The Halloween Party Her Husband Threw With His Ex

1. Everything He Doesn’t Have Time For

Chapter One

EVERYTHING HE DOESN’T HAVE TIME FOR

You wouldn’t think I’d need to explain to a forty-year-old man that he can’t sign a reimbursement request with a smiley face.

“It’s not a legal document, Brooke,” my husband argues.

“It’s still a financial record.”

“So?”

“So sign your name.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, followed by a sigh that suggests I’m making things unnecessarily difficult.

I turn my chair away from the open doorway of my office and lower my voice. Beyond the glass partition, phone lines are blinking, a client is waiting for a quote on his teenage daughter’s new car, and our copier has started making a grinding noise that sounds expensive.

I manage a small insurance agency in downtown Maple Oaks. Technically, that means none of my workday should involve the Maple Oaks Volunteer Fire Association. Reality has been ignoring that technicality for years.

“You could’ve signed it for me,” Justin says.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, I do. After thirteen years of marriage, translating what Justin says into what he needs me to do has become one of my unofficial responsibilities.

Do you know where my blue shirt is? means Can you find it?

Mom’s birthday is next week means Can you buy something, wrap it, and put my name on the card?

The association needs to send thank-you letters means Can you find last year’s spreadsheet, update the addresses, write the letter, print forty copies, and put everything in a folder so I can take it to the meeting?

Justin is president of the volunteer fire association. He doesn’t fight fires for a living; he works in sales at Ridgemont Building Supply, but he’s volunteered for years and loves being involved.

People love that about him. They love a lot of things about Justin.

He’s easy to talk to, quick to volunteer, always willing to help somebody move a couch, organize a cookout, or haul folding tables across town. If you need someone to shake hands, crack jokes, and make an event feel successful, Justin is your man.

If you need the permit submitted by Thursday, that’s usually me.

“Just sign it properly,” I say. “Scan it again, and I’ll send everything.”

“You’re the best.”

“That’s what people say right before they give me more work.”

He laughs. Justin has always had a good laugh. Warm, effortless, and boyish enough that his mother claims it got him out of punishment from the time he could talk.

“That’s my girl.”

He hangs up before I can remind him I’m thirty-six and haven’t been anybody’s girl for quite some time.

I set my phone down and look at my monitor. The email waiting for me has nothing to do with insurance. It’s a draft donation letter for the association’s Christmas toy drive.

I maintain the donor list, mostly because several years ago Justin lost the old one and asked if I could “throw something together.” I threw something together so effectively that nobody has touched it since.

I also format flyers, reserve rooms, organize online sign-ups, track food orders, proofread social-media posts, and keep digital copies of documents people inevitably misplace.

Most of it happens during my lunch hour. Some of it happens at home while I’m watching television. Because I can do it quickly and because nobody pays me, somehow it has never quite registered as work.

“Brooke?”

I glance toward the doorway, where Amy Lowell is leaning against the frame holding two brown deli bags.

Amy has been my best friend since ninth grade and our receptionist for four years, which means she knows the difference between my working face and my if one more person asks me for one more thing, I may fake my own death face.

“You bought lunch?” I ask.

“You forgot lunch.”

“I have crackers.”

“You have half a sleeve of crackers in your desk that may predate the internet.”

“They do not.”

She places a wrapped sandwich in front of me and eyes my screen. “Fire stuff?” she asks.

“Toy drive.”

“In October?”

“Planning ahead.”

“You’re supposed to be eating lunch,” she says.

“I’m multitasking.”

Amy takes the chair across from me and unwraps her sandwich. “Did Justin ever fix that faucet?”

I pause. “No.”

“You asked him three weeks ago.”

“He’s busy.”

Amy takes a bite, but there’s a look on her face.

“What?”

She chews innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”

The outdoor faucet behind our house has leaked since late September. Not catastrophically, but enough that I put a bucket beneath it because hearing water drip against the concrete every ten seconds was making me irrational.

Justin promised he’d replace the valve, then he had an association meeting, then training, then somebody needed help hauling a refrigerator. Then he forgot.

I could call a plumber. I probably should. There’s something irritating about paying a professional to do a twenty-minute job my husband has done before, though, especially when my husband spends forty hours a week selling building supplies.

“I’ll remind him,” I say.

“You always remind him.”

“That’s marriage.”

Amy’s expression says she has thoughts.

“Don’t start,” I say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

My desk phone rings before I finish half my lunch.

“Maple Oaks Insurance, this is Brooke.”

“Brooke Young?”

“Yes.”

“This is William Sawyer. I’m the new county fire marshal.” His voice is low and measured, without the booming confidence I’ve come to associate with half the men connected to emergency services.

“Oh. Hi.”

“I was given your name by three different people, so I’m hoping at least one of them knows what you actually do.”

That makes me smile. “That depends what they told you.”

“That you’re the person who knows where the inspection records are for the association storage building.”

I close my eyes briefly. Of course. “I can probably find them.”

“Are you the association administrator?”

“No.”

“Secretary?”

“No.”

There’s a pause. “Employee?”

“No.”

He laughs quietly. “Then I have questions about how your name came up three times.”

“I’m married to Justin Young.”

“Association president.”

“Yes.”

“And marriage apparently includes records management.”

“Only in the deluxe package.”

His laugh is softer this time before he says, “I can ask Justin instead.”

I glance at the digital folder already open on my second monitor. “I’ve got them. Give me fifteen minutes.”

“There’s no rush. Tomorrow is fine.”

“It’ll take fifteen minutes.”

“Then thank you.”

Something in the way he says it catches me. There’s no extravagant praise. No You’re a lifesaver. Just a straightforward thank-you that recognizes I’m doing something for him.

“You’re welcome.”

“And Brooke?”

“Yes?”

“If people keep sending me to you for things that aren’t actually your job, you’re allowed to redirect me.”

I smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

When I hang up, Amy is staring.

“What?”

“Who was that?”

“The new fire marshal.”

“The handsome one?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“I have,” she says. “He came into the dry cleaner when I was picking up my coat.”

“So he has clothes?”

“Apparently.”

“Fascinating.”

Amy grins. “He’s very handsome.”

“I’m married.”

“I didn’t tell you to lick him. I just said he’s handsome.”

I shake my head and return to work.

The inspection records take ten minutes to find and send because I scanned them myself in March.

William replies: Received. Thank you for saving me a trip across town.

That evening, I leave the office later than intended and stop at the grocery store on the way home because Justin texted that we’re out of potato chips.

At six forty-five, I pull into our driveway and see the bucket behind the house through the side gate.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Inside, Justin is standing at the kitchen counter eating sliced cheese directly from the package.

At forty, he’s still handsome in the uncomplicated way he was handsome when I met him at twenty-three. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders softened only slightly with age.

“Hey, babe.” He kisses my cheek. “Long day?”

“Very.”

“I was going to cook.”

I look at the untouched stove. “What happened?”

“Brett called.”

“Refrigerator emergency?”

He laughs. “No. We were talking about Saturday.”

My smile fades a fraction.

Last Saturday. The garage.

I asked Justin two weeks ago if we could finally clean it. There are boxes we haven’t opened since we moved into this house eight years ago, along with a broken lawn spreader, old paint cans, and a plastic tub labeled CHRISTMAS that contains no decorations I recognize.

Justin said Saturday was impossible because of a fire-association obligation, so I spent three hours cleaning alone.

“Speaking of association stuff,” he says, reaching for another piece of cheese, “I need a favor.”

I close my eyes, and he laughs again. “Don’t make that face,” he says.

“What face?”

“The kidney-donation face. It’s just about the Halloween fundraiser.”

I open my eyes. “What about it?”

“We need the community center.”

“When?”

“Next Friday.”

“Next Friday, as in Halloween weekend next Friday?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“You haven’t reserved it?”

“We just decided.”

“Who’s we?”

“The guys.”

I set my purse on the counter. “There’s almost no chance it’s available.”

“Can you check?”

“You can check,” I say.

He gives me that look. It’s not puppy eyes; he’s too old for that. It’s cheerful confidence born from thirteen years of evidence that I will ultimately do the thing because I always do the thing.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” I say.

He squeezes my shoulder in a quick, one-armed hug. “You’re amazing.”

“What kind of fundraiser is it?”

“Nothing complicated. Music, food, maybe costumes. Just a fun community thing.”

“Do you need alcohol approval?”

“We’ll handle everything.”

“You’ll handle the food?”

“Yes.”

“Decorations? Cleanup?”

“Yes. All of that.”

I narrow my eyes. “No emergency text asking me where to buy six black tablecloths?”

He puts his hand over his heart. “Promise.”

“Fine. I’ll see if I can reserve the room.”

Justin puts both hands on my shoulders. “Seriously. You’ve been doing too much. Book the room and forget all about it.”

I soften. Maybe Amy is right that I do too much, but Justin notices, and that means something.

“Okay.”

He kisses my forehead.

The community center happens to be available after another booking cancels. The manager tells me the volunteer association qualifies for the community-event rate, saving almost four hundred dollars.

I fill out the paperwork with the purpose listed exactly as Justin described it: Volunteer Fire Association Halloween Fundraiser.

I forward the confirmation to him, and he responds with a heart.

Over the next week, I schedule Justin’s dental cleaning after the office calls a second time, buy his sister a birthday card, finish the toy-drive letters, and spend forty-five minutes fixing a billing issue on his truck insurance.

Justin is no help with that last one because he’s away overnight at a manufacturer training event for work. At nine that night, he texts: Wish you were here.

I’m sitting at our kitchen table with reheated soup and an insurance-company representative’s voice still echoing in my skull. I type: Me too.

He sends a heart, and I smile. Not every season of marriage is romantic, I tell myself. Sometimes one person carries more.

Sunday, Justin misses dinner with my parents because Brett needs help with something.

Tuesday, he has association business.

Thursday night, I fall asleep on the couch with my laptop open, and Justin wakes me sometime after eleven.

“You should go to bed.”

I blink up at him. “What time is it?”

“Late.”

“You just get home?”

“Yeah.”

“Association?”

“Halloween stuff.”

I push myself upright. “You guys really did take this one over.”

“We promised.” He smiles, and there’s an energy around him I haven’t seen lately. He’s excited, and I assume he enjoys proving he can run an event without me hovering over the details.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “you should stay home.”

“The fundraiser?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought I’d stop by after work.”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “You’ve been exhausted.”

“I’m okay.”

“Brooke.” His arm settles around my shoulders. “Come home tomorrow. Put your feet up. Watch one of those murder shows.”

“They’re documentaries.”

“About murder.”

“Sometimes.”

He kisses my temple. “Let me handle one thing for you.”

I lean against him. That sounds so good I shouldn’t question it, but habit kicks in. “Are you sure?”

“Completely.” He squeezes me. “I’ve got everything handled.”