CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
3:30 p.m.
Andrew
Andrew paced the first floor. The only sound in the house was the soft hum of the air conditioner and his aimless footsteps. His panic attack had finally receded, and he was empty. Amy was still locked upstairs.
He considered going for a run. The hot, salty air and pounding of his heart always made him feel in control. The beach was the place where he found peace. But he didn’t deserve peace; he deserved to wallow in the misery he’d created, and exhaustion ached every fiber of his body. Pacing, he cycled from anger to remorse, guilt to rage, to utter disbelief. His house was pristine—glass and steel—but around him, his life was in ruins. Amy’s words spiraled: We’re done .
And it was his fault. His alone. Sure, if Kathryn had started with the truth about everything back in March, she could have spared everyone a lot of heartache. But he’d gone willingly into her world the moment she’d opened the door to him. The wound Kathryn had left him with two decades before had been ripped wide open and exposed. And now, with her gone, he’d certainly lost Max as well. All of it was splashed with the acid of his best friend’s deceit.
When Andrew thought of Nick’s decades-long betrayal, his rage seared white hot. The life Andrew lived—his entire existence—had been set in motion by a lie that had finally come to light. But his own selfish actions had cost him his wife, too. The damage was irreversible.
He’d lost everyone he cared about.
Waves of self-loathing, of self-hatred, washed over him, penetrating the deepest layers of his being, where they belonged.
But Amy deserved the truth. Their marriage was over, but she needed to know about Max.
Andrew padded up the stairs and opened the bedroom door to find her lying on her side, facing the far wall. He couldn’t tell if she was sleeping or awake. “Amy?”
She didn’t answer, just shifted her weight on the mattress. Andrew walked around to her side of the bed, and in the dim light he saw her eyes were open, her cheeks streaked with tears. He sat, placing his hand on her bare foot. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Amy propped her head up in her hand. “From here on out, our only communication should be handled through lawyers.”
“This is my house, too. Where do you want me to go?” Andrew heard the entitled whininess of his response, and the space between them filled with the obvious answer before Amy spoke it.
“Go back to wherever you spent your time this morning, where you’ve been spending all your time.” Her face twisted with fury. “Go where you keep all your secrets.” Her words boomeranged around the room. Andrew watched her anger morph into heartbreak. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and she settled back on the pillow. “Now please leave me alone. I need to check in at the hospital in an hour, and I’m expected to be prepared to perform surgery at a moment’s notice. I can’t be distracted.”
Andrew stood and went to the top of the staircase, his options forking before him.
Without the protective emotional padding of his medication, he’d felt everything that day. The love, the desire, the rage, the betrayal. And for the first time in what felt like forever, an itch crept in, one he desperately wanted to scratch. He could picture their liquor cabinet with photographic clarity: three bottles of chardonnay lined up beside a bottle of Grey Goose, three-quarters full. Two bottles, one of rum, one of whiskey, the latter still sealed. He’d memorized the labels with startling precision.
There was nothing stopping him from going downstairs, cracking a seal, spilling liquid into one of the fancy crystal tumblers they’d received from some well-intentioned wedding guest who knew nothing of his past, nothing of the monster that existed inside him. The thought of the satisfying burn in his throat made him salivate.
Andrew pounded down the stairs. He passed the kitchen without looking at the liquor cabinet, then sprinted to the garage, where he dropped into the driver’s seat and pulled out his phone, smashing the call button next to Nick’s name as he reversed out of the driveway.
Nick answered. “Right on time, Drew.”
His voice was slurred, and the back of Andrew’s neck tingled. Nick was drunk. “Where are you?” Andrew demanded, weaving between lanes of traffic. “We need to talk. Right now.”