lashes, then the mascara that had looked so neat a few hours ago.
Now it just reminds me how badly the evening unraveled.
I lean closer to the mirror and run my fingers along my cheekbone. Every imperfection stands out under the harsh light. A faint where a pimple used to be. The crease between my brows. That hair on my chin that I’ve been wishing away since puberty.
Flaws. Plenty of them.
But everyone sees too many in their own reflection, don’t they? It’s practically a personality test at this point, noticing your imperfections means you’re still grounded, not a sociopath.
Whether the imperfection is in your appearance or your character, it still stings. You can do everything right and one mistake can ruin everything you’ve built.
I let out a slow breath and rest both hands on the edge of the sink. The woman staring back at me is glowing.
Not in the mystical, goddess-of-fertility way, more like the kind of glow that makes people roll their eyes. You know those women everyone secretly hates for claiming pregnancy is effortless? That’s me. Or… that was me.
I annoyed myself, to be honest. Patrick, my work, our life, it was perfect.
So, fucking perfect.
Not anymore. Now I’m just as miserable and confused as everyone else. Maybe more.
I turn off the bathroom light and slip into bed; the sheets cool and far too spacious without him. I lie on my side, hands tucked under my pillow.
He’s seen my imperfections, but he’ll still come back.
…won’t he?
Patrick
“Hi,” someone says, sliding onto the stool beside mine.
I grunt. I don’t want company. Barry finally left after pestering me to tell him what was wrong. Now all I want is a few minutes of quiet, just enough time to picture my wife screwing someone else in peace.
The bartender sets a glass down in front of me. “Last one,” she warns. She’s new. No idea why she cares.
I stare down at the drink. Eventually, I’m going to have to go home. Not unless I drag this out as long as possible.
“You’re a cop, huh?” the voice beside me asks.
I turn my head, ready to bite at whichever idiot decided to become my problem tonight.
It’s a woman. Young, but barely old enough to be in a bar.
And for half a second, from the side, she looks like Lore, same blonde hair, same high cheekbones.
But then she turns fully, and the illusion snaps in half.
The eyes are wrong. The color is obviously fake. Not Lorelie’s deep ocean-blue. Even her smile is wrong, it’s fake and rehearsed, nothing like the real thing.
I grimace and turn back to my drink.
“Grumpy, huh?” she says, undeterred.
Of course she doesn’t take the hint. She keeps talking, rambling about liking cops, about being “good company,” about how she “can tell I’ve had a rough night.”
Her voice becomes nothing more than background noise, easier to focus on than the mess inside my own head.
Somewhere in the middle of her story about getting arrested for flashing an officer during a music festival, I push off the stool, nearly knocking it sideways.
“I gotta take a leak,” I mutter.
I toss my credit card onto the bar without looking back and head for the hallway. The buzz in my head makes every light feel like the sun, every footstep a drumbeat.
In the bathroom, I take a piss then wash my hands, and step up to the sink. Cold water hits my face in sharp, stinging bursts that jolt a little clarity through me. Enough to know I’m in no condition to walk home. Especially not in uniform.
And I’m sure as hell not calling Lorelie to pick me up.
I dry my hands on a paper towel and open the bathroom door.
The blonde from the bar is leaning against the wall across from the door.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We just stare, her expression unreadable, mine probably straight misery.
Then she pushes off the wall and starts walking toward me. Slowly.
I’m tempted to step back and slam the door in her face, but for some reason, I don’t. I stay where I am. My pulse ticks hard at my temples, each beat loud enough to drown out the noise from the bar.
She steps closer. Closer. Only stopping when her chest lightly brushes mine.
Then she reaches for my hand. Raising it until it’s between us, her fingers circle my wedding ring. The touch feels taboo, a violation of a sacred promise. “You happily married?” she asks.
I think about it, before answering honestly. “I was.”
Her eyes soften, a flicker of predatory sympathy. Still holding my hand, she guides it toward her chest, an invitation I never asked for. My palm touches her tit and she lets go.
I should remove it, push her off, but I do none of those things. Instead, I open my palm and let it encircle her full tit. Without meaning to, I squeeze her between my fingers, feeling the nipple harden against my skin through the thin fabric of her shirt.
She takes that as an invitation and puts her hand on my stomach. Slowly, she drags it downwards, her fingers tracing a path over the belt of my uniform, a symbol of the life I'm about to torch.
Her hand slips lower, her fingers brushing against the growing hardness in my pants.
I let out a low groan, a sound of pure, unadulterated need.
I should stop this. I know I should. But the anger, the betrayal, the raw, primal rage that's been simmering inside me all night boils over, and I'm powerless to stop it.
I lean in, my lips crashing against hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that tastes of whiskey and cheap lipstick. She responds with equal fervor, her hand tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. Her other hand palms me over my pants. Her grip is tight. I thrust against her hand.
Still kissing, she pushes me backward and we fall back into the bathroom, our bodies never separating.
Turning us around, I push her against the sink, her hands working hard at unbuckling and unzipping my pants.
Immediately her hand delves inside my boxers, her warm soft skin touches my bare dick and my knees nearly buckle.
She sucks my tongue like she'll suck my dick.
Trailing kisses, she falls to her knees, or tries to. Her hair gets stuck on my shirt. "Oh, shit," I mutter, helping detangle her, but a chunk of hair rips off and gets stuck on the pin on my chest. The pin my wife clipped on me earlier, the one my son played with.
The sight of blonde hair wrapped around the silver pin, meant to symbolize honor and commitment, hits me like a physical blow. The haze of lust and anger evaporates, replaced by a wave of nausea so profound I have to lock my knees to keep from falling.
What the hell am I doing?
I look at the woman checking her hair in the mirror and I want to throw up. I don't even know her name and I was willing to cheat on my wife with her.
The woman turns back to me and shrugs. "Well, this time maybe I do it like this," she says, going to drop to her knees again, but I step back.
"No," I choke out, stumbling back and fumbling with my pants. "No, I can't."
I don't wait for a response. I don't look back. I just turn and flee, bursting out of the bathroom and through the bar. There are barely any people here, but shame still follows me as I stumble out, listening to someone shout behind me, but I pretend it's not at me.
I practically run home. Austin after midnight is a ghost town. The streetlights cast long, lonely shadows, and every sound echoes in the silence.
My dress blues feel like a costume, a lie. The crisp fabric, the polished buttons, the silver pin on my chest, it all feels like a mockery of the man I'm supposed to be.
I run until my lungs burn and my legs ache, I was pissed at Lorelie for the past while I just committed the biggest sin I could’ve.
When I finally reach our street, I see the porch light is on. It's a beacon of hope, a symbol of the life I've almost thrown away. I slow to a walk, my heart pounding in my ears, and approach the front door with a sense of dread.
I don't know what I'm going to say. I know she's going to apologize for before, but how the fuck do I let her when, all I wanna do is throw myself at her feet and beg for forgiveness myself?
When I get to our bedroom, Lore is asleep on her stomach. She's not going to be able to do this soon. Her face is turned toward my side, with her hand resting partially on my pillow. Guilt sits heavy on my stomach. I never should have stayed at the bar after everyone had left.
God, why didn't I just come home?
Swallowing, I stare at my wife. She's sleeping the same way our son does, peaceful and trusting. When she finds out... if she finds out.
Two wrongs don't make a right.
Her confession about Brick felt like a sledgehammer to the foundation of our world. But what I almost did, what I was about to do in that filthy bathroom with a woman whose name I never even asked… that wasn’t about getting even.
It was about destruction.
It was about taking a torch to the entire goddamn house because I found one crack in the wall.
I drop my phone and wallet on the bedside table and move silently to the bathroom. Steam fills the space as I step under the spray, water pounding against my skin. I stay there long past the point of comfort, long past the point of heat.
But no matter how long I shower…
the disgust won’t scrub away.