Chapter 5
Grant made me feel a tiny bit better. At least for a little while.
But the second that stupid fucking elevator music starts playing again, it all floods back and I’m pissed off all over again. I can’t do this; pretend I didn’t just find out my husband cheated on me a decade ago with someone who probably spells her name with a heart over the ‘i.’
I can’t stay here with him. I’ll go crazy.
Quinn lives in Pasadena near Ellington Field Base.
That’s where her husband is stationed when he’s not somewhere in the middle of the fucking desert dodging bullets and sleeping in tents.
I’ve been there before for wine nights and the days the house felt too empty, when Aiden would take the boys for their monthly boys’ trip.
It’s not so far that I won’t run into anyone from school or from my work. But I just won’t leave the house.
I step inside using the keycard and see Aiden on the sofa. His head jerks up the second I cross the threshold.
“I can’t stay here,” I say.
He jumps up, “We’ll go home.”
“No, we can’t go home because the boys aren’t babies and they’ll figure out somethings wrong when mommy starts throwing daddy’s shit out the window.”
He tries to interject, “Kate…”
But I don’t let him, “I can’t even look at you right now,” I say, my voice flat. “So, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to stay with Quinn for the week. You can either stay here or go to Bora Bora for all I care. Just don’t be seen by anyone we know. Last thing we need is the kids finding out.”
He blinks, clearly thrown. “Finding out about what?”
I stare at him. Really stare. Then I say it. “The fact that their parents cancelled their anniversary trip because their father fucked a stripper.”
He actually recoils. I’ve never been so blunt before.
“Jesus, Kate,” he mutters, like I’ve punched him.
Good. I walk over and grab my packed suitcase, zipping up the chain.
“We’ll conference call the boys in a few days,” I say. “Tell them there’s no cell reception. Meanwhile, I’ll text to make sure they’re okay.”
He’s quiet for a beat, and then he says it. “Are we okay?”
I stop, fingers gripping the handle of the suitcase.
I look at him. The man I married. The man I built a life with. The man who used to make me laugh so hard I cried, who held me when I thought I was dying after Alex’s c-section, who made me feel like the only girl in his world.
I say, “I have no idea,” and I mean it.
Then I turn, leave the hotel room. The door clicks shut behind me. And just like that, I’m out.
Maybe I should text Quinn. Markus could be home.
Last thing she wants is me showing up mid sex-a-thon, dragging my baggage, literal and emotional, through her front door.
But I don’t text. I don’t call. I don’t warn.
I just climb into the cab, slam the door harder than necessary, and tell the driver where to go.
When he mentions the surcharge for rides after midnight, I tell him fine.
I agree. Happily. It’s worth it. Every penny.
Getting away from Aiden is worth everything right now.
The ride doesn’t take long. It’s the middle of the night, that strange in-between time when even the highways are empty.
No traffic, no horns, no people in the crosswalk pretending not to see red lights.
Just streetlights, the occasional truck, and me, trying to keep it together in the back seat of a Prius that smells faintly of old fries and cherry air freshener.
Quinn lives about twenty minutes from my house. I’ve made that drive plenty of times. But the hotel we booked for our fucking anniversary, our ten-year anniversary, is farther. Farther than Quinn’s. Farther from home.
God, for someone who barely swore for sixteen years, since Jackson went through his parrot phase and I decided to be the kind of mom who said “oh no” instead of “shit”, I’m sure making up for it now.
The cab pulls to a stop in front of her house, it’s one of the cozy, beige brick places with a wide porch and a backyard. I pay the driver, tip him more than he deserves, and he peels away without even pretending to care what kind of mess he just dropped off.
I drag my overstuffed suitcase behind me. The wheels thump against the path. Something in it rattles, maybe a bottle of conditioner or that pair of heels I packed for the dinner I’ll never eat. I walk up the steps, throat tight, chest burning.
Then I pound on the door. Not a polite knock. Not a friend-knock. I pound.
For a second, nothing happens. The porch light flickers above me.
I hear a creak inside, then a click. The door cracks open just enough to reveal Quinn in a faded tank top, sweatpants, and bare feet.
Her hair is in a lopsided bun, and her arm is extended down to her side, holding a gun.
It’s lowered, but still very much there.
In a scratchy voice, she says, “I almost shot you.”
That’s all it takes. I break. Right there on her welcome mat.
All the tears I’ve been holding back. The scream trapped in my ribs. The ache in my chest that’s been stretching since the moment Eli opened his fucking mouth. I sob. Not the quiet kind. The ugly, snotty, hiccupping kind that makes you forget how to breathe.
Quinn doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t tell me to stop crying.
She doesn’t say a word. She steps forward and wraps her arms around me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
After a moment, she ushers me inside. Leaning down she picks up my suitcase without a word, dragging it across the hardwood until we’re both safely inside with the door locked.
“Is Markus here?” I ask between hiccupped sobs, trying to dry my cheeks with the back of my hand.
She glances over her shoulder. “No. Still a few months left on his tour.”
Right. I knew that. Of course I knew that. I was there when he left. I held her when she pretended to be okay, kissed her cheek, told her to call me any time even though she never does.
“Of course,” I mutter, feeling stupid.
She doesn’t answer, just heads straight to the kitchen. The living room and kitchen are open concept, one big room with an island separating them. I sink into the sofa, watching her pull down two wine glasses without looking at me.
“Bring the bottle,” I say when she starts to move.
She pauses only for a second, then nudges the bottle into the crook of her elbow, balancing all three items. When she hands me my glass, I don’t sip. I don’t pause. I chug the whole thing. Grant being decent earlier distracted me from my one-woman drinking binge.
Quinn sits down next to me, one knee curled under her, hair frizzing out of the bun. Her eyes scan me quietly, then she says, “So I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
I laugh, but there’s no joy in it. Just a hard, tired sound scraping its way out of my throat. “Aiden cheated on me.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Today,” she says after a beat. “On your anniversary? That son of a bitch-”
Before she can reach for the gun, I suddenly remember she had earlier, I hold up my hand. “Not today. Well. Ten years ago. The night of his bachelor party.”
She freezes. “And he just told you now?”
I shake my head. “No. Eli opened his big mouth and I cornered Aiden until he confessed.”
She exhales sharply. “Fucking Eli.”
We sit in silence for a second. She sips her wine. I reach for the bottle and pour more into my glass, till its full.
“What’d Aiden say?”
“The usual. I was drunk. It didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry,” I say, deadpan.
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “Did he cry?”
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing the burn in my throat.
Her expression tightens. She shifts closer, her voice softer now. “What happened?”
I stare at the dark red in my glass while answering her.
“Apparently, they got kicked out of the bar and ended up in the strip club next door. He didn’t get a lap dance, which he was very proud to point out.
But there was a dancer there who kept coming on to him.
The guys egged him on, so he followed her to the back and…
fucked her, well she fucked him on a sofa. ”
She stares.
“Did he use pro—” she starts.
“Yeah,” I say, cutting her off. “I asked. He said yes. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. But I asked.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then sets her wine down carefully on the coffee table.
“Wow. I mean shit. I never thought that he…,” she says, lost for words. “So… what do you want to do?”
I sink deeper into the sofa, trying to disappear. “I don’t know. Am I overreacting? I mean, it happened ten years ago. Before we were even married.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “But after you got engaged.”
“Yeah.”
“After you promised each other forever.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She leans back, crosses her arms. “Then no. You’re not overreacting.”
“But it’s been a decade. We have two kids, a life. A real life. Can I really throw that away over something that happened so long ago?”
She’s quiet again. Not because she doesn’t have an opinion, Quinn always has an opinion, but because she knows I’m not actually asking her to fix it. I’m asking her to sit with me while the world I thought I was living in dissolves into something unrecognizable.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I really don’t.”
She studies me for a second, then shifts her weight, curling both her legs underneath her. “Do you remember the first time I stayed over at your house?”
I nod, the memory hazy around the edges. “After our study session. Your ride bailed.”
Quinn was my assigned study partner when I was pregnant with Alex.
I’d been pulled from classes and forced into bedrest, so the university set me up with someone to keep me from falling too far behind.
She showed up twice a week, her backpack full of notes and attitude.
She didn’t know me. I didn’t know her. But she came, even when I had to pause every five minutes because I needed to pee or lie down or sob over nothing.
She snorts now. “My ride didn’t bail.”
I blink, confused. “What?”
She looks over at me, eyes sharper than her voice. “Your grandma left that day. Drove out to see your aunt because Aiden was supposed to be home for the weekend.”
My stomach twists.
“I was in the kitchen when he called,” she continues. “Told you he couldn’t make it back. Said he had to study.”
I nod slowly, the pieces clicking into place like a puzzle I didn’t realize had been scrambled. I’d been lying on the couch, Jack napping on my chest. The call had been short. Clinical. And there had been something, laughter? in the background, but I hadn’t asked. I never asked back then.
“I heard the laughter,” she says quietly. “You hung up and told me your grandma wouldn’t be back until Sunday. You looked exhausted. Barely holding it together.”
I look down at my wine. “So, you stayed out of pity.”
She doesn’t even blink. “I stayed out of concern. Because you were seven months pregnant with a high-risk pregnancy, and you had a one-year-old who’d just started walking. And because, if we’re being honest, a virtual stranger cared more about your wellbeing than the father of your children.”
The truth of it lands hard. I try to laugh it off, but nothing comes out.
“I'm not saying this to be mean,” she adds. “But back then, Aiden pulled this shit a lot. Remember what I told you at your bridal shower, the one he insisted you let his mother throw.”
“I can get rid of her body.” Quinn did not like his Mary.
She laughs, “No. About how you didn’t have to marry him just because he was the only choice.”
I shrug, don’t really remember it. I have two kids; the memory bank is kind of full.
“Well, I did and you answered,” she imitates what I'm guessing is my squeaky voice. “I’m marrying him because he’s the right choice.
” Then in her normal voice she says, “I remember it because I thought you were crazy, blinded by love but then you came back from your honeymoon. And he was different. More involved, more caring.”
“You’re saying that was guilt?”
“No. I'm saying maybe he… realised that he did not want to lose you. And I know that it’s not fair or right. But he’s a man. And call me a cynic but all men cheat.” Quinn’s dad did, several times with several women.
“Markus didn’t cheat.” Her husband is a literal hero of our country.
She looks away, “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that, Aiden made the world’s biggest mistake, but that mistake doesn’t have to be the end of your marriage.
“You’re saying I should forgive him.”
“I’m saying I’m behind you one hundred percent. You want a divorce, I’ll find you the most cutthroat lawyer. You want to burn his clothes, I’ll light the fucking match. And if you want to forgive him, then I’ll support you in that too.”
“You can’t just tell me what to do? You’re studying psychology, don’t you have all the answers?”
“No, sweetie. All I can do is give you the tools. How you use them is up to you.”
“What tools?” I ask.
“Well, there’s therapy; couples and individual. There’s trial separation. There’s dating. Support groups. All that.”
She pauses, then adds, “But can I suggest something that’s not in the curriculum?”
I look at her.
“If you decide to forgive him, make him work for it. Make him grovel at your feet. Make him declare his love in front of strangers. Just… don’t make it easy.”
“I never thought I’d be here,” I say quietly, staring down at my glass. “Trying to decide whether or not to forgive my husband for infidelity.”