Chapter Six
“The kid in Room Three says his IV hurts.”
I take the chart from the nurse. “He hasn’t been transferred yet?”
She rolls her eyes. “Peds is full.”
I roll mine right back. Departments love playing the we’re full card. What are we supposed to do if there are no beds left in the ER, lay patients out on the floor?
I head toward Room Three, irritation buzzing under my skin. I wasn’t scheduled to work today. But after spending the entire morning obsessing over the hair and the perfume on Patrick’s shirt, my brain felt like a hamster wheel on fire. So, I drove here instead.
We’re always short-staffed, so no one questioned me walking in, grabbing a coat, and jumping on the board.
My overactive mind keeps coming up with love nests and affairs while my rational side keeps insisting the truth is completely innocent. Patrick is a man with integrity. He’s loyal. He doesn’t sneak around.
I square my shoulders, paste on my professional smile, and step inside.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say gently. “Heard your IV is bothering you.”
The rest of the morning goes by in a blur of charts, accidents and loved ones with google. It’s annoying but exactly what I need.
By the time lunch rolls around, our chief starts his rounds. I’m checking a clipboard when he pauses mid-step.
“Dr. Boise,” he says, blinking at me. “Aren’t you off today?”
I straighten, caught like a kid with her hand in the cookie jar. “Sir, I just had some time and-”
He lifts one brow.
“I… needed a distraction,” I admit quietly.
He exhales the most dramatic sigh a man his age has ever produced.
“Well next time you need a distraction, go to the movies. Or Target. Or literally anywhere that doesn’t involve malpractice risks and sleep deprivation.
” He eyes me with a pointed frown. “You know we have an issue with doctors burning out.”
I’m about to argue, I’m not tired, I’m fine, I needed this, but instead a giant yawn tears itself out of my mouth.
He crosses his arms. “Don’t make me put you on maternity leave early.”
I glare at him, but it comes out more petulant than intimidating. “Yes, sir.”
“Go home, Boise.”
With a sigh, I turn to walk off. Normally you can’t talk to the chief like that, chiefs are terrifying, untouchable creatures who only descend from their lairs to lecture or scold.
But Dr. Pratt isn’t just the chief. He was my mentor all through internship and residency. He was at my wedding. He held Milo when he was a baby.
He’s earned the right to boss me around like a grumpy uncle, and I’ve earned the right to react like a petulant child.
Still, embarrassment creeps hot up my neck as I head toward the lockers. I’ve never been called out before, not even for overworking.
I’m a mom, and thankfully I work in a place where my colleagues are more than willing to cover for me when I need to run to Milo’s school functions, just like I keep myself available when they need help while I’m off-shift.
It’s balanced. No one gets taken advantage of. Everyone gets a village.
Not that I haven’t dealt with the thankless, entitled types, roommates who begged me to “cover just this once” at least three times a week, who somehow always had a sudden emergency when I needed help. The kind you cut out of your life and never look back.
It’s barely two when I get into my car, a perfect time to pick up Milo. Before leaving, I check my phone and see a text from my father-in-law:
I’ll pick up Milo today. I have Surprise for him.
Huh.
He usually uses our pick-up days to catch up on housework or tinker in the garage. But okay. Milo will be thrilled.
Another thing I genuinely lucked out on: my in-laws.
After hearing so many horror stories, I’m endlessly grateful for Colter and Eloise. I have this theory that it’s because Eloise has her own career, her entire identity doesn’t revolve around her kids.
It’s one of the things that inspired me to go back to work after Milo was born.
I love him more than anything, but I don’t want to be limited to being “just” a mother.
Not that I don’t respect stay-at-home moms, my mom was one, and I can’t imagine my childhood without coming home to her after school.
If Patrick’s family hadn’t been so available and supportive, I might not have been able to return to work at all. In a way, I’m glad Milo is the only grandchild for now. Harvey and Lauren have no plans for kids, and Zoey is still in law school.
The second the house comes into view, my stomach tightens.
Patrick’s car is in the driveway. He must be back from wherever he disappeared to. He didn’t text me, so he’s probably still pissed.
Well, tough. Distraction time is over.
I need answers.
The door clicks shut behind me as I step inside. The house is quiet, but when I round the corner into the kitchen, I stop short.
Patrick is sitting at the table. Drinking coffee like he hasn’t been throwing a hissy fit since yesterday.
He looks… tired though. Shoulders slumped, eyes rimmed in red, hair a mess like he’s run his hands through it a million times. In front of him is a plate with a half-eaten sandwich.
He startles a little when he sees me. Then straightens, as if pulling himself together.
“Hey,” he says, voice low. “You want something to eat? I can make-”
“I ate,” I cut in. “At the cafeteria.”
He blinks. “You… went to work?”
I set my bag down harder than necessary. “You’d know that if you answered any of my calls.”
His eyes drop instantly, shame flooding his face. He wraps his fingers around his coffee mug but doesn’t pick it up.
“I forgot to charge my phone,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, right,” I say, folding my arms. “You were busy yesterday.”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“Yesterday,” I say quietly. “I know what you did.” I don’t actually, but raising my sister taught me if you want the truth, you pretend you already have it.
Patrick goes still.
Completely still.
He opens his mouth once. Closes it. Then he forces the words out, not even pausing to breathe.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
My pulse spikes.
“I was drunk,” he says, voice cracking. “And angry. And stupid. But I stopped it. Lore… I stopped it before it went too far. I swear to God.”
The room tilts.
I stare at him, too shocked to even breathe. My voice barely comes out. “Stopped what?”
He flinches, actually flinches, like I stabbed him. Like he didn’t just admit to…
He looks at me with eyes full of guilt.
Oh God.
Patrick
Lore looks like she’s seconds from collapsing.
I push up from the chair so fast it scrapes across the floor, rushing toward her before she falls. But the moment my palms touch her arm; she jerks away like I burned her.
“Don’t touch me,” she snaps, voice sharp and breaking at the same time.
She backs up until the table is between us, bracing herself against it with both hands. She keeps her eyes on the wood grain, breathing unevenly. I’m about to ask if she’s okay, senseless question, when she finally speaks.
“You cheated on me.” It isn’t a question.
It’s a verdict.
“I mean, not really,” I say helplessly. “I didn’t-”
Her head snaps up. Her eyes are glassy, already filling. “Did you kiss someone else?”
My throat closes. I look away, staring at the crooked back door I’ve been meaning to fix for months. Anything but her.
I see her swipe tears off her cheeks from the corner of my eye.
“Did you sleep with her?” Her voice cracks in the middle, so soft it sounds like she’s asking from far away.
“No,” I say immediately, rushing the words out. “No, I didn’t. I just… I was drunk, and she came onto me and-”
“Oh, so she came onto you and you were helpless?” she spits. “Do you know how many men have come onto me since we got married? And I never did a damn thing because we were married.”
“That’s not always true,” I mutter, the bitterness slipping out before I can stop it.
Her eyes go wide.
Horrified.
“Oh God,” she whispers, voice strangled. “Oh God.”
Her hands fly to the sides of her head as if she can physically hold herself together. “You got revenge.”
I open my mouth, stupidly, instinctively, because some ugly part of me wants to justify the unjustifiable.
“I mean,” I say with a shrug, “I only got drunk because of what you did. And you didn’t even tell me until you had to.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re wrong.
Lorelie’s eyes narrow.
“So, we’re even,” she says, slowly.
I backpedal automatically. “Lore, that’s not what I-”
“No, go ahead,” she cuts in, stepping around the table just enough to look me fully in the face.
“Own your words.” Her voice trembles, not with tears, with fury.
“You think because I did something you told me was fine, a lifetime ago, that you get what? A hall pass? A chance to go out and screw the first woman that offers.”
“That’s not-”
She laughs. A broken sound. “God, you actually think that.”
“I don’t!” I say quickly, loudly. “That’s not what I meant-”
“But you said it.” A single tear slides down her cheek. She doesn’t bother wiping it. “You said it, Patrick. You said you getting drunk and screwing another woman was my fault.”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Nothing can come out.
She inhales slowly, like every breath hurts. Her whole body shakes from the effort of holding herself together.
I panic a little, trying to make her see me.
“I didn’t screw her, alright?” I say, voice cracking. “She kissed me, but I stopped her.”
“You didn’t stop her because you love me,” she says quietly. “You stopped it because you’d hurt me enough.”
“No,” I whisper. “No… Lore, I-”
But she’s looking at me with an expression I’ve never seen on her face. Not in the six years we’ve been married. Not in all the years before that.
She looks broken. Like her entire world just shattered with one sentence. And I did it. I did that.
I try to defend myself again, but she shakes her head once. Then she turns and walks away.
Her footsteps echo on the stairs. Each one sounds sends shards of pain through my gut. By the time the bedroom door closes upstairs, something in me snaps.
My knees give out.
I sink into the chair and bury my face in my hands as the first sob tears out of me, loud and uncontrollable. I haven’t cried in years. Three times in my life, maybe.
When my son was born. When my grandmother died. And now.
Now, because I destroyed the one thing I never thought I could lose.
I don’t know how long I sit like that, head in my hands, breath shaking, regretting yesterday like my life depends on it, heck I regret today too. Why the fuck did I have to open my mouth?
I drag my palms down my cheeks and force myself upright, elbows braced on my knees as I stare at the floor. I try to breathe evenly. I try to think clearly. But every time I close my eyes, all I can see is Lore’s face.
The way she looked at me. Like she didn’t recognize the man standing in front of her.
I rub both hands over my face. I need to go to her. I need to fix this. I need to do something other than sit here in the kitchen like a coward.
I stand. Then chicken out and sit back down.
I need to do this… but shouldn’t I give her time?
What’s the right move here, strike while the iron’s hot, or let it cool so it doesn’t burn?
I don’t know. God, I don’t know.
An hour passes before I finally push myself to my feet and force my legs toward the stairs.
I’m only on the second step when my phone pings.
Dad: On the way home with Milo. Should I keep him tonight?
Me: Probably a good idea.
Dad: Be a man.
I put my phone back in my pocket. When I tell Dad what I said to Lore, he’s going to give me the beating I know is coming.
I stop outside our bedroom door.
My hand shakes as I lift it to knock. Then wait for permission to enter my own bedroom.
“Lore?”
My voice cracks on her name.
Silence.
I swallow and try again. “Lorelie… can we talk?”
More silence.
A pit opens in my stomach. Isn’t this what I did this morning, when I was too busy drowning in guilt and letting her think, it was because of her.
Resting my forehead on the door, I close my eyes and just try to breathe.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just… talk to me.”
Nothing. Not a sound.
I have no idea if she’s ignoring me, or crying, or if she doesn’t want to hear my voice ever again.
“Dad said he’ll keep Milo tonight,” I say through the door, hoping that’ll get her attention. “Give us time to talk.”
Still nothing. Not even a shift in the floorboards.
I’m too scared to twist the handle. She’d be right to lock it. It doesn’t mean it would hurt any less.
Leaning my back against the wall beside the door, I slide down to the floor.
“Please, Lore.” I beg, not loud enough for her to hear. “Please.”