Chapter Fourteen
The rest of the night has been much less disturbing. It’s passed by without incident, actually. I held my panic attack at bay and sat through dinner, feigning normalcy. Mari hasn’t shown back up, and neither has Saint. So far.
Each bite of Shephard’s perfectly seasoned chicken felt like ash in my mouth.
I smiled, I nodded, I asked the girls about their week at school, all while feeling like I’d just earned the World’s Worst Wife and Mother of the Century award.
I can feel it, a tarnished invisible medal hanging heavy around my neck.
The acute tension that clung to me earlier in the day has settled now into something deeper, something heavier.
There’s no easy way to release it. We move through the motions of a normal evening with the clatter of dishes as Shephard cleans up, the familiar shouts of the girls from the guest room, but nothing feels normal.
It’s all a flimsy stage set, and I’m a terrible actress tonight.
I try to lose myself in the routine of bedtime, helping the girls brush their teeth, the minty scent a fleeting comfort, tucking them into their brightly colored duvets, kissing their foreheads as they drift off.
The familiar comforts of motherhood should ease my mind, should anchor me, but they don’t. They only amplify the piercing guilt.
The girls are out by nine, asleep together in the spare bedroom.
I stand by their door for a moment, watching their peaceful, unsuspecting faces, my heart heavy with a guilt so profound it threatens to swallow me whole.
How can I possibly reconcile myself to the fact that I’ve so irrevocably betrayed the life I built with Shephard, the life I treasure as their mother, to the dark, illicit secret now pulsing beneath my skin?
The guilt gnaws at me, twisting my stomach into tight, painful knots, a persistent, physical reminder.
But I push it down, deep down, as far as I can, burying it under layers of denial, and head into the living room.
I text Nora as I make my way toward the couch. Shephard and the girls just showed up unannounced. I hit send.
Immediately, she responds with Noooooo. Asshole!
I sit next to Shephard on the couch and chuckle at her response.
She knows what it’s like being a writer and in the groove, only to be interrupted countless times by people who don’t get it.
It’s why I have to write somewhere away from home—because home is a constant revolving door.
If it’s not one kid, it’s the other, or Shephard, or my sister, or my mother, or a UPS driver.
Although, the UPS driver is usually my fault.
I tend to online shop when I get emotional about work.
I get a lot of packages delivered.
Shephard doesn’t look up from whatever he’s doing when I sink into the couch.
We don’t feel the discomfort when the girls are in the room, but when it’s just the two of us, there’s a distance between us that wasn’t there before, or perhaps was always there, only now it’s become a yawning chasm.
Since I stopped being able to write and the money issues began, we argue more than we compliment. He’s lived a cush life until now.
Now, he’s just stressed. All the time. When I started making better money, he took a lower-paying position to ease his stress, but he’s regretting it now.
He hasn’t said it, but he implies it with little jabs here and there.
I just ignore it. Sure, I wish I had a husband who understood the emotional trauma I’ve been through, but I guess both spouses end up feeling the fallout of financial burdens, so I understand that he’s under stress too.
He’s beside me physically, the familiar warmth of his leg brushing mine through the denim of his jeans, but mentally, emotionally, we’re worlds apart, orbiting different planets.
His laptop is propped on his knees, the screen casting a pale glow on his face, his fingers tapping away on the keys as he catches up on work, bills, something mundane and responsible.
He’s focused, absorbed in whatever report or email he’s typing up, his brow furrowed in concentration. I wonder if he senses the shift between us, if he can feel the chasm growing wider, the silence between us thickening with unspoken grievances. Or is he truly oblivious?
He has no idea that he isn’t the last man I kissed. The last man to see me naked. The last man inside me. The thought sits like a cold, heavy stone in my gut.
I have the television on, the screen flickering with chaotic scenes from some show I can’t even remember the name of. Distant gunfire, dramatic music. But I can’t pay attention to it. The characters move across the screen, saying words I barely register. My mind is elsewhere.
I’ve never cheated on Shephard before. I’ve never even had the urge.
For years, our marriage felt solid, built on a foundation of shared history, quiet companionship, and a love that, while perhaps not fiery, felt steady and true.
We’ve had our ups and downs, of course. The usual ebb and flow of any long-term relationship.
Money stresses, parenting disagreements, the natural drift of routine.
But I never, ever thought I’d be the type to have an affair, to cross that line.
It’s the kind of thing that happens to other people, in other relationships.
Not mine. I thought I was better than that, stronger, more grounded.
But here I am, sinking under the devastating consequences of my own choices, choices I never imagined I’d make, never dreamed I was capable of.
And it was so easy. Too easy. I barely thought of him, of Shephard, in those moments.
It was like when Saint was around, when his intensity filled the space, Shephard was out of sight, out of mind.
Why? Why was it so simple to betray the man I vowed to cherish?
The man sitting just inches from me, oblivious.
“Are you even listening?” Shephard’s voice, sharper than I expected, slices through my thoughts. He’s looking at me now, his laptop half closed on his knees, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
“What?” I force my gaze from the flickering screen to his face. “Sorry. Just . . . tired.” The lie is instant, automatic.
He sighs, a small, weary sound. “I was just saying, I finally got our expense report done, but I want to make sure I have every bill listed before I meet with the accountant. So if you’re feeling up to it, maybe you could look over some of it before me and the girls head out in the morning?
” His tone is carefully neutral, but I catch the subtle dip in his voice on “if you’re feeling up to it,” a barbed wire wrapped in concern.
A familiar resentment prickles. His moods seem to ebb and flow with the fluctuations of my career.
When my books were flying off shelves, when the advances were big, he was my biggest cheerleader, and subtly, my manager, my financial advisor, taking pride in our success.
But now, with the backlash from my last book, with the cancel culture biting hard, with my creative well feeling dry for months .
. . now it’s different. The pride has curdled into something else.
And he acts like he’s some martyr, saving us from my bad choices.
It’s like he wants to own my successes, but when I fail, those are all on me.
“Money trouble is the last thing I need in my brain, Shephard,” I say, my voice tighter than I intend. “That’s why I came to the cabin, to try and solve our money issues. Going over them in detail will just make my writer’s block worse.”
He raises an eyebrow, a sardonic curve to his lips. “Right. Well, the well’s looking a little dry, Petra, and I can’t keep hoping you’ll find inspiration. Good intent doesn’t pay the bills. Producing something does.”
“For your information, I’ve written over half a book since I got here. Thanks for asking. I’ve been in a groove until . . .”
Shephard sets his phone down beside him. “Until we showed up?”
I sigh. “I’m due to be home for Chloe’s birthday next weekend for two whole days. I don’t know why you thought it was a good idea to interrupt two more of my writing days. That means I’ll get three writing days out of the whole week, tops. It’s not enough, and I can’t just switch it on and off.”
“The girls missed you,” he says, his words sharp. “Sorry you have people who love you.” He stands up, heading toward the kitchen.
“That’s not . . .” Ugh. I drop my hands to the couch on either side of me and groan.
“That’s not fair. Writing is a weird beast, and you know I work best when I have stretches of solitude.
I love you, and I love my girls, but it’s like you can’t even get through a week without needing me to give you a reprieve. When do I get my reprieve?”
“How many episodes of Love Island have you watched since you’ve been here?
You can’t tell me you actually spend all day every day writing.
I’ve been working, watching the girls, all while trying to figure out how to get our finances in order for our meeting with the accountant.
Sorry if I can’t understand how a vacation in a .
. .” He looks around. “You can’t even call this a cabin.
A vacation in a dream home can in any way be torture.
All I asked is for you to look at some numbers. My bad. I’ll do it myself.”
The jab lands, sharp and precise. It always comes back to money, to my career, to the fact that for so long, I was the primary earner. And now that I’m struggling, it’s thrown everything off balance, and he isn’t taking it well.
“Are you implying I haven’t been working?” My voice rises, a defensive heat flushing my cheeks. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to write under this kind of pressure? With all the noise?”