Epilogue
Lorelie
“So, Patrick went to New York,” I announce to the group, dropping into my chair with a flourish.
There’s a collective murmur around the circle.
“Last week,” I add, rolling my eyes, “his sister called him. Asked him to come get her. Alone. Because apparently demanding he come to New York isn’t dramatic enough unless you also demand secrecy.”
Typical Chloe. Drag Patrick straight into the center of her chaos and then act ungrateful when he’s standing there.
“So,” I continue lightly, throwing my hands up, “our very romantic, very overdue night got pushed. Again”
What I don’t say out loud is that we still haven’t consummated our reconciliation. Not for lack of desire. Or effort.
It’s always something like Milo crawling into our bed to make sure we’re still there. Patrick getting called into work. Me working late. Someone getting sick. Someone being colicky. Life keeps cockblocking us with impressive consistency.
“I mean,” I laugh, because what else can you do, “come on.”
Kate smirks. “Hard up, are ya?”
I shoot her a look. Because yes. Yes, I am.
“And,” Tori adds quietly, “there’s the bad thoughts.”
“What bad thoughts?” I ask.
She shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting away.
Jackie steps in. “I think Tori means… you know.” She widens her eyes meaningfully.
“Oh.” I blink. “Well… I don’t really have those thoughts.” I shrug. “Why would I?”
Tori frowns. “He’s in New York. It’s been a long time. You’re not worried that he’ll… you know.”
She doesn’t finish the sentence.
I actually have to think about it.
Because the truth surprises me.
All this time, every delay, every pause, every time I panicked, it never once crossed my mind that Patrick would find that somewhere else.
Not once.
Because he never made me feel like that was a risk. Never pressured me, or guilted me. If anything, he’s been more patient than ever.
I shake my head in answer to Tori’s question. “No.”
“Must feel nice,” Tori says, and there’s bitterness in it this time.
I glance at Trish, brows lifting. She immediately raises a hand. “Tori… are you okay?”
Tori lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “He’s at it again.”
No one asks who.
“Erin,” she clarifies anyway, like there was ever any doubt.
She makes a frustrated sound, scrubbing at her face. “All of you have husbands who actually give a damn. They screwed up, sure, but they fought for you. They chose you.”
Her voice cracks.
“My husband?” she laughs, hollow. “He told me if I don’t like it, I can leave. Knowing full well I won’t.”
“Why?” I ask softly.
Trish winces. “Lorelie…”
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, but Tori shakes her head.
“My family loves him,” she says. “If I leave… I lose them too.”
Kate’s voice is sharp. “Even if he’s cheating?”
Tori wipes at her cheek, tears finally spilling over. “He could beat the crap out of me,” she whispers, “and they’d still take his side.”
I reach across the circle and take Tori’s hand.
“You deserve better,” I say, quietly but firmly. “And you don’t have to decide anything today. But you deserve better.”
Tori wipes at her cheeks, then lifts her chin. There’s something steadier there now. Resolute.
“I have decided,” she says.
We all still.
“That’s kind of why I came tonight.” She lets out a shaky breath. “I accepted a job in Omaha. I’m leaving.”
“Wow,” Kate breathes.
Tori nods. “I know if I stay, they’ll just guilt me into going back.” Her mouth twists. “So, it’s better this way. A clean break.” She pauses. “From all of them.”
There’s silence for half a second.
Then Jackie smiles. “That’s incredibly brave.”
Trish reaches for Tori’s other hand. “When?”
“Two weeks,” Tori says. “I’ve already signed the lease.”
Kate lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Look at you, making power moves.”
The meeting shifts after that.
The heaviness doesn’t disappear, but it rearranges itself, less grief, more logistics. Movers. Start dates. Who knows someone in Omaha. What kind of winter coat she’ll need.
I listen, but part of my mind drifts.
I forget sometimes that not all cheaters take the steps Patrick did. Not all of them get sober. Not all of them go to therapy, sit in uncomfortable chairs, and dismantle themselves piece by piece because the alternative is losing everything.
And I don’t know why, but it irks me that everyone in this room is a woman.
And it’s not because women don’t cheat, I know they do, but because when men are cheated on, they don’t exactly flock to support groups to unpack the emotional labor of forgiving it.
I did ask Harvey if he wanted to come. I told him it wasn’t just about forgiveness, that it was about working through the wreckage so you come out the other side stronger, and all the better for it.
He said no. Said he wasn’t about to sit in a circle crying about his wife being a liar. Respectfully, of course.
He’s still heartbroken, so I gave him a pass.
But as I look around this room, at women who stayed, women who left, women who are still deciding, I realize something I hadn’t fully named before:
Choosing yourself isn’t weakness. And choosing to rebuild isn’t either.
Both take courage.
And a lot of it.
Patrick
Hearing the keys jingle in the lock, I straighten unsure of where to stand.
“Hello?” Lore calls out as she steps into the dim kitchen, putting down her purse.
“Patrick?” She looks up, surprised. “When did you get back?”
I don’t answer. I just cross the space between us and pull her into my arms.
She melts into me instantly, like she was waiting for it too, her cheek fitting against my chest the way it always has. I kiss the top of her head and breathe her in.
“How’s Chloe?” she asks quietly.
I make a noncommittal sound. “Dropped her at my parents’. She’s their problem now.”
Lore laughs, pulling back just enough to look at me, her hands still resting on my waist. “Then where are our problems?”
I smile. “Handled.”
She narrows her eyes. “Define handled.”
“Harvey’s got the kids for the night.”
Her brows lift. “Both of them?”
I nod. “And Gen went with them.”
She blinks. “She did?”
I wince a little. I love my brother, but the idea of Harvey and Genesis like that is… a lot. “Yeah. He can’t really afford a three-bedroom on his salary alone, especially after his Vegas binge, so she went to check the place out. See if it makes sense.”
Lore hums, thoughtful. “That actually might not be a terrible idea.”
“I’m hoping the backyard convinces her,” I admit. “Might cure her of the living-alone fantasy.”
Lore’s eyes flick past me, then back again. Her lips curve slowly. “Wait… so we’re alone?”
I lift a brow, deliberately suggestive.
She smiles, slow and dangerous. “Really?” Her hands are already moving, fingers working the buttons of my shirt like she’s running out of time.
I laugh and gently catch her wrists. “Hey.” I nod past her shoulder.
She follows my gaze.
The kitchen table is set, candles lit, plates set, two steaks still sizzling softly in the pan.
Her teeth catch her lower lip. “Stay with me here,” she says quietly. “Steak tastes better after sex.”
I don’t even have to think.
“You know what?” I say, grinning as I step back into her space. “It really does.”
“Uh-uh,” Lore says, already tugging me down by my shirt.
Her mouth finds mine, decisive and hungry, hands sliding into my hair like she’s done waiting.
My hands find the hem of her shirt, and she lifts her arms just enough for me to pull it over her head. Her skin is warm, flushed in the candlelight, and I trace the curve of her waist, memorizing the way she shivers under my touch.
“Patrick,” she whispers, her voice rough with want.
Lore tugs me toward the hallway, and I follow without hesitation, leaving the steamy steaks and the flickering candles behind.
The carpet muffles our footsteps as we stumble upward, a tangle of limbs and shared kisses, my hands never leaving her body.
In the bedroom, the moonlight spills through the window, painting my wife like a goddess. I back her toward the bed, and she falls back against the sheets, pulling me down with her. The world outside fades away, leaving just the two of us, the scent of her skin, the feel of her in my arms.
I unbutton her jeans, sliding them down her hips, and she helps me kick them away.
My own clothes follow in a tangle of fabric and desperation, until there’s nothing left between us but heat and need.
I enter her slowly, watching her face as she arches into me, a soft cry escaping her lips.
The bed groans beneath us, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
Her hands grip my shoulders, her breath coming in ragged gasps as I move, each thrust deeper, harder, until she’s trembling beneath me, her body tightening around mine.
“Patrick,” Lore screams, tightening around me, and that’s all it takes. I follow her over the edge, burying my face in her neck as the pleasure crashes through us, leaving us breathless and spent.
For a long moment, we just stay like that, tangled together in the moonlight, the scent of sex filling my lungs. Lore’s fingers trace patterns on my back, and I press a kiss to her temple, my heart still racing.
“Steak’s definitely cold now,” she murmurs, and I laugh, rolling to my side and pulling her into my arms.
“Worth it,” I say, and she smiles against my chest.
“Always.”
We come back downstairs later, laughing like idiots.
She’s wrapped in my shirt, barefoot, hair messy and glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. The candles I lit and forgot to put out are long gone now. I’m still in my boxers, heating the steak and trying to dodge the splattering oil.
We eat standing at the counter, stealing bites from each other’s plates, bumping hips, sharing quiet looks that say this is what we fought for.
When we’re done, I take her hand, fingers lacing with hers.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For letting me come home.”
She smiles at me, soft but sure. “Thank you,” she replies, “for doing the work to earn it.”
I pull her closer, forehead resting against hers, breathing her in like this moment might disappear if I don’t hold onto it.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m asking for forgiveness.
I feel like I’ve earned her trust.
This time, I promise, I won’t fuck it up.