Chapter Twenty-Four
Brooke
I spent most of last night pacing the living room, wearing a track into the floor. First, it was anger, hot and pulsing. But as the hours bled into each other, it melted into worry.
Matthew didn’t take his phone. Or his wallet. Or his damn jacket.
He’s out there somewhere, walking around Brooklyn in the middle of the night, and the city doesn’t care if you’re lost or hurting, it swallows you whole.
I sit on the sofa, gripping my phone, ready to call someone, anyone, when the front door jiggles.
My heart jumps into my throat.
I rush up and press my eye to the peephole. The second I see him, a shaky breath slips out of me. I fling the door open just as he stumbles forward.
“Oh, oh,” I gasp, catching him before he can hit the floor.
He doesn’t smell like alcohol. Just cold.
I guide him to the sofa, his weight heavy against me, and practically drop him down onto the cushions. Then I grab the throw blanket from the back of the couch and wrap it around his shoulders, tucking it in tight.
The second I take my hand away, his whole body starts shaking, full-on shivers. I might still be pissed, but I don’t want him getting hypothermia. I press myself against him, wrapping my arms around his torso, rubbing his chest and arms in slow, firm motions.
Little by little, the shaking eases. His breathing evens out, just a fraction. I shift to get up, to make him something warm, but his hand shoots out, catching my wrist and pulling it against his chest.
I freeze, then slowly sink back down. My cheek rests against his shoulder, my arm draped over his middle. We end up sitting, with our right sides on the back of the sofa, him in front, me behind, like two mismatched puzzle pieces still trying to fit.
In a small, rough voice, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”
I just hum.
Not “it’s okay.”
Because it’s not.
Matthew lets out a shaky breath, his soldiers shuddering under my chin. “I was projecting my childhood onto Penny,” he whispers. “And you’re not my mom.”
“Uh huh,” I murmur. I don’t add anything. I am definitely not his mother.
“I… went to see my Aunt Mia.”
My brows pull together. Aunt Mia? He’s never mentioned an Aunt Mia before.
“She practically raised me,” he says, his voice dipping lower. “But she never asked for credit. Whenever I complained, she’d remind me Ma was working hard to put a roof over our heads. She always defended her.”
His chest expands beneath my hand as he takes in a shaky breath.
“And my Ma…” His voice cracks. “She kicked Mia out of my life so she wouldn’t tell me the truth. So, I’d only ever have her version of the story. She’s a liar, Brooke. My own mom.”
Whatever it is has to be bad if he’s reacting like this.
“Turns out my dad never left,” he continues quietly. “He died. And my Ma… she never told me. Not because she wanted to protect me, but because she didn’t want anyone to find out about the insurance money.”
I blink, the words hitting like bricks.
“She wasn’t working herself to the bone for me like she said,” he says bitterly, his voice cracking again. “She was out living her life, letting me and everyone else treat her like some kind of martyr. Like she’d sacrificed everything for me.”
His breathing goes uneven, hitching like the words themselves are cutting him open.
“I spent my whole life thinking she was this… hero,” he whispers. “And she wasn’t. She lied to me. For years.”
My chest tightens. “I’m so sorry, Matthew.”
He nods, then slowly turns around in my arms until we’re facing each other, his forehead resting against my collarbone.
“I… I wanted you home because I didn’t want you to work like I thought my Ma had to,” he says, his voice breaking on the edges.
“Every time she’d say she’d love to be there for me but had to work, I believed her.
I didn’t want that for Penny. Brooke, you have to believe me. I was just trying to protect her.”
His voice cracks completely on the last word, and then he crumples against me, burying his face in my chest. His shoulders shake, his breath warm and uneven against my skin.
I wrap my arms around him, not because everything’s suddenly fixed, not because I’ve forgotten the hurt, but because he’s my husband.
Because right now, he’s breaking.
Because right now, he needs me.
And whatever happens next, whatever comes after this mess we’ve made, I won’t abandon him while he’s shattering in my arms. I press my cheek to the top of his head, feeling the weight of everything he’s been carrying crash down between us.
His tears don’t make his behaviour okay. His regret doesn’t erase the nights I spent feeling small and alone in our own home.
I’m not going to make myself feel better by kicking him while he’s already down, but I’m not going to pretend that “sorry” is enough either.
If our relationship is going to survive this, he has to do more than whisper apologies into the dark.
He has to show it.
He has to fight for it. For us. For me.
Matthew
The next morning, I don’t wake up until well after noon. Last night, after everything, last night, I’d crashed hard. Penny had woken up crying sometime after, and Brooke had gone to feed her. I’d decided to wait for her in bed, but somewhere between blinking and breathing, sleep took me.
I take a quick shower, trying to rinse off the weight of last night, but it clings to me.
I'm not what you would call macho but even I draw the line at crying in my wife’s arms. When I walk into the living room, Penny’s in her swing seat, reaching up with determined little hands for the plush bear dangling above her.
Brooke’s on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees.
“Hey,” I say softly.
She looks up, gives me a small smile, then turns her focus back to the screen. It’s not cold, not distant, but not the way it used to be either.
I make myself a bowl of cereal and sit beside her. She types for a few more seconds, then she lowers the screen slightly.
“Sorry,” she says. “I was making an appointment.”
I lift a spoonful to my mouth. “For what?”
“Therapy.”
The word makes me startle just slightly. “Oh. If that’s what you need-”
“It’s not for me,” she cuts in gently.
I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Me?”
She nods.
I open my mouth. “Do I… get a choice?”
She gives me a small, daring smile, not answering. And weirdly enough, that’s my answer.
I don’t exactly love the idea of talking to a stranger about everything that’s gone wrong in my life, but if that’s what she needs from me… if that’s what we need… I nod. “Okay.”
I try to sound casual. “I guess I’ve got the time anyway. I’m probably fired.”
Her head snaps toward me. “What?”
I tell her about the campaign debacle, the wrong location, the screaming, walking out yesterday. How I didn’t go in today either. She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out how to react.
“Aren’t you worried?” she finally asks. “My job doesn’t start until next week.”
“The bank already reversed the charges,” I say, stirring the cereal that’s already getting soggy. “So, we have savings again. I’ll get a good severance, and I’ll find something else. It’s fine.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go with a quiet, “Alright.”
After I finish eating, she sets the laptop aside. “What are you going to do about your mom?”
The question hits like a sucker punch. My spoon stills in the bowl.
“What would I do?” I ask carefully.
She looks at me like the answer’s obvious. “You have to confront her, Matthew.”
I shake my head. “Why? She lied to me, Brooke. I already cut her out once. What am I supposed to do-call her, yell at her, and cut her off again?”
“Shouldn’t you at least talk to her?” she asks softly.
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. “She’s my ma. Drop it.”
Brooke nods, quiet. “Of course.” She takes the laptop again, her face backlit by the screen.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say after a moment.
She doesn’t look at me.
“Brooke,” I try again. “Come on.”
But she just keeps her eyes on the screen, her silence louder than anything she could’ve said.
“Brooke, please don’t be like that,” I say, my voice coming out more desperate than I want it to. “I’m under a lot of stress, okay? But I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sorry. Okay?”
She finally looks up from the laptop. Her face isn’t cold exactly, but it’s tired, fuck.
“There’s only so many times you can say sorry before it loses its meaning,” she says quietly. Not cruel. Just… honest.
I open my mouth, ready to argue, to defend myself, to say something.
But nothing comes out.
Because she’s right.
Sorry only goes so far. And I’ve spent too long hiding behind it.
“I’ll go to therapy,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them. “I’ll do the work. I promise. Just… don’t leave. Okay?”
She bites her lip, and for a second I can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or a scream. The silence stretches, painfully pressing against my chest.
Then she looks up at me, and her voice is calm. “I love you, Matthew. But I won’t stay in a relationship where I’m not an equal.”
I open my mouth, but she doesn’t let me interrupt.
“I know you love me,” she says. “But I’m not sure you respect me. Not as a partner, anyway.”
She rolls her head, exhaustion settling over her features. “I’m tired. I didn’t sleep last night. Can you watch Penny?”
“Of course,” I say immediately.
She nods. “Thanks.”
And just like that, she stands and heads down the hall.
I sit there, staring at the empty space she left behind, the sound of her footsteps fading into the bedroom.
I meant what I said about doing the work. I did.
But right now, I don’t even know where to start.
I’ve already learned my lesson with the Zeke thing, the lies, the secrets, and I’ve been transparent since then. I told her about my job, about my mom, about everything in my life.
But apparently, that isn’t the same as respect.
What else can I do?
Because the thing is, love isn’t the problem. I love her, God, I love her more than anything. But she’s right. Somewhere along the way, I stopped treating her like a partner and started treating her like… someone I had to protect.
And maybe that’s the problem.
But how is that a problem?
I run a hand down my face, frustration and confusion knotted so tight I can barely breathe through it. I mean… don’t women want to be protected? Don’t they want someone who’ll stand up for them? That’s what I’ve been doing. That’s what I thought I was doing.
Isn’t that what a good man is supposed to be?
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through my spiral. I glance down.
Dr. Bart Sands.
B.S. Figures.
I huff out a dry laugh. I don’t have anything against therapy. For the people who need it.
But me?
I blow out a long breath. Brooke must’ve booked the appointment herself, 1 p.m. tomorrow. Probably figured I could slip out during my lunch break.
I could still go to work tomorrow.
But I don’t want to.
The thought of walking into that office feels about as appealing as a colonoscopy. Everything about that place just feels toxic. From the draining management to the enabling employees.
I’m just so fucking tired.
Brooke was all talk about being partners yet here I sit all fucking alone.
Again.