47. Cassidy
CASSIDY
I sat in my car, staring at Michelle’s house, my hands clenched so tight around the steering wheel, my knuckles had gone white. The ache under my ribs that had been my constant companion since Harle left was nothing compared to the churning in my stomach now. This was different. This was facing the ghost of a life I’d thought was real, but never truly existed.
I’d considered asking someone to come with me, but this was something I needed to do alone. Though right now, watching the afternoon sun cast shadows across Michelle’s perfectly manicured lawn, I was seriously questioning that decision. But I knew if I sat there too long, I’d talk myself out of it, so I grabbed my purse, climbed from the car, and walked determinedly up the driveway.
The sound of my knock echoed in the still afternoon air, and for a few seconds, I considered turning tail and running. I couldn’t even say why, beyond the feeling that this was a bigger moment than I was prepared to deal with. But then the door opened, and there she was.
Michelle.
She looked me up and down, her expression unreadable. The moment our eyes met - both green, I realized with a jolt - the air seemed to vanish from my lungs. It was like looking at my own future self, right down to the way she held herself. The similarity was so jarring, I actually took a step back.
Michelle’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Well,” she said drily, running a hand through her blonde hair, “you can’t say he didn’t have a type.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Because there it was - the elephant in the room, addressed head-on with bitter humor that almost made me want to laugh.
“Come on in.” Michelle swung the door open wider, stepping back to let me in. She led me down a short hallway into the kitchen. It was spacious, with gleaming white cabinets, marble countertops, and a large window that overlooked the backyard. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the island, and next to it, a box. It was taped shut but unmistakably old, the edges worn and slightly discolored.
“Would you like a coffee?”
My eyes were fixed on the box, my stomach twisting at the sight. “Uh, yes, sure. Okay”
While Michelle busied herself at the coffee maker, her back to me, she asked, “How’ve you been, Cassidy?”
Her tone was casual enough, but coming from her, it felt loaded. I hesitated, my fingers twitching against the strap of my purse as I stood there, uncertain of how to answer. Did she want a polite lie? The truth?
“Fine,” I said eventually, though the word felt hollow even as it left my lips.
She glanced at me over her shoulder with a look that suggested she wasn’t buying it. “Uh-huh.” Placing two mugs on the island, she slid one toward me. “You know, you don’t have to bullshit me. I get it.”
I wrapped my hands around the warmth of the mug, grateful for something to focus on while Michelle cradled her own coffee, studying me over the rim. The simplicity of her words hit harder than I expected, and I swallowed thickly.
“It’s, um, it’s been a lot,” I admitted quietly.
“Yeah.” Her voice was soft. “It has.”
It was easier to focus on the steam rising from the coffee than on the weight of Michelle’s gaze.
“How about you?” Such a banal question under any other circumstances, but it hung in the air now, heavy and uncomfortable.
“Good days and bad days,” she said with a shrug. “But mostly good lately.”
“How do you get to... mostly good?”
“A fuck ton of therapy,” she said wryly, taking a sip of her coffee. “And time. A lot of both, I guess.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to respond. Could I ever get to “mostly good” too?
“Please, Cassidy, have a seat.”
I did, pulling out a bar stool as my gaze drifted to the box again.
Michelle leaned against the counter, studying me for a moment, then let out a soft sigh. “This is going to be hard to say, but I think we’ll both feel better afterward, so here goes. When I first found out about you, I thought you were the woman who stole my life. Wrecked my family.”
I blinked, startled by her bluntness, suddenly feeling a little sick. But I didn’t say anything. Mainly because I had no clue where to even begin responding to that.
She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I hated you. For a long time, actually. I mean, it was easier to blame you than to face what Brian had done. But therapy...” She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Therapy has a way of making you confront the truth, whether you like it or not.”
“What truth?” I managed.
“That you were just as much Brian’s victim as I was,” she said simply. “That he played you harder even than he played me. I’m sorry for that. Sorry that he did that to you.”
Her words hit like a tidal wave, sweeping away any attempt at composure I’d managed to cling to. I stared at her, unsure how to respond, unsure how to even begin processing what she’d just said. It was too much. Too raw, too real. The urge to flee was almost overwhelming.“It’s...it’s not your fault.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s not yours, either. No matter how much you ask yourself how you were so blind, so stupid. How you could have been so easily misled by him.”
Okay, so she was a mind reader, it seemed.
“He’s a fucking master at it, like all good raging narcissists. I mean, I was married to him for many more years than you and I didn’t suspect a thing. Expert level manipulation.”
“How did you find out?”
Michelle’s lips tightened, her fingers drumming lightly on her mug. “Social media.” Her tone laced with bitter amusement. “It’s funny, he always claimed he hated it, said it was a waste of time. And for years, I believed him. But then one night, I was scrolling through Instagram and saw him in a tagged photo.”
My stomach dropped. “A photo?”
“Someone posted a charity event photo from Esperance showing him beside you, smiling. Nothing overtly romantic, but enough that I clicked the tag. Your profile appeared, filled with photos of him. He was mostly avoiding the camera, turning his back or lurking at the edges. At first, I wondered if he’d hired a fake wife for business reasons. Then I found your wedding photo.”
I couldn’t breathe. My hands gripped the edge of the counter as if the ground beneath me had started to tilt. “I?—”
“You didn’t know,” Michelle cut in, her voice firm. “I know that now. Back then? I drove straight to Esperance and tore him apart. I lost it on him and on you. I can barely even remember what I said. I must have looked like a raving lunatic to you. It just seemed like so much more than your garden variety cheating. Cut so much deeper. A whole other wife. A wedding day.”
Her words were both a balm and a knife, soothing one wound even as they opened another. I didn’t know. But should I have? Shouldn’t I have seen something, felt something was off?
“I’ve wanted to reach out to you for a while, but I didn’t know how. Then I found that box in the attic, and, well, it felt like the perfect excuse.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “For saying that. For reaching out.”
Michelle nodded, her expression softening. “It seemed like the least I could do.”
I bit my lip, glancing at that fucking box again. “With the box, though, I don’t know why my stuff would be at your house. I never came here.”
“I have my suspicions, but I wouldn’t want to go into that without you knowing what’s in there.”
“Should I open it now?”
“That is entirely up to you. You are more than welcome to open it here, with me to support you. But if you don’t feel comfortable with that, I’ll just say, don’t open it when you’re alone. It’s going to fuck with your head.”
Oh fuck. “I think I should do it here, in that case.”
“Go head.”
I pushed to my feet, taking a step toward the box.
“Wait. I think this needs something stronger than coffee. I’ve got red wine and maybe some bourbon.”
“Red wine sounds good.”
“On it.”
Of course, it only took a few moments for Michelle to grab the wine and fill two glasses, but it felt like an eternity. Finally, she was standing across the counter from me, gesturing to the box with her wine glass in hand.
I took a moment to sip the wine, then, with trembling hands, I reached for the box, the tape peeling away with a brittle, crackling sound. Michelle stayed silent, her gaze steady but not intrusive, as if she knew I needed the space to confront whatever was inside on my own.
The first thing I saw was a stack of photographs, each one a snapshot of a moment I thought was mine and Brian’s. There was one of me laughing at a picnic, another of us at a party, my smile wide, Brian’s hand resting on the small of my back. I swallowed hard and set them aside.
Underneath the photos was a small velvet pouch, tied shut with a delicate ribbon. When I opened it, I found a bracelet I thought I’d lost years ago. The weight of it in my palm was heavier than it should have been, as if it carried the burden of memories I hadn’t even processed yet. I closed my eyes for a moment, doing my absolute fucking best not to fall to pieces.
“You can stop, if you need to.”
“No, it’s okay. I need to get it over with.”
Next came the scrapbook. My breath hitched as I pulled it free. The cover was worn but unmistakable. It was a project Poppy and Hannah had made for us in high school. Our pretend yearbook, where they’d written Most Likely to Fear Love under my name. A bitter laugh bubbled up, but I couldn’t let it out. Not here.
Michelle’s voice broke through my thoughts. “I assume he took all this without you realizing?”
I nodded, placing the scrapbook carefully next to my purse on the counter.
I reached in and pulled out a leather-bound journal, the one I’d given Brian for his birthday during our first year of marriage. My handwriting was scrawled on the inside cover: To new beginnings, always.
I closed my eyes again, pressing my lips together to keep from crying. “I gave him this. Why did he do this? Bring them here, to your house?”
“My therapist believes it’s about control. About marking his territory even when he wasn’t here. He was weaving pieces of his double life together. It made him feel untouchable. Hiding them in my home was his power play, his secret world tucked inside his real one.”
The words wrapped around me like a vice. My throat felt tight, and a wave of nausea rolled through me. A sudden rush of emotions almost overwhelmed me. Anger, disgust, sadness, and so many other feelings I could barely name. The room felt smaller, the air thinner, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure I could breathe.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Michelle stepped closer, her hand hovering near my arm, as if she wasn’t sure whether to touch me. “Cassidy, sit down. Take a breath.”
I shook my head, straightening even as my legs felt like they might give out. “No. I need... I just need a second.” With my eyes squeezed shut, I willed myself to stay upright, to not let him take this moment too. He didn’t get to own my reaction. Not anymore. I squared my shoulders, straightened my spine and dragged in a deep, cleansing breath. Then another. “I’m okay.”
“Okay.” She gestured to the box. “Now, do you want to keep it?”
I shook my head sharply. Fuck no. Absolutely not. “No. I don’t want any of it.”
Michelle tilted her head toward the backyard. “There’s a fire pit out back. Want to burn it?”
For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of something other than despair. It was a small, simmering ember of resolve. I looked at Michelle and nodded. “Fuck, yeah. Let’s burn it.”
She glanced at the clock on the oven. “It’s getting late. You wanna eat crappy take out, drink wine and then burn it?”
“Yep. That’s exactly what I want to do.”