Chapter Twenty-Five
Lorelie
Can you trust me?
Is that even a question a person can answer honestly in the moment?
I mean, do we do a trust fall? Do I trust him not to stab me? Then yes, obviously.
But if the question is am I sure he won’t relapse and end up in another bar with his tongue down some woman’s throat?
Then it’s a maybe.
It’s been weeks since Patrick asked me that question under the stars, and I still don’t have a clean answer. Every time I think I’m close, another thought pulls me back.
Christmas came and went. We ended up spending it apart, no big dramatic reasoning, just life.
Harvey had a massive blowout with his parents and left for Seattle at the beginning of December whether to follow Lauren or get away, he didn’t clarify
Chloe came by to “apologize.” I put that in quotes because it was less an apology and more her complaining about Eloise, and somehow circling the conversation back to why she was hurt.
When she realized Eloise and I had already made up, she left so fast I’m pretty sure the backdraft closed the door.
Colter took Eloise to Hawaii for Christmas. Probably the healthiest choice anyone in that family made this year.
Patrick, Gen, and I had planned a quiet Christmas, just breakfast and presents with the kids, something small and meaningful, but Patrick got called into work. A missing child.
And how do you argue against that?
I felt bad about Agnes’ first Christmas not being celebrated the way Milo’s was, but everyone compensated with guilt presents and promises.
So many promises.
We’ll be here next year, Lorelie. Come hell or high water.
And I fully intend to hold them to that.
The house was warm, peaceful, a little empty without Patrick but also… not painful.
That might have something to do with the little dates we’ve been having. Family dates. Couple dates.
No one knows except Gen, because she caught him sneaking out of my bedroom one morning.
No, we did not have sex. We talked. Which, apparently, is a requirement.
And it’s not like we can “get to know each other” again, we already know everything. So, it’s been feelings all day, every day, yet somehow, we still had so much to say that he ended up falling asleep in my room.
We only went in there because Colter and Eloise took the kids for the weekend to make up for leaving for Christmas, and they’d come back to pick up Milo’s night light, with permission, of course.
I get that we need to rebuild trust before anything physical happens, but come on. We’ve been married for years.
But Dr. Kendall is right about pacing ourselves.
Oh… yeah. Therapy. I didn’t feel comfortable going alone, but Patrick practically jumped at the chance to go with me to couples counseling again.
It was weird at first, we practically ghosted her after the whole debacle with the tape and allegation came up, thankfully she didn’t hold it against us.
And somehow, every single session, we end up talking about me.
It’s bizarre. The man who used to act allergic to feelings is suddenly fluent in them. He sits there, legs spread, hands clasped, voice steady, talking about childhood pressure and identity and insecurity and accountability like he voluntarily reads self-help books.
He is trying. Really trying.
And that’s what’s making all of this harder.
Because if he were still the guy from last year, drunk, defensive, reckless, hurting me without caring, I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering if I can trust him again.
I wouldn’t be lying awake replaying every date, every smile, every accidental brush of his hand against mine.
I wouldn’t be remembering the way he looked at me in that gazebo when he asked, Can you learn to trust me?
Because the truth, the inconvenient, terrifying truth is that I do trust him.
And that’s so fucking scary.
It’s not no, don’t do it. It’s not once a cheater, always a cheater anymore.
Somewhere between the dates and the therapy sessions and the way he’s suddenly patient and present and there…
I’m in.
Completely. Hopelessly. In.
I’ve fallen all the way down into his stupid strong arms, and I don’t even remember when the drop started. I just know I hit the bottom and found him there, waiting, sober, steady, finally ready to catch me.
And now I have to decide whether I’m brave enough to stay in his arms… or terrified enough to let go.
“So… that’s my story,” I finish, looking around at the circle of mismatched chairs and equally mismatched women whose opinion, right now, I trust more than my own family’s.
Jackie tilts her head. “So, you’re back together?”
“Not really,” I say. “But… yeah? Maybe?”
Tori raises a brow. “Is that a question or an answer?”
“I don’t know?” I laugh nervously. It comes out sounding like I’m asking their permission to exist.
“You do say that a lot,” Kate adds, crossing her legs like she’s the therapist and not another member of the Cheaters Survival Gang. It’s not the real name, btw.
“Well, I don’t!” I protest. “Guys, come on, I’m not crazy, right?”
“You’re not crazy,” Jackie says gently. Then ruins it by adding, “But you are leading him on.”
“What?” My voice cracks like a teenager’s.
Kate jumps in, flipping her hair. “Look, I was in a similar place, stay or go, forgive or set his clothes on fire, but once I decided, I stuck to it. I didn’t go to therapy and still say ‘I don’t know.’” She gestures at me. “You’re mean. Damn.”
My jaw drops. “I’m mean?”
“Oh, incredibly,” Tori says brightly. “You’ve got that sweet soft voice but the emotional whiplash? Lethal. You let him think you’re reconciling but still won’t commit. Girl, that man is living in purgatory.”
Trish lifts her hands. “I think what we’re trying to say is… you’re kind of dangling the hope carrot.”
“I am not dangling anything.”
Silence.
Three pairs of eyebrows float upward like synchronized swimmers.
Jackie leans forward. “Do you want him back?”
My mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens.
“…I don’t know.”
They all groan in perfect harmony.
Kate throws her hands up. “Of course you don’t.”
Patrick
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say softly, then step back to give the woman space.
There’s nothing glorious about this part of the job.
Telling a wife of twenty-three years that her husband wasn’t dead in a ditch like she feared, no, he was dead in his girlfriend’s bed.
The girlfriend was so terrified she didn’t even call 911 right away.
Just left him lying there and panicked. And the ME is sure he died instantly from a massive coronary, so no charges, no criminal intent.
Just the lifelong knowledge that while his wife filed a missing person’s report, he was dead in her bed.
Cases like this make me wonder if marriage is even worth it. I mean, if you’re just going to cheat… why get married? And yeah, I hear the irony coming out of my own damn mouth.
Mine wasn’t an affair or a choice, I tell myself.
Then roll my eyes because that’s exactly the kind of excuse Blake, my sponsor, would tear apart in two seconds.
I pull out my phone and fire a text to Lore.
Still miss you. Sorry I couldn’t make lunch today. Case ran long.
Nothing back.
It’s fine. She’s probably still at work or at that support group meeting I keep trying to convince her to go to. I tidy my desk pretending like I’m not checking my phone every ten seconds for a ping. Still nothing.
Barry’s light is on as I pass his office. I lean in. “Night, Sarge.”
He grunts without looking up.
I laugh. “Love you too.”
I don’t add how glad I am to not have his job anymore. Why rub salt in his sore ass from sitting at his desk all day? Detectives rotate cases, share load, tag-team when needed. But the sergeant? Every case, victim, suspect, horror, crosses that desk.
I know the job didn’t make me an alcoholic… but it sure as hell didn’t help.
I used to wonder why people chose to retire as detectives instead of climbing ranks. Now? I get it. And I’m pretty damn sure I’ll be one of them.
I drive to my parents’ house and push the front door open. I’ve told them a thousand times to lock it, and a thousand times they’ve reminded me they live in a gated community. We’re at a stalemate.
“Hi Daddy!” Milo yells, legs swinging as he shovels food into his mouth at the dining table.
I kiss his forehead. “Hi, buddy.”
The smell hits me immediately. “Chili. Like this kid doesn’t already stink.”
Mom waves a spatula at me. “Don’t make me start on your smelly stories, mister.”
I kiss her cheek. “Hi, Ma. You know I’m your favorite.”
She smirks as she snaps open the lid of a Tupperware container, but her eyes dim. I silently kick myself for stepping into it.
It’s not the time to talk about the disgrace that are her other kids.
Chloe and her dramatic ‘I need space from every Boise on the planet because I chose a career path no one told me to but it just happened to be my mom’s, so now I’m angry at everyone.’ Boo-hoo.
Harvey thinking about chasing Lauren to Seattle without telling her, then getting pissed at Mom for asking him to give her space. Then going anyway and ignoring the rest of us.
Mom isn’t perfect, but she listens. That’s the thing they forgot. You can reason with her. I did, and now she and Lore are… okay. Not like before, but okay. I’ve had to set boundaries, like, serious ones, but they watch the kids for free, make me chili, and love them fiercely.
So, what if they overstep? Honestly, some people would kill for problems this small.
I drop into the seat next to Milo, watching him scrape his bowl clean like he hasn’t been fed in days. Agnes is babbling in her bouncer, kicking her feet, and Dad walks in from the hallway saying, “Sheesh, don’t go in there.”
I make a disgusted face. Milo giggles. Mom smacks Dad’s hand when he reaches for another bowl of chili.
They look so happy, so content. And I wonder, was it always like this?
Was our home ever this easy? Were their kids? Did my parents ever wonder if their marriage was too broken?
Dad rolls his sleeves back and starts rinsing dishes. Mom hums as she starts cleaning up.
And all I can think is: Lore didn’t text back.
I’ve checked my phone a million times, pretending I’m checking the time or the weather or my email, knowing damn well I’m waiting for one name to pop up.
It shouldn’t bother me.
We’ve been talking nonstop for weeks, therapy, dates, family outings. She even let me fall asleep in her bed once. Nothing happened. I didn’t touch her. We just talked until the sun came up like two idiots who forgot we’d already been married seven years.
But the thing is… I’m scared.
Every time I don’t hear from her for a while, something sinks in my gut. This cold, hollow pit that whispers she’s changed her mind. That she wants the divorce. That all of this, was just one long goodbye.
I don’t want to push her. I’m grateful she’s even giving me a chance. She deserves all the time in the world.
No matter what Blake thinks.
He says this fear is a red flag. That anxiety like this can lead to drinking if I don’t manage it.
But Blake’s never been married. He’s never had someone like Lore, never lost half his goddamn soul, so he doesn’t get to lecture me on my marriage.
By the time I leave my parents’ place, it’s well past eight.
Agnes is asleep. Milo is nearly there, his head lolling onto his shoulder.
I park outside my building, kill the engine, and step out into the cool night. I open the back door and unbuckle Milo first. He melts into me immediately, arms hooking around my neck, his breath warm on my collarbone.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, shifting his weight onto one arm. With the other, I grab Agnes’s carrier, her tiny breaths steady and soft.
I walk toward the elevator, both kids heavy in my hold, but it’s the kind of heavy I’ll miss one day. Soon he won’t want to be carried like this. Soon he’ll be too big for me to lift without throwing my back out.
So yeah, I’m gonna carry him as long as I can. Forever, if he’d let me.
The feel of his small body going completely limp with trust pulls up a memory so sharp it almost knocks the wind out of me.
All the times I fell asleep in the backseat while Dad drove.
The way he’d circle the block when I couldn’t sleep, even though he had work the next morning. He never complained. Not once. Didn’t make me feel bad for my inability to fall asleep at ten.
And that’s what I keep coming back to in therapy, not the yelling, the pressure, the rules, but this. The quiet good.
For every bad memory, there were a hundred good ones. I just spent my whole life staring at the wrong pile.
I wish I could always stay this positive. But real life, real fatherhood, doesn’t let you stay in the warm glow for long.
My son is going to grow up one day and ask why I lived in an apartment. Why his parents spent a year apart.
Why his sister was born into a broken home.
And I’m going to have to tell him.
It’ll change how he sees me. How Agnes sees me. It has to.
I just hope, God, really hope, that there are enough good memories to outweigh the man I became.
Enough for them to see the father I’m trying to become, instead of the one that broke their mother’s heart.
Once both kids are settled, Milo star fished across the bottom bunk, Agnes curled like a kitten in her crib, I step back and glance around the room.
The only place I could find and afford short term was this two-bedroom apartment.
I was supposed to take over Harvey’s house when he left for Seattle, but…
it felt too permanent. Too much like admitting the marriage was dead, even when I still woke up every morning reaching for a woman who wasn’t there.
So instead, I moved a crib into this room, and now my six-year-old and one-year-old share a room while I sleep in a room smaller than the office at our old home.
I swallow hard, stepping out and pulling the bedroom door almost closed. Not all the way, never all the way, just enough that I’ll hear them if they stir. The receiver for the baby monitor is already in my bedroom.
A soft knock taps against the front door.
I freeze, halfway down the short hallway.
Probably a neighbor, I think. Then my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out I glance at the screen
One text: let me in