Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
TORI
Past
Skye pulls into the driveway just as I do.
She’s halfway out of her car when she spots me and grins. “Damn, Foster. You’ve got impeccable timing, as always.”
For the first time in ten years, I don’t quip back with, “It’s Martin, you whore.”
I spot her purple space buns over the roof of my SUV and smile, soaking in the half-light of dusk, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees.
Skye knows exactly why I called her home for the weekend, and I’m grateful she doesn’t kick off our girls’ night with a heavy are you okay or a pity hug.
Instead, she rounds the front of my Telluride in cut-off shorts, combat boots, and a yellow crop top that reads Daddy Issues.
She bumps her shoulder into mine, grins, and says, “Hey, bitch,” before heading for the door.
The second we step inside, I breathe in the familiar scent of wood polish and whatever aftershave Skye’s dad has used since we were kids.
It’s cooler in here than I expect, and still so eerily unchanged it makes my throat tighten.
The floor creaks the same way it always has, and I can’t tell if the shiver that runs through me is from memory or the quiet panic of knowing I’m actually going to do this—I’m about to sit down with my best friend and talk through the logistics of leaving my husband.
I drop my bag next to the couch and stand there for a second, letting my shoulders fall.
This house shouldn’t feel like sanctuary.
It’s not mine. But after years of bracing myself at every threshold, walking into a place where no one’s waiting to corner me with silence or sharpened words feels like crawling out of a cage.
Skye kicks off her boots and flops into her usual spot on the couch. “Shoes off?”
“Obviously.”
“Pants or no pants?”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s nine p.m. and I’m emotionally unraveling.”
She nods solemnly. “No pants it is.”
I peel off my jeans and curl up on the other end, snuggling under a plush blanket I found haphazardly draped over the edge. The quiet between us is soft, familiar. We’ve done girls’ nights countless times before, but never like this.
She waits.Then, finally, I speak.
“I’m leaving him.”
The words don’t punch the air like they used to. They settle. Still a little sharp. Still capable of bruising. But now, instead of sending shockwaves through my system, they feel like truth—like something I’m allowed to say without flinching.
Skye doesn’t react right away. Just tilts her head a little. “Yep. You said that already. Now, say the rest.”
I look around the room. My eyes land on the dented coffee table from that one party we swore we’d never talk about, the scratch on the TV stand, the dusty old family photo that was taken before Skye’s mother passed away all those years ago.
Everything here has a history, and somehow that makes it easier to say the next part.
“He’s going to Boston in four weeks. A work trip. Five nights.”
Skye straightens a little. “Nice. Ok. So that’s your window.”
I nod. “That’s my window. I’ll leave the morning after he flies out.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the space with commentary or reassurance. Just listens.
“I’ve been saving since the Christmas fight,” I continue. “Opened a credit union account he doesn’t know about. Birthday money, some of our tax refund, random cash from the grocery budget—I funneled it all there.”
Her eyes narrow, impressed. “You sneaky little badass. Who knew your accounting skills could be used for evil—or in this case, salvation?”
I don’t respond to that last comment. At first, I felt guilty about building myself a secret fund in case I ever mustered up the ovaries to leave.
Then, as the months went on and the glimmers of hope and happiness we were able to find in previous years were nowhere to be found, I tossed all semblance of guilt out the metaphorical window and prepared myself for the day I’d finally reach my limit.
“I’ve got enough for six months without a paycheck. Maybe longer if I get creative. I cook more than I eat out. My clothes are all in great condition so I won’t need to go shopping. I’m not someone who lives in excess.”
“You won’t need six months,” she says confidently. “But even if you did—you’d still be okay.”
My throat tightens. I look down at the blanket twisted in my lap.
“I’m planning to move in once Alis and Sunny are settled with Dexter,” I say. “If that’s still—”
Skye cuts me off with a look. “That room’s already yours. You’re just coming home to it.”
Hot tears press behind my eyes, but I blink them away.
“It’s weird,” I admit. “Everything’s lining up. Like God or the universe or whatever was just waiting for me to finally stop stalling.”
Skye studies me for a second. “Are you ready?”
I shrug, but the motion feels too big and too small all at once. “Yes? No? I don’t know. But I know I can’t stay. It doesn’t matter if I’m ready or not. I made my decision. I told my mother. I’m not changing my mind.”
She doesn’t push. Just nods and waits for me to sort through the back-and-forth in my head.
“I need your help,” I say after a beat. “On the day. When I leave. I don’t want to do it alone.”
“You won’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll take off work, drive to Moraine the night before and crash here, head to your place in the morning and help load what fits. We’ll ghost out like pros.”
“I’m not taking much,” I tell her. “Only what fits in our cars. He can have the rest.”
“Anything you’ll miss?”
I shake my head. “Not enough to fight for. I just need my clothes, my books, a few personal items. Everything sentimental is at my parents’ house, not mine.”
She grabs her phone. “Alright, checklist time.”
This side of Skye always amazes me. As off-the-wall and fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants as this woman might seem, Skye never fails to have a plan and make things happen. That’s what she does when shit hits the fan and everything feels like it might float off the edge of the world.
“Okay,” she murmurs, typing on her phone as she speaks. “Passport, social, birth certificate?”
I nod. “Fireproof folder. Already packed.”
“Laptop?”
“With me. Always.”
“Jewelry?”
“Figured I’d leave my wedding rings on top of the goodbye letter on the kitchen counter? Other than that, I’ll have my few precious items in my purse. Everything else can stay behind.”
“Forwarding your mail to my place?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Duh. You’ll be living there. Need a burner?”
I blink. “A what?”
“In case he shuts your phone off or won’t stop calling. I’ll grab you a prepaid one just in case.”
My stomach flips. “I’m still on my parents’ phone plan so he can’t shut it off. But you think it’ll come to that? Like, he won’t stop calling me?”
Her tone softens. “I think we’re not leaving anything to chance.”
She keeps going—passwords, account logins, prescriptions, documents. I nod and answer, but somewhere in the middle of it all, I drift.
I’m imagining my SUV packed to the roof with boxes of the life I’m shedding.
I’m imagining Chase coming home to an empty house.
Finding my letter on the counter. Throwing my rings across the room in a fit of rage.
Slamming cabinets and doors searching for alcohol that won’t be in the house.
Will he shatter the framed photos of us?
Throw a lamp into the wall? Will he sit at our dining room table with his head in his hands and mourn my absence? Will he even care?
A tear slips onto the hand propping up my face at the edge of the couch, right as Skye nudges my foot.
“Hey. You’re not weak for being sad,” she says, voice low. “Even when it’s the right thing. Especially then.”
I nod once, swiping away the tears that pile into my eyes before they can fall.
No one talks about this part. Social media is full of memes about the joy found in choosing yourself, breaking free, owning your future.
And sure, those things are probably true.
But every women’s empowerment blurb I’ve seen leaves out one detail: Freedom?
It’s heavy as hell once you finally pick it up.
And it hurts. My God in heaven it hurts.
We sit there in silence for a while. The kind that isn’t awkward or rushed, but quiet and open. Space to breathe. Space to fall apart a little more if I need to.
And I do. I really do.
“It’s not just about me,” I say finally, my voice quieter now. “I mean, yes—I’m leaving because I deserve more. Because I can’t keep being his emotional punching bag every time he spirals. But, it’s more than that.”
Skye knows all of this. She’s listened to me talk in circles for hours. Thankfully, even though she’s heard it a thousand times, she just listens.
“I love him,” I admit. “God, I’ve loved him so long I don’t even know who I am without that ache. He’s not some villain I’m escaping from. He’s… just a broken boy who never learned how to stop bleeding on the people who try to love him.”
Skye exhales slowly. “Correction. He’s also a fucking asshole.”
I huff out a laugh, even as my chest tightens.
“I’m serious,” she goes on. “You can feel sorry for the scared kid inside him—but don’t forget the man he became.
The one who tore you down and twisted your words and made you question your own worth.
That wasn’t just trauma. That was choice.
His choice. And he doesn’t get a free pass because he’s sad and haunted. ”
She leans forward, eyes sharp. “You’re allowed to love him and still call him what he is.
Call his behavior what it is—abuse. Verbal, mental, and fucking emotional abuse.
You’re allowed to say you’re escaping, because you are.
Just because he hasn’t been chasing you with fists doesn’t mean he hasn’t been ripping you to shreds for years. ”
I press the heel of my hand to my chest, willing the crack in my voice not to split wide open.