8. CHAPTER EIGHT
Brayden walked the manicured path from the parking lot in the center of his condo complex carrying Thai takeout.
The buildings were nice, the green spaces well kept, but he was eager to move to his house and away from the cookie cutter he no longer fit into.
Brayden noted the For Sale sign with an arrow pointing down the path toward his corner unit on the far end.
He gritted his teeth, burying the anger that boiled.
He had bought the two-bedroom unit almost six years ago, right after college.
His grandfather had established a trust for him when he was born, and it was bequeathed to him when he turned twenty-two.
It was a substantial amount of money. Honestly, that was an understatement.
He could have bought an already finished estate near Market Square with plenty to live off of for at least a decade.
But Brayden’s family had always been in the habit of using their wealth to make plans, make improvements, invest in their community.
So he had bought a little fixer-upper condo, did the cosmetic upgrades himself, and bided his time until a property he could revitalize to raise his kids in came on the market.
He jumped at the chance to buy the Islington house, excited at its potential to hold his dreams. That was three years, endless permitting, and innumerable marital mistakes ago.
He could have hired someone to do all of the work for him, but there was something satisfying about plastering walls, laying tile, and crafting his home with his own hands.
He also couldn’t wait for it to be finished.
That, among other things.
He pulled a key from his pocket as he reached the front door only to find the deadbolt already open. He eased inside and slipped his shoes off by the front closet in the narrow entry hall, the air stagnant and stale. When was the last time he’d opened a window?
He entered the small kitchen that looked over the living room with its big glass slider onto a rear deck and a woodburning stove. The stairs leading to the two bedrooms were opposite the kitchen.
He unpacked his dumplings and chicken pad Thai, but his eyes were on Chloe, who’d made herself comfortable beneath a crocheted afghan with a bottle of wine and a bowl of potato chips.
“I didn’t expect you for dinner,” he said as he carried his meal for one to the small dining table that stood between the island and the living room.
“I imagine you expect very little of me lately,” she said coolly. “I haven’t seen your designer friend at the house again.” She looked at Brayden, her eyes all fire.
“You’re not supposed to be at the house at all.
And I told you the other night, I haven’t worked with her much,” Brayden said, exasperated.
They had been over this. He had all of two meetings with a local design firm.
Best he could guess, they had sent someone to the house to check in and make sure he hadn’t changed his mind about going it alone.
He had no recollection of even scheduling a meeting.
It was a misunderstanding of some kind, as he’d insisted already, but Chloe wouldn’t let it go.
It had him worried she was up to something.
Or catching on to something else he didn’t want her to know about.
“Fine,” she said with a huff, pouring the rest of the bottle into her glass.
Brayden sat down at the table, the wooden chair feeling extra uncomfortable and stiff. The overwhelming urge to be anywhere else prickled his skin.
He really wasn’t expecting her to be home.
Chloe had been away a lot lately. Attending a real estate seminar in Florida for her career of the week.
Traveling to Boston for a friend’s bachelorette.
Visiting family in Italy for two months.
The last one was on his dime, but it seemed a price worth paying for the space he so desperately needed.
Since she’d been back, almost two weeks, she’d been out with friends, and God knows who else most nights.
He hadn’t seen her in the condo in ages.
He didn’t want to be baited by the For Sale sign in the yard, but he couldn’t ignore it either. If the house had been ready to move into, he wouldn’t have cared much. Not anymore. “I see you listed the condo,” he gritted out.
“And?”
“And our last Battle Royale was over the fact that you needed the condo. Absolutely had to have it, had to keep it, couldn’t live without it even though it was mine before we got married.”
“I’ve decided that money in the bank is better. Safer, given your reluctance on the matter lately.” Of course she had. The mere mention of money at this point set Brayden’s teeth on edge.
“You’re a grown woman; you shouldn’t need an allowance from my trust fund.”
“I beg to differ.”
Brayden shoved a whole dumpling in his mouth, but it didn’t taste as good as it should have.
He couldn’t fathom how he’d gotten here.
How things had devolved and shifted to the point of wishing his wife wasn’t home and that Hope was instead.
He hadn’t heard from her in over a week.
Brayden knew he should count it as a blessing, especially with Chloe on a tear, but it unnerved him instead.
They’d said I love you. They’d been seeing each other a whole year and finally said I love you, and this was his life. His royally fucked-up life.
He looked at Chloe again, her chocolate eyes fixated on an episode of Love is Blind .
Not long ago, he would have been snuggled right next to her.
He’d be kissing her neck at the commercials, too wise to get between his woman and her reality TV but wanting her to know how he desired her nonetheless. The thought made his stomach flip.
They’d met their senior year of college.
She was a firecracker, the life of every party, and somehow she’d only had eyes for him—the smallest guy in his fraternity at five foot ten, who hadn’t fully healed his acne and was better known as the class clown than a heartbreaker.
She was the first person to treat him like a man.
A desirable man. To look at him and see a future. Hope was the second.
His pad Thai turned to ash in his mouth. He’d lost his appetite. Brayden got up from the table, grabbed his wallet and keys.
“Have my food if you want. I’m going out,” Brayden snapped. “And for God’s sake, remember to lock the door tonight.”
Chloe called after him, “I booked us another session with Dr. Milgran!”
Brayden gripped the door handle tightly and stared at his feet. “I’m not going down that road again. Our problem is very clear: You won’t give me what I want.”
“And neither will you,” she barked, and Brayden wondered when exactly her love turned to venom. He didn’t care for it, but he didn’t want to start another fight, no matter how much she begged for one. Begged for him to stay and explode with her.
He looked back over his shoulder, a mix of shame and regret in his eyes. Then he was out the door.