Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
TORI
Past
“Tor, have you seen my blue tie?” Chase calls from our walk-in closet.
I’m trying to keep my cool. Trying to act like nothing out of the ordinary is happening today. Or tomorrow. Or every day for the rest of our lives.
Everything is fine. Totally fine. He’s going on a business trip. Status quo. I’m helping him pack—currently ironing his shirts in our bedroom. Not getting distracted and leavingtheironontheshirtfortoolong—dammit.
“It’s rolled in your tie box—left side, middle,” I call back, yanking the iron away from the white button-down just before it can leave a mark.
Keep your shit together, Tori.
“Found it!” he says. Amazing what happens when you look for something where it belongs.
I finish the six shirts, buttoning each to his specifications—all the way to the top, because God forbid a floppy collar—and slide them into the garment bag with his suit trousers and jackets.
Three suits. Six shirts. Two extra pairs of trousers.
Seven undershirts, seven pairs of socks, seven boxer briefs, two pairs of shoes.
No toiletry bag—the hotel concierge will handle that before he arrives.
Chase walks out of our closet with four rolled neckties and hands them to me. “Make sure these are steamed before putting them in the garment bag.” Not a request—a demand. Then he leaves the bedroom, and I hear the television click on.
Am I going to steam these? Not today. I turn the iron down to the silk setting, unroll the ties, and run it slowly over each one. They’re flat, as requested. Not burned. He’ll never know the difference.
Once they’re folded over the pants hangers in the garment bag, he’s packed and ready for Boston. Five days.
Five days on the other side of the country, rubbing shoulders with whatever finance bros make him feel both important and inferior. And he has no idea that while he’s kissing their asses, I’ll be packing my shit and leaving.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
I poke my head out of our bedroom. “Do you have something pulled out in the closet to wear on the airplane?”
He’s holding a beer—of course he is.
“Yes.” He doesn’t even look at me.
“Do you need a tie for it?”
“Why do you think I handed you four fucking ties, Tori? I obviously need one for tomorrow,” he snaps, eyes still glued to the television.
I don’t argue. I don’t ask which color. I’m too tired to hear him snap again. It’s late. I want to crawl into bed.
I retrieve the blue tie he was looking for earlier from the bag, walk it into our closet, and drape it over the pants hanging on the nearly empty rack he uses for tomorrow’s clothes.
I’m at my dresser in our closet, about to grab a set of unattractive matching flannel pajamas, when I see it—a satin, lace-trimmed nighty I bought for our anniversary a few years ago. Deep purple, beautiful against my skin. I only wore it once, and it stirs a memory I don’t ever want to lose.
Chase and I had been in a good place then.
We’d gone to counseling for a while, and things were going well.
We weren’t fighting as much; his words were mostly kind.
On our anniversary, he actually brought home flowers.
I walked out of our room wearing only that nighty, my hair falling in loose waves down my back.
That night was more than sex. We connected.
We made love. There was passion, connection, love, mutual respect.
He touched me with reverence, kissed me with tenderness.
Told me how much he loved me, and I said it back—wholeheartedly.
We fell asleep in each other’s arms, content. Happy, even. For a while.
Suddenly, I wonder.
God, this is stupid. What am I doing? I’ve already made up my mind. Made my choice. I’m leaving.
But what if—
No. No, I can’t.
…Can I?
Fuck it.
I drop the flannel set back into the drawer and reach for the satin instead, the fabric slipping cool and traitorous through my fingers. Today’s clothes go into the hamper. The nightgown gets folded in half on the vanity like it might change its mind if I let go.
I close the bathroom door quietly and turn the lock—not that Chase is likely to peel himself away from the television—and twist the bathtub faucet on.
A quick shave to smooth my legs. Lotion.
A spritz of perfume. The small, almost pathetic rituals of someone still trying.
Maybe I’ll comb through my hair, brush my teeth, pretend I’m not clawing at the frayed edge of something already gone.
He’s watching football. They have a name for this play, right? A Hail Mary. That’s what this is—one last, reckless throw into the end zone. My final gamble to see if there’s even a flicker left to save us before I pack my bags and walk out the door forever.
Once I’m done shaving, I smooth lotion over my legs until they shine, spritz perfume at my wrists and the hollow of my throat, run a comb through my hair until it falls just right. The woman in the mirror looks soft, inviting. Ready to be loved.
The woman in the mirror is really fucking confused about why she just put all this effort into someone who definitely does not want her.
Why am I doing this, again? Hope. I have to know. One last time. Hail Mary.
When I step out of the bathroom, Chase is already in bed, phone in hand. The blue glow illuminates his face. He doesn’t look up. His shirt and shorts are crumpled in a heap on the floor—because of course they are.
I pause in the doorway, satin brushing my thighs. Wait for him to notice. He doesn’t.
I cross the room and slip into my side of the bed, close enough that the scent of my perfume should reach him. “Hey,” I murmur, fingertips grazing his arm like an invitation.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps scrolling, the blue light from his phone washing over his face, making him look miles away.
“Chase?” My voice is quieter this time, because I already know.
He finally looks. No smile. No warmth. Just a bland acknowledgment that I’m here, breathing in the same room.
I lean in anyway, pressing my mouth to his shoulder, my hand sliding along his side, trying to coax something familiar from him. A spark. A memory. Anything. He exhales—impatient, not affected—and sets his phone on the nightstand before lying back, waiting for me to take the lead.
I straddle him, hoping muscle memory will wake him up, pull him toward me. My lips trail up his jaw, my hand skimming his chest, but he gives me nothing—not a kiss, not a touch. Just stillness.
I grind down, searching for connection, but before I can ask if something’s wrong, his hand is in my hair, pushing me under the covers. No words. No tenderness. Just a silent order: put my dick in your mouth.
It stings. But I go. Because maybe if I do this—if I give him what he wants—he’ll see me again, even if only for a second.
I take him into my mouth, slow at first, teasing the tip with my tongue, then swallowing him deep before pulling back with a hard suck. The rhythm is muscle memory for me. I work him until he’s fully hard, until I can pretend for just a second that this is foreplay, not a transaction.
I climb back up, guide him to my entrance, and sink down, satin pooling at my waist. I want him to grip my hips, to drag me closer, to touch me like I matter.
But he just props his arms behind his head, his hips lifting every so often to meet mine halfway, like this is a chore he’s willing to finish but not invest in.
I lean down to kiss him—God, I want to kiss him—and he turns his head, giving me his jaw like I’m an inconvenience.
I keep moving. Not because I want to. Because I have to. Because if I stop now, I’ll have my answer before I’m ready to hear it.
No, Tori. There is no hope to be found here. This was a waste of time and effort. All you’ve done is stabbed yourself in the heart once again.
My hands press to his chest. My hips shift, aligning with his, begging silently for him to join me. To meet me halfway, in more ways than one. His eyes stay closed, his mouth slack, his focus entirely inward.
I feel it when he’s close—the tightening of his stomach, the change in his breathing. I’m nowhere near, but I adjust my angle, searching for friction, willing my body to catch up to his. Maybe we can still finish together.
Of course, we don’t.
He grunts, releases, and stills. For one suspended second, I think he’s going to reach for me—wrap his arms around me, offer a smile, a kiss, anything. Instead, he taps the side of my thigh, a perfunctory signal to get off him. Time to get off the horse, lassie. Ride’s over.
I move away, a new understanding of hollow and alone settling over my entire being. He leans over the side of the bed, grabs his crumpled T-shirt from the floor, wipes himself, and tosses it at me without looking.
I hold the shirt in my hands for a long moment before using it, the damp fabric clinging to my skin like proof of something ugly I can’t unsee. Proof I asked for this—invited it—because I needed to know, once and for all, if there was anything left worth saving.
When I finally use it, the fabric drags against my skin, erasing more than just the evidence of what we’ve done. It wipes away the last version of me that believed in him.
I lie back and pull the comforter to my neck. He’s already turned away, bare back to me, breathing evening out like nothing happened.
Years ago, I used to watch him like this and feel safe, warm, claimed. Now, the space between us feels like an ocean, and I’m treading water while he sleeps on shore.
The satin nightgown twists at my waist, cool against my overheated skin. Tears slip into my hairline, pooling before sinking into the pillow. I let them fall. They feel like they’ve been waiting for this moment.
The ache in my chest is heavy, unrelenting. And he has absolutely no idea what’s coming.
I knew better. God, I knew better. I needed one last chance—one last fragile thread of hope. That maybe he’d see me. That maybe he’d wake up and remember who he is when he’s not drowning in alcohol and his own misery.
I think about that one anniversary night—the way his hands were steady but tender, how he’d brushed my hair back just to look at me, how we’d fallen asleep tangled together. I convinced myself we could find that again if I just tried hard enough.
But tonight proved what I didn’t want to face. I handed Chase Martin the last intact piece of our marriage, and he crushed it without even looking.
The room smells faintly of him—soap, sweat, stale beer—my perfume clinging in the air like an afterthought.
My mind drifts to all the nights I went to bed alone while he stayed up drinking and watching TV, the times I reached for his hand and felt him pull away, the moments I realized halfway through speaking that he wasn’t listening.
As soon as memories of his harsh words, drunken temper, and fist in the wall flood in, I shut them out. I lived through enough of those moments for one lifetime. I have no need to replay them in my mind.
It wasn’t always like this, but the good moments became crumbs scattered between months of fighting, drinking, distance. And I was the one crawling to collect them, pretending it was enough.
Tomorrow he leaves for Boston. And tomorrow, I’ll pack my life into my SUV and drive away from this marriage, this town, and this version of myself. I’ll leave behind the woman who begged for scraps and called them meals, who tiptoed through her own home.
I picture loading the last box into the back, the slam of the hatch final. I’ll climb into the driver’s seat, check the mirror, half-expecting to see him in the doorway. But he won’t be there. He won’t even know I’m gone until the key turns in the lock and the silence greets him instead of me.
For years, I feared life without him. Now, I fear the life I’d have if I stayed.
When I hit that button to start the ignition, it won’t just be the end of us.
It will be the beginning of me—untethered, unhindered, and free.