Chapter Thirteen
“Hi, Sophie,” I say in a baby voice as I lift her from the bassinet. “Do you have a dirty diaper?”
Okay, don't judge me.
I read all those articles about how baby talk is apparently terrible for cognitive development or whatever. But have you ever spoken to a baby?
A six-week-old baby, at that.
She's not exactly contributing much to the conversation.
“Let's see what we're working with.”
Sophie's tiny face scrunches as I undo her swaddle.
“Oh God.”
Yep. Definitely a dirty diaper.
The front door opening gets my attention, but I can’t really leave mid change.
“Who's here, Sophie?” I ask like she can answer.
She responds by yawning.
After getting her changed, I bounce her gently against my shoulder as I leave the nursery. It's almost bedtime, but I'm trying to keep her awake for a few extra minutes so Brad can say goodnight.
Except he doesn't come. Frowning, I glance down the hallway.
Nothing.
“That's weird.”
Usually, he's beelines for the nursery after he comes home.
I settle Sophie back into her crib before stepping into the hallway, phone gripped tightly in my hand.
The house is quiet.
For one horrible second, my mind immediately jumps to worst case scenario.
What if someone broke in to rob us. Or kill us. Or both.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I tiptoe toward the living room and immediately let out a relieved breath.
Brad is standing by the bar.
The one built into the corner of our living room that neither of us actually uses very often.
At least not for drinking.
Most of the time it just holds expensive bottles people gave us as gifts and serves as a place for Brad to dump his keys.
Tonight, though, he's got a glass in his hand.
Weird.
I can't remember the last time I saw him drink alone. Straightening my shoulders, I take a deep breath.
Time for phase two of ‘Get Bronwyn’ home.
Running a hand through my hair, I shake it loose before stepping farther into the room.
“What are you doing?” I ask softly.
He doesn't turn around. But I see his shoulders shift.
“You're talking to me now,” he mutters before throwing back the rest of whatever's in his glass.
Immediately I lose character. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
He sets the glass down harder than necessary. Then shakes his head.
“I'll sleep in the guest room.”
He starts walking past me before adding under his breath,
“As usual.”
My jaw drops.
“Are you seriously pouting because I won't let you sleep in my bed?”
He stops instantly. Then slowly turns around.
“Our bed,” Brad corrects through gritted teeth.
“And it was our surrogate you fucked.” The words leave before I even think about it.
Brad closes his eyes. For a second I think he's going to apologize again.
Instead, he lets out a harsh breath and drags a hand through his hair.
“When are you going to let this go?”
My entire body goes still. “What?”
“I'm sorry, alright?” he says, frustration finally bleeding through. “I'm sorry it happened. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry.” His laugh is bitter. “But what does it take, Wyn? What exactly do you want from me?”
My nostrils flare.
I should stick to the plan. I should.
That was the whole point of staying awake and waiting for him to come home.
But standing here looking at him, watching him act like he’s the wronged party, like me taking more than twelve weeks to forgive him is the problem, suddenly I don't care about the plan anymore.
Because he doesn't get it. He doesn't understand what he did to me.
What it felt like finding out.
There are moments, even now, where I forget what he did. Moments where he comes home from work and my first thought isn't that he's a cheater.
It's to welcome him home. To ask about his day. To hand him Sophie.
To curl up beside him on the couch while we complain about our days and pretend we're still young and broke and in love.
They're stupid moments. Tiny moments. The kind that sneak up on me when I'm tired or distracted.
Moments where, for a second, I get my husband back.
The man I married. The man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with. The man I imagined growing old beside while we raised our daughter.
Then I remember.
And it hurts all over again.
"Would you forgive me?"
Brad freezes.
"If I fucked someone else," I continue, stepping closer. "Someone you knew."
His jaw tightens as he stares me down.
"Someone I trusted." My voice cracks before rising. "Someone I welcomed into our lives."
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
I can practically see him trying to find an answer that doesn't make him look like the villain.
Too bad there isn't one.
"It wasn't like that."
"What was it like?"
"Don't."
"No." I shake my head. "You don't get to hide behind vague bullshit. What was it like?"
His expression hardens. For a second I think he's going to walk away. Instead, he explodes.
“Biology.”
I actually blink. “Biology?”
“Yes.” He throws his hands up. “She was carrying my child, alright?”
I stare at him.
“You think I looked at her and saw some random woman?” he asks. “I couldn't. Every time I saw her, she was carrying my blood.”
The mention of our daughter makes my stomach twist.
“She called me every time something happened. Every kick. Every scare. Every appointment you stopped going to.”
My eyes narrow.
“I stopped going because she made it clear I wasn't wanted.”
The guilt that flashes across his face tells me he knows it.
“I know,” he admits quietly. “And I should've done something about it. I shouldn’t have let her... push you away.”
Shaking his head, he looks past me, then lets out a small laugh.
“She called me one time. Like two in the morning. She wanted to show me her stomach.”
My stomach twists wondering where he’s going with this.
“She said the baby was having hiccups.” A smile tugs at his lips. Not a romantic smile. A nostalgic one. Like he's sharing a memory he still treasures. “It was... surreal.”
For a second, I can't speak.
Because for a moment, I can’t believe he’s actually sharing this like it’s a story I’d appreciate.
"Where was I?" I ask calmly.
"What?" His attention snaps back to me.
"She called you at two in the morning. Where was I?"
The smile instantly disappears. He looks away. "That doesn't matter."
A short, humorless laugh escapes me. "It does matter."
His jaw tightens as he finally looks back at me. "No, it doesn't."
"It does." I shake my head. "Don't tell me you don't see that. She was calling my husband at two in the morning and instead of telling me and setting boundaries, he started screwing her."
His shoulders sag.
"I’m not saying I didn’t fuck up. But somewhere along the way I stopped seeing her as a surrogate and started seeing her as the person keeping our daughter alive."
I stare at him in wonder. "You're using our daughter as an excuse for cheating on me?"
“It wasn't that.”
“No?”
“I...” He drags a hand down his face. “If you'd carried her... I never would've felt that.”
My heart drops. For a second I genuinely can't breathe.
He did not just say that.
Brad's eyes widen instantly. “Shit. No. No, that's not what I meant.”
I close my eyes. “I can't believe this.”
“Please don't say that.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I can't believe you just blamed me for...” The words die in my throat. Because what exactly is he blaming me for? The miscarriage? The fertility issues? Being unable to carry a child? Laila? I don't even know anymore.
“I love you,” he says, his voice breaking.
I open my eyes and feel absolutely nothing. No sympathy. No comfort. No relief. If anything, the tears gathering in his eyes make me want to laugh.
Not because it's funny. Because somehow, he's standing here crying like a victim after what he just said.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
His eyebrows pull together. “Bron, we are home.”
I shake my head. “No. I want to go home.”
Understanding slowly settles across his face. “Austin?”
I nod. “I hate it here. Everywhere I look...” I laugh weakly. “Every woman I see, I can't help wondering.”
His expression tightens. “Wondering what?”
“Did you sleep with her too?”
“Jesus Christ.”
I stare at him for a second before smiling sadly. “You know what Laila told me?” Crossing my arms, I continue before he can answer. “Apparently you're still a member of that club.”
His entire body goes rigid. “That's not true.”
“Brad.”
“No.” The word comes out louder this time. “No. I may have fucked up with Laila, but I've never cheated before. Never.”
He looks so certain that the old me would've believed him.
“You can check my phone,” he says immediately. “My emails. My bank statements. Whatever you want. I swear to you, I never got the membership after you said no.”
Real tears finally sting my eyes.
I let out a shaky laugh. “You just told me you slept with Laila because she gave you something I couldn't.”
His face falls.
“And now you're standing there telling me you never went to that club because I was enough?”
“She's lying.”
“Why would she?” I ask in a broken voice.
“Because I chose you.”
He did. Once upon a time, that would've been enough.
Not anymore.
“I can't.”
His expression crumples. “What are you saying?”
“If you want this marriage to have a chance,” I whisper, “we have to leave LA.”
His eyebrows pull together. “Honey?”
“I mean it.” My throat tightens. “I can't keep looking over my shoulder wondering if every woman I pass is someone you've slept with.”
The words come out harsher than I intend. More honest too.
“God, the number of texts I've gotten from women I called friends saying they're sorry you couldn't keep it in your pants.”
The shame that flashes across his face should make me feel better.
It doesn't.
“I don't know how they found out,” he says quietly.
I shake my head because that doesn’t matter.
An honest tear slides down my cheek.
“I don't want to live like this anymore.”