Chapter 7 Matt
The taillights disappeared around the corner, and then she was gone.
I stood in the driveway barefoot, gravel biting into my heels, watching the empty road like she might turn around. Like she might come back.
She wasn't coming back.
The night air was cold. I hadn't noticed until now, hadn't noticed anything except Elena's face when she'd said "home" like it was a place that didn't include me anymore. Like eight years could just end with a single word and a closed door.
I turned and went back inside.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. The laptop sat open on the kitchen island, screen gone black, but I could still see myself on that footage. Hands on Angela, mouth on Angela, fucking her like a man who’d finally gone completely off the rails.
I had lost my mind. That was the only explanation.
I grabbed the whisky from the cabinet—cheap stuff, the bottle we kept for cooking—and poured two fingers into a glass. I didn't even drink it, just held it while I watched my hand shake.
How did this happen?
I knew how it happened. That was the worst part. I could trace every step, every choice, every moment I should have stopped and didn't.
It started with texts. Angela asking if Elena had signed off on an order, if she was free for something, then sending another message, then another, until it stopped being about work at all.
She started venting about Bryan, about the drinking and the fighting and how he didn’t understand her anymore.
And I’d listened because that’s what I do. That’s who I am.
I'm the guy who helps. The guy who shows up. The guy who became a cop because he wanted to be one of the good ones.
So when Angela started opening up, what was I supposed to do? Shut her down? Tell her to deal with her own problems? She was Elena's boss, Elena's friend. She was struggling. And I thought—I really thought—I was just being supportive.
But part of me knew. Even then, part of me knew I was crossing a line.
I didn’t tell Elena about the texts or about how often Angela and I had started talking.
I didn’t mention the late calls when things with Bryan got bad.
I kept all of it separate, told myself it was better that way, that I didn’t want Elena worrying about Angela’s drama when she was already picking up the slack at the clinic.
That was bullshit. I knew it was bullshit even while I was telling myself it wasn't.
And then came the night Angela called me from that bar. Crying, drunk, saying she and Bryan had had a huge fight and she couldn't drive home and she didn't know who else to call.
I should have hung up. I should have told her to call a cab or call literally anyone else. I should have told Elena what was going on instead of pretending it wasn’t my problem.
Instead, I grabbed my keys and went.
I found her in the parking lot, mascara running, shaking. I got her in the car and we just... talked. For over an hour, sitting there in the dark, her telling me everything. How lonely she was, how Bryan didn't see her anymore, how she felt like she was disappearing.
And somewhere in there, I started talking too. About how things with Elena had felt different lately. How the baby stuff had taken over everything. How sometimes I wondered if she even wanted me anymore or just wanted what I could give her.
I didn't mean it. Not really. Elena and I were fine, we were good.
But I said it anyway. And Angela looked at me like she understood, like she was the only one who understood.
That's when she touched my hand.
Just her fingers on mine, light and tentative. And I… I should have pulled back, said something about how it was late and she should get home and we should never do this again.
But I didn't.
I didn't pull back.
I looked at her—eyes wet, lips parted, leaning closer—and I let it happen.
Let her kiss me, then let myself kiss her back.
She tasted like wine and salt from crying, and I told myself to stop, told myself this was insane, but my hands were already in her hair and she was climbing over the console and then she was in my lap and I wasn't thinking about anything anymore.
That was the thing. When I was with her, I didn't have to think.
There was no pressure, no ovulation charts, no careful scheduling around fertile windows. It was just heat and skin and the rush of something new, something that wanted me without conditions or calendars.
The second time was at the clinic. Elena was home waiting for me and I told her I had paperwork.
Instead I was pressing Angela against the counter, her legs wrapped around me, both of us frantic and breathless and stupid.
I remember the way the overhead cabinet rattled.
The voice in my head screaming that this was Elena's place, Elena's room, Elena's life I was destroying.
I didn't stop.
The third time, I brought condoms. Planned it, told myself it was just being responsible, but I knew what it really meant. This had stopped being a mistake. This was a choice I’d decided to keep making.
And the whole time—the whole fucking time—Elena was sending me photos of ovulation tests. Heart emojis. Talking about baby names and nursery colors and the future we were building together.
I thought about that morning and the photo she'd sent.
I'd stared at it for a full minute before typing back a heart emoji because I didn't know what else to say. Part of me felt the walls closing in. I’d fucked Angela twice that week, so the idea of going home to make a baby with my wife made me want to throw up.
What kind of man does that?
I lifted the whisky to my mouth, then stopped and set it back down. Getting drunk wasn't going to fix this.
The house was too quiet. I could hear the refrigerator humming, the tick of the clock in the hallway, and the absence of Elena in every inch of it.
Her coat wasn’t on the hook. Her keys weren’t in the bowl by the door.
The throw blanket we’d bought together was still bunched on the couch where I’d been sitting an hour ago, back when I still believed my life was intact.
Our wedding photo hung on the wall by the stairs. Elena in white, laughing at something I'd said. I couldn't remember what it was. I couldn't remember the last time I'd made her laugh like that.
For a second I couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small and I felt too big for it.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Then again, and again.
I grabbed it and the screen lit up with notifications. Texts from Angela, missed calls. Seven of them.
Please call me Matt
I'm freaking out
She knows everything
Bryan is going to find out
I can't do this alone
My hand was shaking again.
I thought about Elena. She’d probably be on her way to Millbrook now, to her father's place. I could go after her. Try to explain, beg. Something, anything, to stop this slide.
But what would I even say? What words could possibly undo what I'd done?
Angela's next text came through.
Please. I need you.
I grabbed my keys off the counter and walked out the door.