Chapter Ten
Lorelie
Patrick looks sick the moment he realizes what I am asking him to do.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice rough.
I nod. “I’d rather get it over with than pretend. I can’t pretend anymore.”
He swallows and nods, sitting forward as if the weight of the conversation is physically pulling him down.
“I was at O’Riley’s,” he starts. “Getting drunk. When a woman came up.”
My stomach twists. I resist the urge to ask what she looked like.
“She started talking,” he continues, “and I didn’t reply. I swear I didn’t. I just… kept drinking. Too much. I went to the bathroom to sober up before calling a cab, and that’s when she approached me. Or… followed me. I don’t know.”
He drags a hand down his face.
“I knew I should’ve stopped her, but I just froze.”
I nod, even though it feels like my throat is closing.
He goes on. “She made the move. She grabbed my hand first, and then she-”
He stops, shaking his head. “Lore, I don’t see the point in saying everything.”
“I do,” I whisper. “I need to know. If you kissed her. If you touched her. If…” My voice breaks in half. “If you wanted her.”
He closes his eyes for a long second, like the memory itself hurts to hold.
“I don’t remember kissing her. I don’t think I did,” he finally says. His voice is barely there.
My breath shakes so hard I have to rest my hand on the counter.
“I touched her,” he goes on, staring at the floor. “Over her clothes. Just for a second. And then… her hair got caught in the pin. The one you put on me.”
His voice fractures on that last part. He turns his face away like he’s ashamed to let me see him.
“And it was like someone threw cold water on me. A jolt. I realized what I was doing. What I was about to do. I pulled away. I stopped it.”
Silence settles deep in my bones. I feel it all the way down to the soles of my feet.
I guess that explains the hair on it. I take a slow breath.
“And that’s everything?” I ask softly wanting assurance that he never slept with her.
Patrick nods once, looking like he expects the world to collapse on him.
I nod back. “Alright.”
His eyes snap to mine. “Are you just saying it for the sake of peace?”
I shake my head immediately. “No. I’m not ok with it. At all. But…” I swallow around the lump in my throat. “It was worse in my head.”
Patrick bites his lip. “So… now what?”
I shrug. “We go on with our lives.”
He looks terrified. “What about us?”
“I love you,” I say honestly. “But I don’t like you right now.”
A tiny, broken smile ghosts across his face. “I don’t like me either.”
I let out a slow breath. “I just need some time.”
He nods, eyes soft but sad. “Take all the time you need.”
There’s a quiet moment between us, neither of knowing what else to say right now. I shift in my seat and ask, “What was the surprise? Your dad said he had something for Milo.”
Patrick huffs out a small laugh, grateful for the change of subject. “Uh… he made him a castle.”
I blink. “A castle?”
He nods. “Yeah. Said he’ll paint it with him.”
My eyebrows lift. “That’s… actually really sweet.”
Patrick laughs under his breath. “Wood is easier to paint than those tiny damn lines in Milo’s books.”
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. Milo’s artwork isn’t exactly refrigerator-worthy, but we put it there anyway.
After a brief laugh, we slip back into an awkward silence.
I clear my plate, rinse it, and set it in the sink. My body aches with exhaustion. My heart aches worse.
“Well… I’m beat,” I say, brushing my hands on a towel.
Patrick nods, hands shoved into his pockets, looking like he wants to say something and can’t find the words.
I turn to walk away, but stop in the doorway.
I don’t look back when I say it.
“Don’t sleep on the floor. Take the guest room.”
For a second, I expect him to argue, to demand his bed. Then I hear him swallow.
“Okay,” he says softly.
I leave him standing alone in the kitchen.
The rest of the month slips by the same. We play happy family in public, in front of Milo, but at the end of the day we sleep in separate rooms. Like roommates with shared custody of a five-year-old.
And honestly? It’s exhausting.
But home isn’t the only thing weighing on me right now.
Dr. Murphy wasn’t kidding about that new policy.
One he implemented the same day he announced it.
Gail was pissed, obviously he was. He came in on his days off with the promise of getting to leave early for his trip, only that part never happened.
At first, he was mad at Murphy, but that anger slowly bled into annoyance with me.
And it’s not just Gail.
The entire ER thinks the policy was made because of me, because of my “special requests,” which is hilarious considering I barely take five-minute bathroom breaks without getting called back. Now I’m getting attitude not just from the other attendings but from nurses too.
The residents and interns still have to listen to me, sure, but work has become hostile. A place that used to distract me now feels like it needs its own therapy unit.
The only one on my side seems to be Charlize. She was there when Murphy openly showed his hostility, and she’s convinced he’s icing me out because I was a contender for his job, if only I’d had a little more experience.
Even if that’s true, it doesn’t give him the right to act like a complete jackass. And if his plan is to ice me out…
I’m not gonna lie. It’s working.
I even considered going to the Chief about it, but what am I supposed to say? “People aren’t being nice to me”? That’s not exactly an HR violation. Or at least not one they’d consider a special request.
I’m twenty-four weeks now. Maternity leave starts at thirty-four, if I don’t go into early labor from all this stress.
So, I just… have to tough it out. Keep my head down. Pretend I don’t hear the whispers or feel the annoyance radiating off half the staff every time I walk by.
I tell myself it’ll pass. They’ll realize I’m not the enemy. But every day I step into that ER, it feels tighter. More suffocating.
Ten more, weeks. Can’t go by quick enough.
Patrick
If someone had told me a month ago that sleeping in the guest room would become my new normal, I’d have laughed in their face.
Now I’m just grateful Lorelie hasn’t kicked me out of the house entirely.
Every night we tuck Milo in together, and every night we go our separate ways. I keep waiting for her to tell me I can sleep in our bed again, but that night hasn’t come yet.
Most nights she makes it home before Milo’s bedtime, and on those nights, to keep up appearances, I welcome her with a kiss like always. You’d think I’d like that, right? But feeling her tense before our lips even touch… it’s the worst feeling on the planet.
It’s been almost a month since I blew everything up. And even though she’s civil, warm, sometimes, there’s a distance now. A space I can’t cross.
Barry slides into the chair across from my desk without me even realizing he’s in the room. Not the only thing I’ve missed this past month.
“You look like shit, Sarg.”
I flick my eyes up. “Thanks.”
“Any progress at home?” he asks, leaning back with a grimace like he already knows the answer.
“Some,” I say. Then I sigh. “Not enough.”
He nods slowly, drumming his fingers on the folder in his lap. “Look, man… time helps, but only if you’re actually doing something with it.”
“I quit drinking,” I remind him.
“And that’s good,” he says. “Really good. But that’s not enough… obviously.”
My heart sinks. I rub my jaw. “What do you think I should do, Barry? I’m fresh out of ideas.”
He spreads his hands. “Have you considered marriage counseling?”
I shake my head. “We don’t need it.”
He tilts his head. “Where are you sleeping again?”
I rub my jaw. “Motherfucker.”
He waits.
“Our problems aren’t gonna be solved by talking to some shrink,” I mutter. “Scratch that, we don’t have a problem. She just needs time.”
Barry shrugs. “It’s your marriage, man. But…”
“What?”
He hesitates. “Lieutenant asked me if everything’s alright with you. Said you’ve been slacking off.”
I scoff. “If she had a problem, she should’ve brought it to me.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “She doesn’t have a problem. Not yet. But if you keep going the way you’re going? Time might heal your marriage, but it sure as shit ain’t gonna be good for your job.”
I nod stiffly, jaw tight. Barry takes the hint, pushes out of the chair, and slips out of my office without another word.
The moment the door shuts, I slam the file in front of me closed and drop my head into my hands.
I haven’t been sleeping. Not really. Not in a month.
Every time I close my eyes, I get the same fucking nightmare, Lore gone. Milo gone. The entire house gutted like we never lived there. I run from room to room, yelling their names, but it’s silent. It feels real enough that when I jerk awake, heart in my throat, I have to get up and check.
I walk down the dark hall like a damn creep, crack Milo’s door open just to watch his chest rise and fall. Then I check our bedroom and watch Lore curled on her side, one hand over her belly, face soft in sleep.
And I just stand there like an asshole, staring at the life I almost blew up with one stupid, drunken decision.
Every night.
Every single night.
I drag my hands down my face and look around my office, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
Barry’s right. My job’s slipping. My marriage’s hanging by a thread. And I’m sitting here doing jack shit except counting nightmares and waiting for Lore to magically get over something without me actually doing anything.
I flip my laptop open and immediately switch to incognito.
No clue why I bother, brass can see my history anyway. But I’d rather not have ads popping up about this.
I type into Google:
‘Marriage counselors’ then, because honesty hurts, I add: ‘for cheating.’ Then: ‘Austin, Texas’
Pages of results load. None of them look real. I don’t think a website called, “save my marriage” will actually save it. Scrolling down I come across a promising one.
Orange Cove Counseling Center.
I click it.
It’s close to the house. Not so close that we’d run into someone we know, but close enough that I could swing by on my lunch break. Private office. Good reviews. Specializes in “relationship rupture repair” and “infidelity recovery.”
My stomach twists.
Infidelity recovery.
Jesus.
I sit back in my chair, rub my hands over my face, and stare at the ceiling for a long minute. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to drag my shit out in front of a stranger. I don’t want Lore sitting next to me while I admit, again, how badly I messed up.
But I want my wife back.
More than I want my pride.
I dial the number, my thumb hesitating for a second before I press call.
It rings. Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up.
A woman picks up. “Orange Cove Counseling, how can I help you?”
My mouth feels like sandpaper. The words won’t come out.
“Hello?” she repeats.
I force the words out. “Hi. Yeah. I… uh… I need to schedule an appointment. Marriage counseling.”
There’s a soft pause. Then, “Alright. And is this for you and your partner?”
A beat.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It’s for me and my wife.”
Turns out it’s not as simple as just booking a time. She asks for my insurance, what I do, what Lore does. Then she hits me with:
“It seems your insurance falls under our coverage. Dr. Nina, our head counselor, feels it’s best if partners start with an individual session before sitting together. Is that something you’d like, or would you feel more comfortable starting with the couples’ session?”
I clear my throat. “Couples.”
“Alright, sir,” she says politely. “Are there any particular days you’d be available?”
I flip open our shared calendar. Lore’s off Monday.
“Monday,” I say.
She hums. Papers shuffle. “We have an eleven-a.m. slot and a four-p.m. slot available.”
“Eleven,” I answer.
“Perfect. I’ll get that scheduled. If you need to make any changes, feel free to call us back.”
I thank her and hang up. Then I just sit there, staring at my phone like an idiot.
I probably should’ve talked to Lore before making the appointment. But she’ll have to understand.
Something has to change.