7. Audra
Three days later…
It's been three days since the ball, and I still feel the stranger's hand burning at the small of my back.
I tried to talk to Pete that very night.
But when I got home, heart still racing and mascara smudged from crying in the car, he was already in bed, snoring softly.
I made noise on purpose, dropped my heels, ran the shower longer than necessary, and clicked the light on and off.
Nothing. He didn't stir. I finally gave up, lying awake all night next to him. Thinking.
Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.
Guilt sat deep in my stomach, like a rock.
Guilt for not being the person Pete wants me to be.
Guilt for having almost come on the dancefloor with a stranger.
Guilt for wanting something more. Guilt for considering abandoning Pete, because that's what he'll call it.
Every thought that crossed my mind was riddled with guilt.
The next morning was Saturday. I hoped we could talk over breakfast, just the two of us.
Instead, my mother made one of her rare appearances, complaining about her cats and how the A/C was set too low again last night—it's set to 79 degrees, and she has a heater in her room—by the time she went back to her room, I was emotionally exhausted.
Pete rushed to his laptop, and I cut my losses until the afternoon, when we finally had the conversation.
It was… bad.
I sat him down on the couch and told him the truth, or at least part of it. That I was unhappy. Deeply dissatisfied. That I needed space—maybe even a separation for a while—so I could clear my head and figure out what I wanted.
Pete broke.
He collapsed forward, elbows on his knees, and started sobbing. Real, ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs.
"I know, baby. I know," he choked out, tears streaming down his face.
"Don't you think I know? I've been working so hard for us.
For our future. I've been neglecting you.
It's my fault. All of it. I take total blame, Audra.
Just… please don't leave me. I'll do better. I swear to God, I'll do better."
He looked so broken. So small. The man who's always so composed, so in control, completely fell apart in front of me. He grabbed my hands, kissing my knuckles between shaky breaths, promising date nights, promising to be more attentive, promising he'd make me feel desired again. And I caved.
Even though something inside me stayed cold and distant, I let him pull me into his arms. I let him talk me into giving him one more chance. He even promised to take me out the next day, just the two of us. I agreed.
I'm still a little bitter about it. He took me to breakfast, not dinner. Not a real night out. Just breakfast, like I'm something he can squeeze into the easiest slot in his schedule. But I said yes anyway. Because Pete is very, very good at this.
He always has been. He knows exactly which buttons to press: the guilt, the history, the fear of being the villain who destroys our marriage.
He wrapped me up in his remorse so tightly I couldn't breathe, let alone think clearly about the man who made me feel alive on that dance floor two nights ago.
Now I'm sitting here in our quiet kitchen, staring at the cold coffee in my mug, wondering how I let myself get talked back into the same cage I was trying to escape.
Because the worst part? Even while Pete was crying and promising me the world, my mind kept drifting back to strong arms, a deep voice murmuring good girl, and the terrifying thrill of nearly coming apart in a stranger's arms on a crowded dance floor.
I don't know how much longer I can keep lying to myself.
Ten hours later, I pull up our driveway completely drained.
The day turned into an absolute shitstorm.
Right before I was ready to leave for work, Mom had what she swore was a stroke—her arm was jerking uncontrollably, her speech was slurred, and there was terror in her eyes when she whispered, "I'm having a stroke. "
By the time the ambulance arrived, her symptoms had already improved, but they still took her in.
I followed behind in my car, alone. Pete went to work.
In all fairness, we need his paycheck now more than ever, because my boss is not happy with me, and I'm worried they're going to fire me over losing too much time for Mom.
This isn't the first time I've had to call off from work for an ER visit.
The rest of the day disappeared into fluorescent lights, beeping machines, and endless waiting.
I sat beside Mom while she alternated between insisting she was dying and arguing with every nurse and doctor.
Tests dragged on for hours. She refused the contrast for the CT scan, then nearly passed out when they started her blood pressure medication.
She wailed that it was poisoning her, that she was too sensitive, that nobody understood her body like she did.
By late afternoon, they concluded it probably wasn't a stroke, but her blood pressure was still dangerously high, and they wanted to keep her overnight. She fought them on almost every treatment, the way she always does.
Now it's past seven. The sky is dark when I finally park in our driveway, exhausted, emotionally wrung out, and carrying the weight of another day that somehow managed to be worse than the one before.
Inside, Pete is already in bed. He came by the hospital earlier, brought some food for Mom and me, along with a bag he packed for her with her glasses, charger, an extra blanket, stuff like that.
He's propped against the headboard with his laptop open on his knees.
When he sees me, he closes it immediately and sets it aside.
Then he opens his arms. I don't even hesitate.
I climb onto the bed and curl into him, pressing my face into his chest. The gesture is so natural despite all my conflicted feelings about us from earlier. His arms close around me.
"She's okay," I fill him in. "They didn't find anything."
He lets out a slow breath. "Thank God."
"They think maybe it was a traveling clot. They want her to take blood thinners." I sigh. "But she refuses."
Pete's hand moves slowly over my back. "Yeah, that's a given with your mom."
I nod against him. For years now, I've taken her from doctor to doctor, specialist to specialist. Hours spent driving across the city.
Hours sitting in waiting rooms. Just to hear the same thing over and over again.
She's fine. Her blood pressure is high. They want to prescribe something for it.
Something for the kidneys. Blood thinners because of the stroke she had last year.
Maybe another pill or two if they can think of something.
Mom refuses every single one. And I still drive her.
Still sit there. Still listen. All that time.
All that money. All those hours away from work. Wasted.
Pete pulls me a little closer.
"You did the right thing," he murmurs.
I close my eyes. I wish I believed that as easily as he does.
"How about you?" I ask, snuggling in. I need to talk about something else.
Pete exhales and runs a hand through his hair. "Busy. They already dumped a new application on my desk."
"Already?" I laugh softly. "You just got promoted."
"Exactly. That's why."
He shifts slightly and reaches for the laptop on the nightstand, tapping it open again. "This one's… big."
"How big?"
"Four and a half million."
I blink. "Dollars?"
Pete chuckles. "No, peanuts."
"Pete."
"Yes. Dollars."
My jaw drops a little. "Someone just… walks into your bank and asks for a four-and-a-half-million-dollar loan?"
"Not exactly. They're paying cash."
"Cash?" I repeat, stunned.
He nods. "That's what makes it interesting. They're buying property outright. No financing needed. But we still have to verify the funds."
"That kind of money…" I shake my head. "I can't even imagine it."
Pete scrolls through something on the screen. "The problem is, the deeper I dig, the weirder it gets."
"How so?"
"One company owns the money," he explains. "But that company is owned by another company. Which is owned by another one."
"Like a Russian doll?"
"Yeah." He looks at me over the rim of his glasses. "Every time I think I've reached the end, there's another shell."
"That sounds… complicated."
"It is."
"Do they have the money?" I ask.
Pete lets out a quiet laugh. "Oh yeah. They have it. And then some."
"So what's the problem?"
He shrugs, still staring at the screen. "I don't know," he admits. "It just feels… off."
I lean over and kiss his cheek. "I know you." He looks questioningly at me. "You dig too much. You worry too much."
He smiles faintly. "That's literally my job."
"Just approve it and move on to the next one."
He studies me for a second. "You're probably right."
His fingers hover over the keyboard again. I slide off the bed.
"I'm going to take a shower," I say, stretching.
Pete nods absently, already looking back at the screen. I pause in the doorway. "But you're still going to dig," I accuse.
He glances up, guilty. "Just a little."
I cross my arms. "Pete."
"Okay," he concurs quickly. "Just for tonight."
I raise an eyebrow.
"I promise."
And so we go to sleep, and it occurs to me that, just like that, we're back at the same old routine.