Chapter Seven
Lorelie
I grab the Keurig cup and pour it into my travel mug. Once it’s full, I dump the rest down the drain. I’m not hungry.
It’s not just me though. So, I pull one of the overnight oatmeal containers from the fridge and slip it into my bag for later.
“Hey,” I hear from behind me.
It takes everything in me not to jump.
“Hmm” I let out a noncommittal hum as I pretend to focus on tightening the lid of my mug.
Running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, Patrick comes into view. He looks exhausted. “You’re… going to work?”
“I have an early shift,” I say, voice flat.
“Right,” he nods. “I… I should probably get ready too.”
I don’t reply. I just keep flipping through the mail like it demands my full attention. Bills. Flyers. A postcard from Genesis with a picture of a waterfall.
“About last night,” he starts.
I stiffen.
Of course he wants to talk now. This morning when I opened the bedroom door he was outside sleeping on the floor. I had to step over him just to get out.
I close the stack of mail, set it down, and grip the edge of the counter.
“Patrick,” I say quietly, trying not to yell. “Don’t.”
He swallows. I can hear it. “Lore… we have to talk. You walked away before I could-”
“Before you could apologize?” I cut in. “Make an excuse? Feel better about what you did?” My voice stays steady, but every word feels like swallowing glass. “It won’t undo it, Patrick. It won’t magically make me feel better.”
He opens his mouth, but I keep going.
“You were right,” I say, nodding once. “I slept with someone else. So, you did the same. It wasn’t an affair.” The words nearly splinter my throat. “And I’ll get over it.”
His face twists. “Just like that?”
“Yes.” I nod again. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
He keeps staring at me, confusion written all over him. Honestly, I’m confused too. I spent all day yesterday and all-night thinking about what he did. Thinking about the hair and the woman, it belonged to.
I couldn’t bring myself to open the bedroom door no matter how much he begged. Thankfully, I had plenty of snacks hidden in the bedroom and sink water is safe to drink in Austin.
Yes, I drank sink water to avoid him.
But at the end of all that… I love him.
And this isn’t something I want to end our marriage over. Like he said, he stopped it. That’s more than most men would’ve and that’s enough for me.
I don’t need the details. I don’t want the descriptions. Women have been forgiving their philandering husbands for millennia. I can forgive mine for one mistake.
But forgiveness isn’t the same as permission.
I bite my lip, grounding myself, then look him dead in the eye.
“Patrick… just so you know. If you ever, ever do something like this again, I will take the kids, the house, and everything you love. I swear to God.”
His eyes widen in shock. “I won’t.”
“I know,” I say simply.
I grab my mug, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head for the door.
“See you tonight.”
And then I’m gone before he can say another word.
God, I can practically feel the feminist in me shrivel and die.
But I’m not just a woman in this situation, I’m a mom. And while motherhood doesn’t define me, I’m not going to leave my husband and blow up my children’s life over one mistake. Patrick is a good husband in every way that counts. And I love him.
I need to hold on to that.
Still… hearing him try to pin what he did on me?
That’s not something I’ll forget anytime soon.
Thankfully, I have work today to keep my mind busy and the distraction of the new Director.
I applied for that position, but apparently, I “don’t have enough experience.” I didn’t take it personally, especially since none of my brilliant, seasoned colleagues got it either. Instead, management, geniuses that they are, decided to bring in someone completely new.
Whatever.
Just my luck, I found out yesterday that their first official day is today. While I’m on shift.
And thanks to hospital rules, the ER always needs at least one licensed physician present to supervise residents and interns.
Because we’re chronically understaffed and very cost-efficient, we only schedule one doctor at a time.
We get overlaps at the start and end of shifts, and standbys in case of emergencies, but the bulk of the day?
We’re alone.
The upside is we get more breaks than most ER physicians. Less pay, sure, but a real life outside the hospital.
At least… in theory. It’s not really possible to sit back and kick it with a beer when you could be called in at any moment. That’s why we have so many burnouts.
They don’t actually schedule standbys, no matter what the policy says, so it’s basically a game of Russian roulette. Who gets called in? Who gets written up for being “unavailable”?
One of the many things I would’ve tackled as Director.
But I’m sure the new guy or gal will get right on that.
You know… after they figure out where the bathrooms are.
I slam my locker shut harder than necessary. The metal clang echoes through the room. I close my eyes and draw in slow breaths, thank you Lamaze class.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
I am here to save lives.
My personal life does not matter inside this building. Here, I am Dr. Boise. Not Mrs. Boise. Not the woman whose husband almost-
I shake that thought off so hard I feel my ponytail whip my shoulder.
Work.
Work is safe.
Work makes sense.
People bleed; I fix them.
People break; I stitch them back together.
If only marriages were that easy
Patrick
“Just like that?” Barry asks, eyebrows almost hitting his hairline.
I nod and sink deeper into my chair. “Just like that.”
We are in my office. My new office, technically, though it does not feel all that new. I have been the acting sergeant for the missing persons unit since March when Sergeant Castillo retired, so today is not really a first day. The badge is official now, but the work is the same.
Apart from saying a few words to my team of seven detectives, including Barry, and checking in with Lieutenant Mira, nothing feels different.
Mira has been on the force for twenty-four years and she handles all the big tapes and cases that I cannot touch yet.
She is the one who actually keeps the wheels turning.
Barry sits across from me, fingertips pressed together in front of his mouth, staring like he is trying to solve a puzzle.
“I don’t buy it,” he finally says.
I look up. “Buy what?”
“This whole ‘it’s fine, she’ll get over it’ thing.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Man, I know women. And even a woman as classy as Lorelie, with her own job and her own money, she’s not going to take this lying down. She’s definitely planning something.”
I snort. “Really? And what exactly is she planning?”
He shrugs, but his face stays serious. “Could be anything. Maybe she is icing you out. Maybe she is plotting a divorce. Maybe she is waiting to tear your ass apart when you least expect it.”
I glare at him. “Wow. Thanks. Very helpful.”
He lifts his hands like he is innocent. “I’m just saying.”
I rub my jaw and stare at the wall. “She said she forgave me.”
Barry lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. “Did she actually say those words?”
I think back, replaying the morning in my head. The tightness in her shoulders. The way she wouldn’t look at me.
“Well… it was implied,” I say.
Barry makes a noise that sounds like a dying animal. “Man, you cheated on her, then you blamed her for it. I mean…” He trails off and actually winces. “That is rough.”
“I didn’t blame her,” I blubber, even though I know I did. At least implied it.
Barry raises a brow and waits me out.
My shoulders sag. “What do you suggest I do?”
He rubs his chin, thinking hard. “Honestly? I don’t think there is anything you can do.” He clicks his fingers suddenly. “Wait. Actually, there is one thing. You should find a way to apologize without apologizing.”
I stare at him. “What does that even mean?”
“Show her you are sorry,” Barry says. “Not with words. Those are useless right now. With actions. Something big.”
“Like what?” I ask.
He shrugs. “You’re the one who almost blew up your marriage. Get creative.”
I lean back in my chair, tired and defeated. Creative is not in my vocabulary. I am a cop. I find missing people, not solutions to my own disasters.
But he is right. Lorelie is not going to be won back by saying sorry. She needs something real. Something that proves I know exactly how badly I screwed up. Something that shows I am willing to walk the walk rather than talk the talk.
Only… where the hell do I walk?
We already have a standing date every Wednesday.
We cannot take a trip right now, and even if we could, I doubt she would agree to go anywhere with me at the moment.
I could decorate the nursery. Except she loved decorating Milo’s. That was her thing, not mine.
No. I need to do something for her. Something that reaches her.
I could get her those hiking boots she has been eyeing.
No. Too trivial.
What does Lore even want?
I know she wants me to be more open. She has always said I never talk about my feelings. And she’s right. With what I see at work, with what I deal with, feelings get shoved down fast.
People are always quoting that line about the first forty-eight hours being the most crucial in a missing person case. That part is true. The part they don’t show on TV is the reality. A team does not get one case and work it until it’s solved.
Sometimes we have two active missing people at once. Sometimes three. Sometimes five. And then we have to decide who gets priority. The runaway teenager or the six-year-old. The domestic situation or the homeless vet no one will report missing until winter.
And the brutal truth is that the one who gets priority is not always the one who gets found.
You carry that home with you. You carry all of them home with you. Every face. Every family. Every open door you walk back through with no good news.
What am I supposed to do? Come home and tell my pregnant wife that today we picked wrong?
So, I shut down. I’d rather talk about her day than think about mine.
But she wants all of me. The parts I lock away.
The parts I don’t even like to look at.
Maybe that’s what she needs. Not gifts, flowers or grand gestures.
Me.
The version of me I never let her see.
Only I really don’t want to do that.
What am I supposed to even talk about? I had a good childhood. I have siblings. My parents are still together. Nothing dramatic or tragic. Nothing worth turning into a heart-to-heart.
What would I even say? That I cried when my grandma died? That dad once grounded me for the teacher not updating grades on the weekend?
Yeah. Very deep. Lore is going to be moved to tears over that one.
Maybe I should just do something else. Something safer. Help more around the house. Give her a chance to put her pregnant feet up. Clean. Cook. Fold the never-ending piles of laundry she hates.
I can’t remove the password from my phone. Department policy. She already knows that anyway.
I need something bigger. Something she cannot ignore. I need to show her I regret every second of that night.
The idea hits me so suddenly I sit up in my chair like an idiot who just reinvented marriage.
Drinking.
I can give up drinking.
I am not a drunk, but Lore knows how much I like kicking back with a beer after a shift. She knows it helps me unwind, forget the awful parts of the day, breathe after dealing with things most people don’t even see on TV.
If I give that up, she will understand how serious I am.
She will see exactly how much I regret what happened and what I’m willing to give up to prove it.
Yes.
This is it.
I will quit drinking.
Cold turkey.
Easy.
Right?