Chapter Five
Lorelie
“I just don’t get why he’s so pissed,” I mutter into the phone, stabbing at a loose pebble with my foot. I’ve been pacing the patio for ten minutes now, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, picking up twigs and toys scattered across the backyard.
Genesis called out of nowhere. Which means she’s either bored, sunburnt or waiting for a flight. Judging by the background noise, she’s at a beach. Her last video was from Panama City, taking about the benefits of coconut water and the spa package.
“Guys are like that, Lore,” she says, slurping loudly on something. “I mean, to them sex is nothing but fucking, and they know to women, well, some women, it’s more. So, they don’t like knowing their women had lives before them.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Patrick has always known I had a life before him. He’s the one who brought up being nonexclusive.”
“Yeah,” Genesis says, unimpressed. “And how many times did he ask you about the people you were seeing?”
I stay quiet. He hadn’t. Not once. And I probably hadn’t helped by always being available whenever he wanted to meet. Dropping everything. Rearranging my schedule.
“Exactly,” she says. “Men love the idea of freedom. They just don’t like the consequences.”
I sigh and flop into one of the lawn chairs. The plastic is cold against my legs. “He’s acting like I lied for our entire marriage.”
“Well…” Genesis drags out the word. “You kind of did?”
I shut my eyes. “Gen.”
“I’m not judging!” she insists quickly. “Okay, maybe a tiny bit. But you thought you were breaking up with him, right? He canceled on you, you thought he was out with someone else, you got mad, you made a bad decision, welcome to human behavior.”
Her tone softens a little. “You weren’t exclusive. You weren’t cheating. You panicked and tried to hurt him before he hurt you. We’ve all been there.”
I swallow hard. “I just didn’t expect him to shut down like this.”
“Lore,” she sighs, “men can go to war, run into burning buildings, fight off wild animals. But finding out their girlfriend once had sex with someone else? Oh no. Straight to emotional ICU.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
Genesis lowers her voice. “Do you want my opinion?”
“Not really,” I mutter.
“Okay, here it is anyway,” she continues. “Give him time. But don’t let him punish you for something that happened before you two were even… you two.”
I run my fingers through my hair, staring at Milo’s little toy firetruck overturned in the grass. “I know. I just hate this feeling. I hate not knowing where he is in his head.”
“If you push him,” Genesis says, “he’ll just push you back. Now’s the time to leave him alone and let him come to you.”
I hum under my breath. She’s right. Annoyingly right.
“Like I did with you,” I say, referring to her terrible choice in men and her refusal to listen to my opinion about them.
She bursts out laughing. “You did play that pretty well.”
I shrug. “I was a teenager raising a teenager.”
“Really?” she drawls.
“Let that be true,” I warn her.
Genesis laughs louder this time. She’s twenty-six now, but in moments like this, she’s still the sixteen-year-old I used to chase around with homework reminders and curfews she ignored. She might’ve been living with our aunt, but that was just on paper, I still did the raising.
“I saw your video,” I say, twisting a strand of my hair. “You looked… tan.”
Genesis laughs. “I’m getting paid to travel and enjoy new things. Last week I-”
Her voice cuts out as an engine revs somewhere nearby. That was too close to be a neighbor.
I freeze.
He wouldn’t…
Phone still pressed to my ear, I move through the house, past the kitchen, the living room, and peek out the front window toward the driveway.
My car sits exactly where I left it.
And right beside it… Patrick’s car is gone.
The space is empty.
He actually left.
Scoffing in disbelief, I tell Gen I’ll call her back and hang up. My heartbeat thuds in my ears as I climb the stairs two at a time.
His phone is gone. His wallet too. My chest tightens. In his rush to get away from me, he left the bathroom light on.
I flick it off, and turn to leave. But something in the dark catches a faint gleam. My hand hesitates on the switch. I turn the light back on.
The laundry basket sits in the corner.
Patrick’s dress blues are thrown inside, wrinkled in a way he never leaves them.
What actually catches my attention is the small glint on the shirt.
The pin.
The promotion pin.
I reach in, unfasten it from the fabric, and lift it.
“Ew.” The sound slips out before I can stop it.
My hair must’ve gotten caught on it somehow,
Except… there’s a lot of it.
I pull at the strands wrapped around the metal, but they cling stubbornly. A gag rises in my throat. God, it’s hair, my hair, yet touching it feels so disgusting?
I try again, fingertips trembling. This time I heave so bad, I drop the pin completely, letting it clatter onto the sink.
Hair still stuck. A coil of blonde, only… Dread prickles up my spine.
I stare at the laundry basket again, picture the shirt crumpled inside it. Slowly, carefully, opening the lid I lift it out and bring it to my nose.
Patrick’s cologne hits first, the same one he’s been using for years.
But beneath it… Faint, almost hidden… Something floral.
Not my shampoo. Not my perfume. Not anything I’ve ever worn.
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
This time it’s not just heaving. I barely make it to the toilet before the nausea hits for real.
I grip the seat with one hand, the other holds my hair back as my body rejects everything inside it. My eyes burn, my throat aches, and when it’s over, I slump back on my heels, shaking.
Pregnancy nausea has nothing on this.
When I finally manage to breathe again, I wipe my mouth with trembling fingers and lean back against the cold tile.
No. No. No.
There has to be another explanation.
A woman probably brushed against him and got her hair on the pin. That happens, right? People bump into each other in bars, on the street, anywhere. Hair sheds. It sticks. It tangles.
And the scent. He hugged his mom and sister yesterday. Neither of them is blonde, but perfume transfers.
That would explain it.
It has to.
I press a hand to my forehead, breathing through the dizziness. Genesis’ voice bounces around in my skull:
To men, sex is just fucking.
Get mad enough and they make a bad decision.
My stomach tightens again.
Patrick wouldn’t.
Would he?
Patrick
“What did you do, son?”
I look away, jaw tight. The last thing I want is to look my father in the eye and admit I almost cheated on my wife with a nameless blonde in a bar bathroom.
He must see something in my face, because he lets out a long breath. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly, “but tell me this… is it professional or personal?”
My throat works. I force the word out. “Personal.”
He nods once. “Lorelie?”
I swallow and stare at my boots. “Yeah.”
Dad hesitates. I can feel him thinking through every possible scenario before he finally says, “I think I can guess.”
I keep my eyes glued to the ground. I don’t want to see disappointment on his face. Not today.
Another pause. Then: “Has this happened more than-” He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff. “Alright, I can’t do this. Son… did you screw around on your wife?”
Leave it to him to abandon the gentle route in favor of a direct gut punch.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not really. I stopped it before…”
The words fall apart in my throat, pathetic even to my own ears. “Before anything happened.”
Dad watches me, jaw set. Then, quietly, he asks, “If the roles were reversed… if Lorelie had been in your place… would you say she cheated?”
The answer hits me before I even think. I nod. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Have you told her?”
I shake my head. “I can’t. Dad, she’s pregnant and emotional and-”
“Stop.” His tone slices clean through my excuse.
“Don’t use her pregnancy to avoid telling her the truth,” he says.
“She’s your wife. And if what you’re saying is true, if you stopped it, then don’t fuck up now by keeping it inside.
” He leans closer, voice low and firm. “Trust me, it’ll come out.
Maybe not directly, but this kind of thing? It bleeds into a relationship.”
My chest tightens.
“It takes a certain kind of man to hide something like this forever,” he adds. Then he reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder. “And son… I didn’t raise that kind of a man.”
I look up at the clear sky, sunlight filtering through the branches overhead.
If I’d made different choices last night, I’d be with my wife right now… not hiding from her in my parents’ backyard.
The words slip out before I can swallow them. “What if she can’t forgive me?”
Dad doesn’t hesitate. “That,” he says, “has to be her choice.”
My throat closes up. The idea of looking Lorelie in the eye and telling her what almost happened makes my stomach twist hard enough to hurt.
“I should… I should go home,” I say weakly.
But I don’t move. My pulse is hammering, my palms are sweating, and every version of Lore’s face, angry, disappointed, devastated, flashes through my head until I feel sick.
Dad watches me quietly. He’s never been a man who needs a long speech to understand fear when he sees it.
Finally, he clears his throat. “You don’t have to tell her this very moment.”
I nod my head, ashamed.
“Alright,” he says simply, pushing himself up with a grunt. “Then help me with this castle.”
I look at him, startled. “Dad?”
“I’m serious.” He hands me a plank of wood and a drill. “You’re no good to anyone pacing around like a caged animal. Get your hands busy. Reset your brain.”
I stare at the tools in my hands.
He’s right. I’m nowhere near ready to drive home and face what I’ve done.
Dad kneels back down beside the half-built wooden structure and nudges it with his finger. “Come on. The drawbridge is crooked and Milo’ll notice. Kid sees everything.”
Despite everything tearing me apart inside, a weak smile pulls at my mouth.
I crouch beside him.
“Good,” Dad mutters. “Now drill here. And don’t screw it up. This is going next to my cucumbers.”
I spend the rest of the morning helping him finish the castle.
At one point, I drag a lawn chair over beside us and tell him to just sit and tell me what to do.
He tries to argue, but it’s taking him a full minute just to get up from the grass, and I can see the perspiration gathering at his forehead.
The castle doesn’t look half bad when we’re done. A little crooked, a little heavy on one side, but Milo will lose his mind over it.
“What about paint?” I ask.
Dad waves me off. “Later. You’ve procrastinated enough.”
I check the time on my phone. “It’s nearly time to pick up Milo.”
It isn’t. It’s barely noon. Milo isn’t out until three.
Dad shakes his head, seeing straight through me. “I’m gonna take a nap and then I’ll pick him up.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off with a sharp look that reminds me of the drill sergeant who raised us. The man who never tolerated excuses, hesitation, or cowardice.
“You go home, Patrick.”
The words land like a command. And like a sentence.
Home.
Where Lorelie is. And where I get to break my wife’s heart.
A cold, hollow ache spreads through my chest.
I nod, slow and stiff, then manage a weak, “If she kicks me out… can I move in here?”
Dad shakes his head immediately.
“If your wife kicks you out,” he says, “you act like a man…” Standing with a grunt and patting my shoulder, he finishes, “…and you camp out in the backyard.”