Chapter Eleven
“Hello, hello,” Claire sings as she steps into the nursery.
I look up from where I'm pacing beside the crib, Sophie wailing in my arms like she’s been doing all night.
“Hey,” I mutter over her cries, sounding about as exhausted as I feel.
Claire winces. “That bad?”
“She won't sleep,” I groan. “It's like the second we got home she realized it was just us and decided to become mean.”
The second the words leave my mouth I feel guilty. She's not mean. She's a baby. A very tiny, very angry baby who apparently thinks sleep is optional and my sanity is a suggestion.
Claire smiles sympathetically before opening her arms. “Can I?”
I nod so enthusiastically I nearly give myself whiplash. “Yes. Please. Take her.”
Carefully, I hand Sophie over.
Claire settles her against her shoulder and starts slowly rocking her while walking gentle circles around the room. Within seconds Sophie's cries turn into sniffles. Then yawns. Then silence.
I stare.
“What the fuck?” I mouth.
Claire doesn't even look at me. She just keeps rocking.
“Seriously,” I whisper. “How did you do that?”
“Shh.”
“Claire.”
“Shh.”
I watch in disbelief as Sophie's eyelids grow heavier and heavier. A few minutes later Claire lowers her into the crib with the concentration of someone attempting to diffuse a bomb.
Both of us freeze.
Waiting.
Watching.
Expecting her eyes to snap open. Expecting the screaming to start all over again.
But it doesn't.
Sophie merely sighs and settles deeper into the mattress.
My jaw drops.
Claire immediately shoos me toward the door before I can somehow ruin whatever magic she just performed. I already have the baby monitor clipped to my shorts, so I quietly tip toe out.
At this point I couldn't care less that I don't have a stitch of makeup on and my hair is piled into a messy bun that hasn't moved in two days.
Motherhood has absolutely destroyed whatever dignity I had left.
Once we're in the hallway, Claire quietly shuts the nursery door behind us. I immediately glance around looking for Brad.
His hovering has somehow gotten worse since we brought Sophie home three weeks ago. Every five minutes it's Are you okay? or Can I get you anything? or You look tired.
No shit.
I have a newborn.
“He was leaving when I came in,” Claire says. “Something about milk.”
I scoff. “We get our groceries delivered.”
Taking advantage of Sophie's temporary unconsciousness, I practically collapse across the sofa. Not sit. Collapse.
Claire raises an eyebrow. “Comfortable?”
I let my head fall back dramatically against the cushions. “Hopefully he's pulling the one where he leaves for milk and I never see him again.”
“My dad did that,” Claire tells me nonchalantly.
I bolt upright. “Shit. Fuck. Sorry.”
Claire looks away, smiling. “Joking.”
I narrow my eyes before collapsing back onto the sofa. “I'm way too tired for jokes.”
“That's when they're funny the most.”
I grunt in response and stare at the ceiling.
“How do women do this?” I ask. “Seriously. How do they push a human out of their body and then immediately deal with sleepless nights and weird smells?”
I sniff the air suspiciously. “Like what is that?”
“That's you,” Claire points out without an ounce of kindness.
I gasp. It may be true, but how rude!
“Women do it because they have to,” she continues with a shrug. “And because they're usually leaning on their husbands and families while they do it.”
I let out a slow breath. I can't exactly lean on Brad right now.
And that's also why I asked my family to give us time before visiting. Last thing I need is their outrage mixed with my anger.
“What happened with Brad?” Claire asks. “Last time we spoke, you were planning to use him like a pack mule.”
A laugh escapes me. I'd had plans. So many plans. To use his guilt.
Make him do every midnight feeding he physically could. Hire a nanny. Hire two nannies. Spend his money until I felt emotionally compensated.
I shake my head.
“All that talk about manipulation and I manipulated exactly nobody.”
Claire raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”
I stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then quietly admit, “Laila told me she wasn't the first.”
Claire goes still. “As in the first...?”
I nod.
“But you said you heard them on the video call.”
“I did.” I rub my face tiredly. “Turns out it could've been roleplay. I hate roleplay.” Not only cause it ruined my marriage.
Claire blinks. “Really? You don't like roleplay?”
I roll my eyes. “I grew up in a stable home with loving parents. To me, Daddy is my actual father, not some...” I physically cringe. “Thing.”
Claire snorts.
“Fantasies aren't about upbringing. They're about what turns you on.”
“Well,” I say dryly, “going to sex clubs definitely didn't turn me on.”
That gets her attention immediately. “You went to a sex club?”
“That's not the point,” I sigh, wondering how the hell this conversation ended up here.
“She could've been lying,” Claire points out.
“That was my first thought,” I admit. “But back then...” I trail off, trying to find the right words. “He was so excited about taking me there. Like really excited. And I felt terrible because I hated it.”
I look down at my hands.
“I didn't just dislike it. I wanted to leave immediately. I felt gross and uncomfortable and completely out of place.”
“You shouldn't have to force yourself to do something you're uncomfortable with.”
“That's what he said,” I reply quietly.
Claire frowns.
“He told me it wasn't a big deal. Told me he'd rather have me comfortable than try to make me like something I didn't. Then he just... dropped it.”
“Dropped it?”
I nod.
“Like it never happened. One day he was talking about it constantly. The next it was gone.”
For a moment neither of us speaks.
Then Claire leans forward.
“Okay, Bronwyn.” The tone immediately puts me on guard. “It's time to talk to him.”
I let out a groan. “Claire-”
“No. You've spent weeks guessing. You've spent weeks trying to piece together a puzzle using information from a woman who slept with your husband and a memory that could be wrong.”
“Don't you think I know that?” I snap, lifting my head to glare at her. The words come out sharper than I intend.
Claire doesn't even flinch. “Then what's stopping you?”
I sit up fully. “Because once I show my hand, that's it.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “That's it how?”
“He'll know.”
“Know what?”
“That I'm done.” The words surprise me with how easily they come out.
Claire studies me carefully. “You've said that before.”
“But I mean it this time.”
“Because Laila said there were other women?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Because I believed her.” I stare at the baby monitor clipped to my shorts.
“At the beginning, before Laila, I trusted him blindly. If Brad told me the sky was green, I'd have gone outside to check it out.” A sad laugh escapes me. “Now?”
I look up at Claire.
“Now all a woman has to do is tell me she slept with my husband and my first instinct is to believe her.”
The words hang between us.
“There's no coming back from that.”
Claire doesn't argue. Doesn't tell me I'm wrong. Because she knows I'm right.
“So you want a divorce.”
“I do.” The answer comes immediately. I don't even hesitate. “But I also don't want to live here anymore.”
I bite my lip. “My sister told me to move home like it was easy. Like I could just pack a suitcase and leave.”
“And?”
“He ruined it for me.”
Claire frowns.
“You know I told you about the rift with my friend group?”
She nods, wisely not pointing out the hour-long rant I'd gone on about it.
“Now I can't stop wondering if they know. Is that why they cut me off? Because they think I'm some sex freak? Or did Brad hit on one of them?”
The words come out faster the longer I talk.
“And it's not just that,” I continue before she can respond. “LA might be huge, but our circle isn't. How many people knew he was screwing around? How many people smiled to my face while keeping his secrets?”
I swallow hard.
“Every time I think about staying here, I start wondering who knew.”
The thought makes my stomach twist.
“Was Jenny acting weird because she knew? Were the husbands covering for him? Was I the only person in the room who had no idea what was happening in my own marriage?”
Claire doesn't answer.
My eyes drift toward the nursery. Toward Sophie.
“I don't want to raise her here,” I admit quietly. “I don't want her growing up surrounded by people I can't trust. I don't want to spend another second in this city than I have to.”
The words feel dramatic. Except they aren't. They're true.
“And maybe that's unfair,” I continue. “Maybe none of them knew. Maybe I'm seeing things that aren’t there. But every memory I have of this place feels tainted now.”
I look down at my hands.
“The restaurants we loved. The parties. The friends. The house. Every time I look at any of it, I wonder if he was lying to me while we were there.”
My throat tightens.
“It's like he didn't just ruin our marriage.” I let out a shaky breath. “He ruined Los Angeles.”
“Bron-”
“I know.” I rub a hand over my face. “I know the proper thing to do would be to file for divorce and fight for custody like a normal person. I know that's what every lawyer and every therapist would tell me to do.”
Claire stays quiet. Which means she probably agrees.
“But after everything he's put me through...” I swallow. “I'll still lose.”
“Bron.”
“No, listen.” I lean forward. “I'm not being dramatic. A judge isn't going to let me take an infant and move halfway across the country when her entire life is here. Brad's job is here. Our house is here. Everything is here.”
The more I say it out loud, the more trapped I feel.
“If I file tomorrow, I'm stuck. That's it. Maybe not forever, but for years. Years of custody schedules. Years of holidays. Years of pretending I don't hate this place.”
The words leave me in a rush.
Taking a deep breath, I sink back into the couch and let my head fall against the cushions. My chest feels lighter after getting all that out.
“Can I talk now?” Claire asks dryly.
I blink before letting out a laugh.
“Please,” I say, waving a hand toward her.
“How are you hoping to achieve this goal?” Claire asks, crossing one leg over the other. “Move to Texas before he realizes you've completely checked out of this marriage?”
“I haven't really thought that far ahead.” I admit sheepishly.
Claire just smiles. Something about it tells me she expected that answer.
“Can I offer up a plan?”